One of my favorite games to play while on vacation is the hedonistic heiress fantasy. The total concept is usually a sort of 1930's theme, like an Erté sprung to life: I visualize myself sauntering down the boulevard, two white wolfhounds on leash with my chauffeur struggling a few paces behind under a burgeoning load of purchases. He drives me in the Bentley to an elegant restaurant and drops me off for a luncheon with cosmopolitan friends or perhaps a secret paramour. We laugh and drink champagne, share confidences and caviar, until the afternoon is spent and it's time to go home and dress for dinner.

To date the closest I've gotten to the fulfillment of this fantasy was having lunch at Bibendum during a trip to London. I dressed in my finest outfit, a maroon gabardine suit with my black gloves and a smart black hat and was accompanied with my real-life paramour. I wore my sunglasses, of course, so I wouldn't be recognized.

We had heard that Bibendum was the place to go in London. But my source said to go for lunch — because the prices at dinner would make us lose our appetites. I liked the idea of going for lunch anyway. It seemed so much more decadent to go for a leisurely opulent meal in the daytime, compared to my usual non-vacation lunch spent manacled to a desk wolfing down peanut butter sandwiches. Yes, the drudges would be working, scurrying into dark holes, while I, temporary international aristocrat, would be free to feast at midday with the elite . . . possibly Prince Charles and lord-knows-who else.

Bibendum is located in the posh neighborhood known as South Kensington. As the chauffeur was otherwise occupied, Kerby, my partner in lunch fantasies, walked me down from our hotel a few blocks away. I liked the place upon first sight.

The restaurant is located in the old Michelin building at 81 Fulham Road, and it looks somewhat like an absurd Art Deco cartoon. The two-story structure has the squat, square look of a stylish 1930's gas station, as it was formally the U.K. headquarters of Michelin Tire, and served as a garage and tire warehouse. The beefy corner columns are capped by massive grooved orbs, similar to giant croquet balls. The flat roof line is broken in the center by an arched, stained-glass window that rises another full story and features the comical Michelin man — a chubby, turtle-like cartoon creature. I assume because of his heritage he's supposed to be made from grooved rubber, but he always looks to me more like a portly mummy. The walls are covered with light-colored ceramic tiles; the entryway trimmed with brightly-colored tiles and elaborate ironwork.

Kerby and I entered the building and on the ground level found an oyster bar and a Conran's, the trendy British housewares shop. We walked upstairs and into Bibendum's beautiful dining room, magnificently designed by Sir Terence Conran. It was spacious, elegant, sophisticated; yet whimsical and jolly with the sunlight streaming through the Michelin man windows at either end of the room. I loved the juxtaposition of the utilitarian garage becoming a luxurious restaurant. We were seated at a white-linened table and immediately greeted by our waiter.

The dramatic distinction of Bibendum's formal English service thoroughly impressed us. Accustomed to California restaurants where the 20-something waiter announces his presence with the familiarity of "Hi, my name is Jason," I was definitely surprised by the refined silver-haired gentleman standing above me. I recognized him immediately as Jeeves, the butler from several of my wealthy socialite fantasies.

"Good afternoon, we are so pleased that you could join us today," he said with a genteel British accent. Throughout our meal, three men led by Jeeves seemed to be assigned solely to our table, standing unobtrusively off to the side in their freshly starched white jackets. Somehow they managed an amazing balancing act of catering to our every whim with precision and grace, yet leaving us with a feeling of privacy.

While perusing the menu, we came upon the meaning of the restaurant's cryptic name: a Latin phrase, "Nunc est bibendum" which means, "Now is the time to drink." We felt obliged to obey and immediately ordered a bottle of champagne.

The sounds in the room were hushed — smooth voices speaking confidences in low tones, punctuated by the percussive clink of sterling against fine china. The expulsion of an occasional champagne cork was the equivalent of clashing cymbals in the midst of a symphony. Our fellow diners wore the distinguished look of Mayfair and The City, dressed in somber tones of black, blue and gray. I scanned the room for Prince Charles, but he had not yet joined Lord-knows-who.

The courses appeared at our table in a rhythmic, delicious parade. Golden yellow saffron toast with goat cheese and roasted garlic, lamb with tarragon sauce, delicate spring vegetables—carrots, zucchini, tiny white new potatoes. I felt warm from the champagne and the sunlight streaming through the benevolent Michelin man. I felt the type of satisfaction you feel when you are in the midst of living a fantasy, if only a small, secret one.

Ah, but the best was yet to come. I knew this would be my selection for dessert the minute I saw it on the menu: strawberries from Kent with Devon cream. They arrived at the table with tea and a flourish and I looked at them in dismay. "I thought these came with clotted cream!" I blurted out in a panic, so disappointed by the site of the luscious red—yet naked—berries.

Jeeves, who was leaning over me at a 45-degree angle, lost control of himself for a moment. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a tiny spasm. After some seconds he felt capable to respond.

"Yes, madam, the Devon cream is on its way," and with that said, blindly thrust his hand behind him to take the hand-off from one of his assistants. He sat the coveted cream down before me and quietly turned on his heel to fade into obscurity while madam pleasured herself with dessert.

I bit into the berries and they tasted of the sweetness of a gentle English sun and nurturing spring dews. They were definitely a superior fruit unlike any I had ever tasted and I could see why this treat was the rave at Wimbledon. The velvety cream was a dish fit for royalty, and I savored every bite since by this point I was feeling quite regal.

As we sipped tea and exchanged confidences we realized the Michelin man was growing dim, heralding the arrival of evening. We bade farewell to Jeeves and the staff. It was time to go home and dress for dinner.

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