I’m groveling because of a mistake in last week’s column. I misspelled Dr. Dennis Savoie’s surname. That was especially outrageous because I was talking at the time about Dennis’ fascination with language. To misspell the man’s own name in such a context is almost beyond apology. But I did just that.

I was saying that I personally define a sudden wondering about a word or phrase origin as a "Savoie moment"; that’s because Dr. Dennis is such a bloodhound when it comes to researching language.

Now, I know how to spell his last name and, in fact, have always admired it. (All the vowels but one, mind you, squeezed into just two syllables.) But when I typed it _ twice! _ I typed "Savoy." I have no excuse, Dennis, but a kind of explanation.

You see, when I coined that phrase, "Savoie moment," it got me daydreaming about another time and place, and a great experience. I was carried back to 1980’s London and to the city’s most elegant hotel, The Savoy, built a hundred years before to dominate The Strand just below Trafalgar Square, and backing up against the Embankment and the mighty Thames.

Of course I’ve never stayed at The Savoy; and, with the present one-night rates running from 600 to 2,000 anemic U.S. dollars, I’m not likely ever to pull their soft merino blankets up to my chin. But once, back in the ’80’s, I was there for afternoon tea. What a time I had!

I was in England on business for the college, and colleagues took me there. "You haven’t done London without tea at the Savoy," they said, and they were right.

I remember the high-ceilinged chamber, the tall windows, the marble columns, the potted palms set among small tables draped in double damask. I remember the string quartet playing in an alcove, and the low murmur of hundreds of cultured English voices. Whoa! I felt like an innocent abroad, and notably unsure of myself.

Crystal and fine china adorned our table, and a very old waiter in a cutaway coat added a gleaming silver tea service. Then he set down a tray of scones with Devonshire clotted cream and strawberry jam, and followed with a pyramidal, three-tiered server. Its lowest plate was filled with small, crust-less sandwiches of cucumber or egg salad, set among sprigs of watercress. The other two were laden with some pastry chef’s artistry: dozens of flaky confections, small and exquisite.

There were crumpets with lemon curd, treacle tarts, orange flans, maids of honor, mincemeat pies, and a dozen other varieties. Scattered among them were delicate lemon pastilles and marzipan flowers. Who’d dare disturb that thing of beauty?

But at my friends’ urging, I used a silver spatula to transfer a couple of sandwiches and a selection of pastries onto my Royal Doulton.

All the while, our ancient waiter, who might well have served tea to Disraeli, was filling our cups with steaming Earl Grey. He had pegged me at once as the only Yank, and as he filled my cup last of all, he said quietly, "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"No, thank you," I said, suddenly realizing that he had made me host and stuck me with the bill. "So much for this transatlantic yahoo’s crashing afternoon tea," I imagined him thinking grimly. "So much for his manhandling our maids of honor."

I got through the meal without badly embarrassing myself, though I did manage to knock a knife off the table and onto the marble floor. At the clatter, a large, jowly woman at the next table turned majestically in her chair. She gave me a cool stare worthy of Victoria, Empress of India. Or perhaps Margaret Rutherford.

At the end, and with the ghost of a smile, the stiff-backed waiter set the bill next to me on a silver salver. From the bill’s size, the salver might better have been platinum. When I asked about a tip, I was told 10 percent. "Any more," I was assured, "will insult them." Twenty years later, I’m still puzzling over that.

Out we went through the grand entry, onto the crowded sidewalk of The Strand. The fresh air felt good. As we swung along the broad thoroughfare, I thought fondly of Stanley Holloway singing, "I’ll be leader, you march on behind. Come along and see what we can find! Oh, let’s all go down The Strand!"

It had been a grand occasion, that afternoon tea, if a costly one.

And memory of it, overwhelming my sense of spelling, is what did it, Dennis. That’s what made me type the anglicized "Savoy" and not your elegant surname, "Savoie." Sorry.

If I run into you at the Farmers’ Market, Dennis, please let me lead you to Perry Owen’s stand, the wonderful "Taste of England." Perry has mince tarts _ and maids of honor, too. Take your pick! And just as it was at The Savoy, let it be my treat ...

Enough groveling. Now, somebody help me up.

Read about Jim Atwell’s book, "From Fly Creek_ Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking Country" at JimAtwell.com.