And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson.

Mrs. Candy Robinson and her husband Jack. From Grosse Pointe, Mich. Mahalo for the invitation to your table, the fruity drink I never would've ordered without peer pressure, and the conversation.

There are times when my work on this column is inspired by the unexpected comfort of strangers. For some reason, this kind of inspiration almost always happens in Waikiki.

It happened at Duke's Canoe Club, when I stopped by for a column a year ago and met the Morellos. And it happened again on a recent Friday evening at Duke's sort-of neighbor, the Banyan Court.

I was resting on a wall under the spidery branches of the large courtyard beach bar's humongous namesake banyan, nursing a plantation iced tea. Every one of the courtyard's several dozen umbrella-topped, votive-lit tables was taken up by visitors of all ages, cultures and fashion smarts. Guests of the century-old and still remarkably elegant Sheraton Moana Surfrider peered from their balconies at the courtyard below.

When I finally found a table, the Robinsons — happily bouncing along to the Nohelani Cypriano Trio covering "Tiny Bubbles" — were my neighbors. I figured I'd lean over and ask a question or two.

In a matter of minutes, I was at the Robinsons' table, with Jack encouraging me to "grow a pair" and "go native" with my next beverage order.

His recommendation? A tropical itch.

"It comes with a backscratcher!" Jack said excitedly, holding up one of his prizes. There were three others on the table. Candy and Jack clearly had epic itches to scratch.

The Banyan's stone courtyard was lit by spots and a half-dozen or so old-fashioned street lamps, which kept things just pau-hana-laid-back enough. Wafting through the air on a light winter breeze was that unmistakable Waikiki beachside olfactory blend of tanning butter, sea spray, flowery perfume and grilling animal flesh.

Conch shells announced the arrival of a keiki hula halau. Camera flash popped as patrons angled for the perfect shot near the courtyard's large stage. A piped-in Brothers Cazimero song played as accompaniment.

"Aren't they darling with their sticks?" said Candy. They're called pu'ili, I said. Entranced by her first taste of Hawaiian culture following an eight-hour time zone dash, Candy wasn't listening.

I scanned the courtyard for a table of locals to bug. After spotting a group with potential, I excused myself from the Robinsons. Disappointment. The foursome was from California, apparently jet-lagged, and in no mood to have the inhaling of their fruity drinks interrupted to entertain the local print media.

I slinked back to the Robinsons, where my tropical itch had arrived in a large and clear plastic cup. A paper umbrella skewed a pineapple wedge and maraschino cherry. A monster backscratcher threatened to tip it all over.

Jack anxiously eyed me for approval. After a sip, a nod and a smile, he offered me a high-five.

"Ooooh, fire dancers!" squealed Candy.

Reach Derek Paiva at dpaiva@honoluluadvertiser.com.