“Did you bring your camera?” my friend Holly asked me after we were seated in one of the second floor dining rooms. “Are you going to shoot some food porn?”

I had never heard the expression before, but I understood what she meant. Was I going to photograph a dish that could inspire an appreciation for the sensuality of food? Was I going to bookmark the memory of lust and expectation I had when sitting down for this meal? I let out a chuckle.

I had been to New Orleans about a half dozen times. At a Halloween party, hosted by friends of friends 32 years ago, I met a man whom I later married. On another visit, I went to an official Mardi Gras ball given by a large krewe. On more than one visit, I partied with the street people in Jackson Square. One spring, I took my mother down to the Crescent City where I pointed out the official streetcar named Desire and shared a wonderful meal at The Court of Two Sisters. But having brunch at Commanders Palace was still an unchecked experience on my “must do” list.

A heightened state of anticipation hit us as soon as we walked in. Although we tried to wait patiently in line at the hosts’ station, we snapped into movement the first time we heard the waitstaff captain exhale, “Follow me,” even though he was talking to a party two reservations before ours.

A three-piece combo, consisting of trumpet, sax and bass strolled between the different dining rooms taking requests and playing classics like St. James Infirmary. The dining room itself was papered in a muted yellow and was trimmed with thin white chair rails. Sets of colorful balloons were anchored to window sills and table centerpieces. We asked one of the hosts, “What’s the occasion? Why the balloons?” He blinked at us as if our question did not make sense.

“What do you mean?” he asked rhetorically. “It’s brunch.”

We started with mimosas, the best I ever had; the perfect blend of freshly squeezed O.J. and champagne that was more than a cut above black bottle bubbly. I had a trifecta of soups; some sort of vegetable concoction featuring produce I probably would never be able to find in Illinois, chicken and andouille gumbo, and turtle soup. Sample-sized portions were served in three delicate white demitasse cups on an immaculate over-sized plate. Our waiter gave me a short but comprehensive lecture on the difference between redfish and drum; neither a bad bet coated in a pecan crust and floated in a shallow pool of cream sauce. (I went with the drum fish.) And for dessert – European dark chocolate cake with perfectly round and robust blackberries drizzled with a Bordeaux reduction. Argyle Wolf-Knap (Is that not the best name for a sommelier?) recommended a Sancerre which spring boarded me out of my sauvignon blanc rut and had me mumbling the sounds of savoring through most of the meal. (Num-num-num.)

I refused to let myself dwell on how I catapulted over the recommended daily allowance of carbohydrates in my first course alone. I thanked God for my credit card as I added a reasonably generous gratuity for Argyle’s extra level of service. (He gave me his card and invited me to email with any type of wine question I might think of.) I reminded myself that a little splurging was good. After all, I didn’t do this every day. This was a special meal. A special pleasure.

Taking a whole afternoon to eat a meal in a sunny yellow, balloon festooned room while musicians play favorite tunes is no small thing.