Tea for Two

With a Starbucks opening on every street corner—and a generation of kids addicted to green tea—is it possible that we have collective cultural amnesia? Of course, tea has always been a Southern staple. Who doesn't remember their momma brewing it in a giant jar in the summer heat, with fresh sprigs of mint from the garden thrown in? But what is more indelibly etched in our (especially female) minds is the Tea Room. White-gloved ladies reposed in an oasis of velvet- or brocade-covered furniture draped with antimacassars to catch the odd gentleman's Brylcreem (the less sophisticated settled for axle grease). Discrete café curtains blocked out the glare of the new, fast-paced world while, inside, sumptuous Southern fare was served: Sherry Chiffon Pie, fresh deviled crab and ambrosia. Nothing says “I love you” more than a frozen whipped cream fruit casserole featuring miniature marshmallows. I want some now!

We had legendary places like the old Frances Virginia Tea Room, Mary Mac's, Woolrich's and Rich's (a few of which you could say were combination tea rooms and luncheonettes). I am nostalgic for those times Momma took me for tea. She was a model in those days and could navigate the tea rooms and department stores like a fur-clad Magellan. She would drop me off at the Adrien Arpel counter for a make-up lesson before lunch as she laid waste like a modern-day Valkyrie. Her prey: the shoe department and its pre-spring sale. The boys would be whining about shopping, all the while punching each other and shouting expletives that only adults should use. I could swear that the oldest one, at 12 years of age, once traveled downtown with a Pabst Blue Ribbon hidden in his navy blazer.

One time, I was tarted up in some dreadful (to me) starched and pleated dress; I had been told that “no one of quality goes downtown in pants.” I dared to argue with Momma but thrusting a Seventeen magazine at her, holding up images of Twiggy in an Yves Saint Laurent jumpsuit, did no good. Her oversize, Jackie O-style, zebra-patterned sunglasses stopped me in my fast-talkin' tracks. Her icy-blue Norwegian eyes brooked none of my wailing nonsense, so off came the elephant bell bottoms that had been lovingly glittered by my Ronco Rhinestone and Stud Setter. I was amazed by her, dumbfounded into momentary silence as she laid out my stockings and patent leather shoes—and tossed me my own white gloves. The boys were nowhere to be seen. As she backed the Rambler out of the driveway I ran to get into the passenger seat. My own white gloves. We were going for tea! She chose me! Only me!

This spring, trying to recapture some of that old Southern magic, I'm treating Momma to trips to all the tea rooms that I can find—and I'm even wearing a dress for the occasion.