Crossing a sunny brook to walk on the wild side

The walkway inside Crustacean restaurant in Beverly Hills consists of a 6,000-gallon sunken koi pond under Plexiglas meandering like a stream among the tables.

How nervous was I when the hostess asked me to follow her to my table? Let me count the ways:

1. I was wearing new 4-inch heels, whose slippery soles did not interact well with the Plexiglas.

2. I could not master the optical illusion of walking on water, though I did note what a perfect metaphor that made for a celebrity-laden joint. Comparatively weak of ego, I kept expecting to sink in up to my knees and therefore kept taking ridiculous-looking, overly firm steps.

3. I have a koi phobia. Those big fat fish have always appeared to me to be on the verge of evolving into some mushy amphibian that will crawl out of the water and slime my leg. I always hurry through the Japanese garden at the Huntington Library in San Marino without looking toward the pond.

I was therefore deservedly proud after I successfully navigated the path and the hostess seated me at my table. Except, it wasn’t my table, as an older woman seated across from me with the hair and manners of an untamed Afghan hound quickly pointed out.

I had no designs on either her balding companion or her Chardonnay, as she seemed to fear, and gamely moved on to my proper table, where Chris, Elaine and Ryanne were waiting.

This scene of fancy-pants dining and parties is new to me, courtesy of some new pals I met at a party a couple of months ago, certified L.A. urbanite/socialites who welcomed me into their world with open arms. I feel like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm in these chichi places and have to remind myself not to gawk and say, “Golly!”

Thoreau warned to beware of any enterprise that requires a new wardrobe, but for now, I’m gonna run with it (in my fabulous new Betsey Johnson wrap dress with red polka dots and the aforementioned tippy heels). I’ll figure out what that granola-muncher meant later.

Squeezed in between Ryanne, a tiny Korean hellion with the face of a Kewpie doll, and Chris, a hunky gay man Ryanne and I call “Pimp Daddy,” we watched the band and snacked on coconut shrimp and dumplings. It was Latin Night; a Cuban band was playing and the place was swinging like Ricky Ricardo’s nightclub.

“The bongo player is really cute,” I shouted in Ryanne’s ear. “That’s Debi Mazar’s husband!” she yelled back, pointing out the actress sitting at a nearby table. Ms. Mazar looked like she could easily kick the stuffing out of me, so I abandoned my bongo-player fantasies tout de suite.

Just then the young and dashing Elizabeth An, one of the restaurant’s owners, rushed by and stage-whispered: “Madonna’s here!”

“I think I need to go outside and smoke a cigarette,” Elaine said. “Go, Elaine, go!” we urged.

She went, she saw, she returned, she nodded. Then Madonna and Guy Ritchie walked right by our table. No entourage, just a few friends. They settled at a table a few yards away, ordered drinks and watched the band.

Inside, I was screaming, “MADONNA’S HERE!!” But I said, “Hmmm, she really doesn’t have the star quality I expected.”

“Whenever I see her, I think ‘Girl From Detroit,’ ” Chris said. “She’s really tiny,” Elaine said. Ryanne didn’t even look up from her garlic noodles.

Madonna, shmadonna.

The rude Afghan hound-haired woman walked by our table, and I gave her a big smile and a little wave. After she was at a safe distance, my entire table burst out laughing.

I think I’m getting the hang of this scene, by golly!

Samantha Bonar can be contacted at [email protected].