The elevator door slides open and my family steps into the glittering, cavernous foyer of the Fairmont Royal York in Toronto. "Wow," says my eight-year-old, Jaimie. "It looks like Hogwarts!"

Tonight, we're not attending a school of witchcraft and wizardry. We're here for a course in social graces for children — "Kid-iquette," the hotel calls it.

We make our way to the tony dining room, where we're met by our host, Jay Remer, the proprietor of a luxury inn in St. Andrew's, New Brunswick. In his mid-40s and wearing a svelte tuxedo, he takes his seat next to my five-year-old son, Erick, who's in his best clip-on tie. Our hostess is Melanie, an elegant young employee of the Royal York.

It's an intimate party of six kids: Erick sits across from his sister, who's beside a charming seven-year-old named Amy. Across from me is Duncan, probably ten or 11, and two teens, both neatly dressed and polite but wearing that "I can't believe my mom made me come here" expression.

Like a good hostess should, Melanie opens the conversation with the guest on her right, one of the teenagers. "What are you most interested in learning about tonight?"

"Um, the cutlery."

Melanie nods earnestly. "Yes, cutlery can be intimidating."

As we wait for the first course, Jay engages in small talk with the kids. Manners, he says, are really just common sense. "The main thing is that you use the right knife and fork, and that you know your bread and butter plate is on the left, and your glass is on the right. It's about getting the food from the plate to the mouth without too many detours." Then he turns to Erick. "Do you know what the first course is going to be tonight?" Shrug. "We're going to have Caesar salad — lettuce and some bacon bits. Do you like bacon?"

"I can't have bacon," Amy jumps in with alarm. "I'm allergic to pork. I get sick. I get very, very sick..."

"OK, we'll talk about that later," Jay cringes, and changes the topic to napkins. "I usually spread it out and then fold it over and put it in my lap. Just make sure you use your napkin, not your sleeve." I'm pretty sure he's looking at Erick. "Sometimes in Italy old men tuck their napkins right under their chin — I guess that's because they don't want to get spaghetti sauce on their nice clothes. But in this day and age people don't do that." Several pairs of hands covertly untuck their napkins before Jay notices.

After 20 minutes of napkin origami, the waiters bring the bread. I look over to see if Erick has broken his bread as instructed, and he's lifting the straw out of his Coke and trying to drink from the bottom of it. "Probably not a good idea to do that, Erick," Jay says diplomatically. "Can you handle drinking out of the glass?" Then he adds impishly, "There is a trick to drinking from the other end of the straw, but I can't show you tonight."

Suddenly a high-pitched bleeping interrupts the conversation. Melanie starts. "Oh, would that be my cellphone? Jay, if you could explain the etiquette of cellphones, that would be great," she says, sheepishly grabbing the phone and leaving the room. Yes, someone really should tell the under-sevens here not to leave their phones on at the Royal York. Luckily, Erick left his in the limo.

"In England, everybody has a cellphone on," Jay sighs. "It's just unbelievable. It's worse than smoking." Whew, another close call. Jaimie's Havanas are in the limo, too.

The Caesar salad arrives. Amy's pleased to find it pork-free, but she's not sure about the fried quail's egg. "What do you do if you don't like something?" she whispers.

"That's a really good question," says Jay. "If you don't like something, just leave it on your plate. Don't say that you don't like it." Erick takes the advice, announcing that he likes Caesar salad - the first words he's uttered in 45 minutes - yet manages not to disturb a single leaf of romaine. For her part, Jaimie crunches a few leaves but is mystified by the garnishes, which Jay helps identify - an anchovy, roasted red pepper, goat cheese, tomato.

"Why do you say tomahto?" Amy asks.

"That's just the way I was brought up."

"Do you say potahto?" Melanie asks.

"I don't."

Meanwhile, Duncan has his fork pointed tines down and braced with his index finger for maximum leverage. He's got dressing on his chin and his sweater, and he's churning up the lettuce like a tornado(tornahdo?). When he's done, he plops his knife and fork haphazardly near the top of the plate.

"Duncan," Jay says, "don't park your cutlery up there."

"And don't talk with your mouth full!" Amy says out of nowhere. We're all confused about where he should park the cutlery until Melanie comes to our rescue. "When you're finished, your fork and knife should be placed there," she says, indicating the six o'clock position on the plate.

"Um," Jay says gently, "It should be more like four o'clock."

"Actually, Jay, I beg to differ," Melanie counters. "It's six o'clock." Then she reconsiders. "You can do either — six o'clock is more European, and four o'clock is North American." Jaimie's cutlery is at about a quarter to nine - a half-hour later in Newfoundland.

The main course is penne with grilled chicken tenders and sautéed vegetables. By now we're coming up to the two-hour mark and I can't believe we've skirted disaster this long. The thought is barely out of my mind when Amy, now hiccuping vigorously, knocks over her Coke - but it spills right onto her napkin, which, only minutes before, Jay had helped her tuck in like an old Italian man. How could he have known?

A few seats over, Jaimie is making a tent with her napkin, and Erick is following her lead, covering his own plate of uneaten penne. It's clear things are starting to unravel. "Jaimie," Jay admonishes, "it's not cool to do that. It's fun, but it's not cool. And it's much more important to be cool."

At last, dessert arrives - along with both a fork and spoon. What kind of dessert requires two utensils? An Oreo topped with a scoop of ice cream, dotted with Mamp;Ms and adorned with white chocolate butterflies. "You can eat everything except the plate!" Amy grins.

Erick disagrees. "I'm going to eat the plate." At least he's going to eat something.

Struggling with the dual utensils, we all manage to make it through the ice cream and toppings just fine. Then we're confronted with a cold, hard Oreo staring back at us. Do we break it with the fork? Whack it with the spoon? To our relief, Jay says it's fine to pick up the Oreo.

It's been a long meal, so the adults decide to skip coffee and call it an evening. "I hope your children take something away from this evening," says one of the hotel staff on our way out. I'm just happy they haven't taken any silverware. A few days later, though, I learn that the lessons have indeed worn off. We're having dinner at home when Erick sticks his spoon in his mouth and starts making funny faces.

"Erick!" Jaimie scolds. "That's rude."

"Sorry," he replies. "That wasn't very Jay Remer-ish."

He was right — the spoon wasn't even close to four o'clock.