I was nervous, waiting downtown for my lunch date with Mary Mitchell, an expert on manners and civility. I had looked through her books, "Class Acts" and "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Etiquette," so, intellectually, I had a clue about how to behave. But I also knew that, innately and hopelessly Northwest casual, I was doomed to failure.

I was nine minutes early for our rendezvous. She was exactly on time. After a moment of chitchat (probably not enough) I asked if she wanted to grab a bite. She said sure. Any ideas? No, she replied through her smile. So I started zig-zagging around downtown (including through a construction site mud puddle), amazed that I could not remember or find one suitable place. Growing anxious, I suggested the Pike Place Market. Hey, she's new in town, a recent transplant from Philadelphia, so we'll go tourist.

I settled on a diner, and we found a table next to the window with a wide view of Elliott Bay. Conversation flowed. She is engaging, inquisitive, self-deprecating. As she picked at the corners of her salmon, she casually said, "It seems strange they don't give you knives."

Actually, they have a whole stack of them at the counter. I was in charge of the silverware, and in the spirit of Lewis and Clark, I just grabbed two forks.

"I'll get you one!" I blurted.

"Don't be silly," she smiled. "I'm fine."

I guess she was just making an observation. She had many from the moment we met. Yet, as we spoke, all I could think of was "The Knife." It preoccupied me so much that I interrupted one of her stories, rose and announced, "Hold that thought. I'm getting knives." I was choking, and I don't mean on food. Her face betrayed exasperation, but she sweetly told me I was being silly and she didn't need one (the salmon was tender).

And she never used the one I got her. Was she punishing me?

Actually, the whole afternoon was disappointing in that it shattered my stereotypes. She was not the least bit pretentious. She was fun and easygoing, and at one point complained about people tiptoeing around her because of the word etiquette.

"I don't like that term," she said. "It sounds so stuffy, and being stuffy is something I've worked hard to remove. After they wrote about me in Philadelphia (where she had a column called "Dear Ms. Demeanor") I was the loneliest diner for weeks. People seemed to think I would evaluate them. I don't do that. I notice, but don't judge."

A week later, a handwritten thank-you note arrived in the mail. That was not just good manners but old-fashioned. I appreciated the thought. Clearly, I survived the knife thing.