High Tea and Dog Hair

"Happiness is not having what you want. It is wanting what you have." 

— Rabbi Hyman Schachtel

My friend Marie and I have been slowly working our way through every tea room in the Los Angeles area. We try a new place, sip tea, eat tiny sandwiches, and add comments to our joint running list. Some places get a simple "nice scones." Others get enthusiastic stars, exclamation points, and a WE WILL RETURN.

We'd been wanting to go to the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills for over a year. We decided to go for our birthdays—we were both born in the same month. The Peninsula requires reservations weeks in advance—it’s the kind of place where you whisper when you call to book. We couldn't get our first choice date, so we tried another tea room and saved the Peninsula for January 2026.

Holy tomatoes. Opulent doesn't even begin to cover it.

Let me paint you a picture: When we drove up and waited for the valet, we began to people watch. Ladies were dressed to the nines with perfect hair and perfect makeup at 1:30 on a Sunday afternoon. Not "I tried and this is pretty good" makeup—professional, flawless, probably-applied-by-someone-else makeup. We sat in my eleven-year-old Toyota Rav4—well-loved, well-used, well-covered in dirt from recent rains—behind a Porsche that Victoria Beckham might have just stepped out of–we wondered if it was her. A valet opened my door, requested I leave my keys in the ignition, and pointed us toward the tea area.

The tea is served in a room called the Living Room—the kind of place where someone's great-great-grandfather made his fortune in railroads and the furniture has been in the family ever since. Plush, elegant, the kind of place where you instinctively sit up straighter.

Now, I want to be really, really clear: we were not dressed to the nines. We both had dresses on, sure– because we'd scrounged through our closets for that one item that still fit. She'd recently had a baby. I'd gained fifty pounds, then lost twenty. We did wear makeup—the kind you apply yourself in your bathroom mirror. We had shoes on. We were presentable.

Oh, and I was wearing hideous padded elbow protectors from a recent procedure. They look exactly like old athletic sweat socks, complete with green stripes on each end. A dress from the back of my closet paired with what appeared to be knee socks on my elbows at a five-star hotel. Hilarious.

We were in the center of Old Money. Bellcaps walked past wearing white caps, white gloves, white uniforms—jacket, pants, shoes, everything. Who makes someone actively working wear white? That's a power move, for sure.

We were seated on a plush couch so soft I worried I might never stand again. We were offered pillows for our backs—useful, since we're both short. When I got settled, I wondered aloud if I could photograph the food–I didn’t see anyone else with a phone out. The place felt so fancy. Marie encouraged me, so I did. Little dishes were already on the table: fresh strawberry spread (I hesitate to call it "jam"—more like blended, sweetened strawberries), lemon curd, and clotted cream.

The manager brought menus on fine, thick paper, carefully laminated for January's offerings.  She asked if we were celebrating anything. We told her our birthdays. She smiled and congratulated us.

We made choices based on whimsy. We decided that while we didn't want the bottomless champagne, we absolutely did  want the caviar. How often do you get caviar?

My $24 tasty caviar treat. Remember, this is on a tiny plate! Photo by me.

The caviar bites were $24 each—for something the size of a petit four. They arrived on individual plates with tiny glass domes to protect the jewels. This was Marie's first time experiencing caviar. She took a bite, thought for a moment, then said, "It tastes like a clear stream." I loved that.

Then the tea service arrived. First: fresh strawberries with homemade whipped cream that tasted like sweet clouds. Then the three-tiered stand—top tier with two scones (plain and black currant, still warm), middle tier with beautiful desserts, bottom tier with perfect little sandwiches.

The waiter suggested we eat the scones first while warm. We slathered them with strawberry spread and clotted cream, then moved to sandwiches, and saved desserts for last.

It was delicious. Not just Instagram-worthy-gorgeous, delicious, but genuinely good. And filling—so many carbs. Was it $200-worth-of-tiny-sandwiches delicious? Complicated question. But it was a fun experience, legitimately tasty, and we left over-full.

A harpist played the whole time. An actual harpist with an enormous harp, playing songs I knew—"When You Wish Upon a Star," "Sunrise, Sunset." Live harp music floating through the air while we ate tiny perfect sandwiches. It was like being inside a movie about rich people.

We sat next to the elevator—the best people-watching spot of them all–and watched The Wealthy float down the hallway. Ball gowns at 2 pm on a Sunday. Tuxedos. Women whose jewelry probably cost more than my car. Across from us, a tiny jewelry shop displayed wearable art—diamonds, pearls, things so shiny I couldn't identify them.

I asked one waiter if there was a wedding that day, as people walked around with microphones and earpieces. He smiled. "The Golden Globes are across the street, right now."

Oh. That explained everything, including the traffic.

Pamela Anderson floated past our table in a beautiful white ensemble—maybe three feet away. We probably saw other celebrities, but I wouldn't recognize most without name tags.

The waiters were wonderful. Two had real conversations with us—not the polished "how is everything?" but actual chats about celebrities they'd seen, funny stories, genuine smiles. They dropped the fine-dining mask, I think because we were genuinely interested, said please and thank you constantly, and asked all sorts of questions.

The harpist started playing Happy Birthday while a waitress brought desserts shaped like the white caps the bellcaps wore, candles stuck in the top. 

The entire room turned at the sound, watching. All these people in gowns and perfect makeup and expensive jewelry, watching two women in scavenged dresses—one wearing athletic socks on her elbows—get serenaded by a harpist.

We were absolutely delighted.

We talked nonstop. Deep conversations, silly observations, quiet confessions, loud laughter. Hours that felt like minutes. Eventually they asked us to leave so they could prep for the next seating. We giggled, gathered our things, paid for valet, and waited outside for my car.

This is where it got hilarious.

Bentleys appeared. Mercedes. Cars I couldn't name that clearly cost more than I make in a year. Valets were efficient—opening doors, helping people in, whisking vehicles away. People who'd been in line after us got their cars.

My dirty Rav4 did not appear.

We waited. Watched expensive cars come and go. Finally, when everyone else had left, I cheerfully walked back. "Hi! Just checking on my car?"

Only after everyone drove away in gleaming expensive cars did they bring my well-loved Rav4—complete with dog hair and my son's forgotten water bottles.

We got in, looked at each other, and lost it. Laughing so hard we could barely breathe. The elbow socks. The hidden car. The whole ridiculous, wonderful, absurd afternoon.

We didn't fit in—that was obvious. But we had the best time.

That morning when I picked Marie up, I'd noticed a baby swing outback in the sunlight, a blanket beside it. It made a pretty picture.  Earlier, I'd had early morning tea with the dogs. They love me enough to get up stupid early for sunrise.

I thought about Marie's dogs playing. Our deep, easy conversations. The children in my life who make me laugh. Dave being sweet and kind. The amazing food we’d had, the beautiful surroundings in the hotel. My house, my full belly, how much love i have.

And how I notice these things.

The Peninsula was extraordinary. We're going back every January—even though our birthdays aren't in January, always on Golden Globes Sunday. Hopefully next time I won't have sweat socks on my elbows. I may not have Old Money, but here's what I know: I lead a rich life. Not because of Old Money or ball gowns or Bentleys. I lead a rich life because I see the riches in it: Dogs at sunrise. Baby swings in sunlight. Friends who get you. Laughter that doesn't stop. Getting serenaded by a harpist while eating tiny sandwiches next to a jewelry store I'll never shop in—and finding that delightful.

I read a quote recently: "I visited your altar of suffering and it was shiny and clean. But when I visited your altar of enjoyment I noticed a layer of dust."

I want to enjoy my life, so I prioritize enjoying it. My dogs, my books, rich conversations, daily learning. Right now.. Not someday. Not when I have more money or weigh less or fit in better. Now.

That's the secret. Not having what you want. Wanting what you have.

I am grateful.