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Note to self: when planning high expectation dinners, start by lowering expectations.

The Florida Keys, best known for blown out flip flops and conch fritters, is no place for swanky birthday dinners. But it was where my feeble grandmother wanted to spend her 85th birthday, and who’s going to argue with a woman on oxygen. For the special night, my husband and I suggested a fancy spot in Key West called Café Marquesa, a place whose contemporary American, seafood-heavy menu changes daily.

With high expectations, seven of us perused the menu. I chirped on about how good everything sounded. Sea bass in broth, shellfish over saffron rice, roasted duck with raspberry sauce, encrusted grouper over mashed parsnips – finally something besides burgers and Bloody Marys. I looked at my grandmother as she slowly lifted and sipped her gin martini. She placed it down carefully, and then leaned close to my aunt’s ear. “The only thing I like on my grouper,” she whispered in a voice audible two tables away, “is BATTER.”

Our waiter, snippy and devoid of humor, hovered – a big mistake in a crowd full of dawdlers. He seemed sick of us already. Maybe the built-in 18 percent gratuity for groups over six put a damper on his sparkle. He exhibited something my family abhors: the inability to play along with their ordering ritual.

“So, what do YOU like here?” began my stepmother. Menus flummox her, she has to order last, and the only way she can make a decision is to have the wait staff start her off with a couple of their favorites. He wouldn’t play along.

“Everything is good,” was about all he’d cough up.

His helpfulness continued.

“So the broth the sea bass is sitting in,” asked my uncle, “Is that, like, broth, or …”

“It’s a seafood broth, sir.” And so on.

As the dishes came and went, my family piped up about the disconnect between our expectations and what the restaurant had delivered. “Duck confit,” griped my father about his overpriced appetizer. “It should have been called Absence of Duck.” My uncle chimed in. “This chocolate pecan pie torte thing is way too cold.” Then, as he shoved in the last bite, he said, “We should have gone to that other place.” My upper lip stiffened.

My father fingered a cork on the table. He held its end to the table candle until it turned sooty black. Here began another family ritual. He turned the cork on himself and began outfitting his upper lip with a Groucho Marx moustache. When he finished, he gave my stepmother whiskers. Soon, the whole giggling table was decked out in various iterations of homemade stage make-up while we waited for the rest of the restaurant to give us approving looks. They never came.

Eat on, anyway.