The Wolseley and the new Savoy
One afternoon; two great London institutions. By Kate
Two splendid things happened last week. On present form that makes a single Friday afternoon in November stand out like a glittering beacon in an endless desert of mainly painful, grubby plodding.
I went first to the Wolseley for tea and then to the brand new Beaufort bar at the Savoy London – I can highly recommend it), and barely touched my champagne at the Savoy
It’s no coincidence that both buildings are steeped in the Art Deco tradition. If there is a more optimistic and glamorous architectural form anywhere in the world, I don’t know of it. Just approaching an Art Deco structure is a delight; to walk in is to feel suddenly that anything at all is possible.
The Wolseley was the venue for a business meeting to discuss a new hotel list for which I am the consultant. My long-time colleague has always displayed impeccable taste in choosing places for us to meet and he had done particularly well on this occasion. Outside it was grey and bitingly cold: inside was warm and seething; the air full of the smell of expensive tea, coffee, perfume and sugar. The people were beautiful. The Wolseley does that. Even if you are really rather plain when outside in the grime of Piccadilly, once the heavy doors open and the building envelopes you in its black lacquered bosom, you are transformed into a silver screen siren or a sleek leading man.
Mind you, I don’t think my patent leather Doc Martins lend themselves much to being siren-like but still, they are at least suitably shiny.
We may all year have been feeling the effects of economic deprivation down in the (relatively) pastoral wilderness of Lordship Lane but in the heart of things where the Wolseley resides there is no trace of such misfortune. Here, it is all cake and finest Darjeeling London
It was dark when I left, walking quickly through the dirty air and throngs of aimless tourists. I tried to keep to the back roads, moving through Covent Garden and only emerging onto the Strand when I absolutely had to. Rounding a corner, there she was: my all-time favourite London hotel, the Savoy
I have enjoyed more memorable times here than at almost any other London
Very recently re-opened after an extensive refurbishment of the entire hotel, the entrance remains awesome. The same as it was, only better. Shinier, loftier. Taxis sweep ceaselessly up and around the central fountain and the palm trees flanking the marble pillars add just the right note of slightly ridiculous decadence.
There have been big changes inside and I can’t say I am totally enamored of all of them. The American Bar, from what I could see, has remained unaltered. There was a long, restless queue for tables from 4.50pm when I arrived to 6.30pm when I left but I was assured by a very charming and helpful young lady in the Beaufort bar that this was the case. Thank God for that. I don’t think I could bear it if such a venerable old friend had been subjected to the indignity of a make over.
The same can’t be said for the large room where they once held tea dances and where the most famous orchestras and bands of the day would perform. I had to wait for the Beaufort to open at 5.30pm so I had a lot of time to observe. While I waited I chatted to a tall, distinguished American gentleman who was also waiting and who admired my boots. He was a long-standing Savoy Savoy
I think that is what I particularly liked about it, actually. It encouraged one to imagine that your grandma was the grandest of all Dames and though her taste was perhaps of a bygone era, it was an era of such profound fabulousness that it remained relevant. All trace of that is now gone. The anteroom to the main room has had a small shop added. This seemed to sell pointlessly expensive teas and petit fours, adding a jarringly commercial note that doesn’t fill me with joy. While almost nothing could detract from the majestic scale of the place I think that they might have shown a bit more imagination in how they redecorated the main lounge. It is now very 5 Star London West End Hotel. Nothing less, but certainly nothing more. And it used to be so much more.
The illusive Beaufort bar was concealed behind some mirrored sliding doors that remained resolutely shut while I paced and waited and paced some more. People came and went. This was a more eclectic crowd then at the Wolseley. There, it is pure, high octane elegance; here, the Savoy London
Finally, the doors were drawn back to reveal a dark cavern of velvet and gold. I was called forward by a rigidly well groomed hostess who escorted me to the entrance of the cave and with a flourish, indicated a completely empty space. I chose a seat up at the bar. Illuminated and on a raised platform, it presides over the room. This entire space fills what used to be the stage, pre-refurbishment, and sitting up on the dais looking out I felt as though I was about to give a performance. The bar staff were excellent. Well informed, chatty, polite and efficient. If the new Savoy is not ticking every single box on my (admittedly overly stringent) checklist, then as far as training and recruitment go they do get an A plus plus.
I ordered a glass of Roederer (their house champagne and again, bonus points for that) and a glass of water. It was poured correctly and promptly in a handsome glass at precisely the right temperature but on taking one sip I found I was absolutely not in the mood. Firstly, I am increasingly disinterested in drinking anything except one of the biodynamic champagnes we stock - with zero added sugar they are demonstrably purer than anything produced on a commercial scale, even an old favourite like Roederer. Secondly, it had been quite a week, in a never ending succession of difficult weeks. Apparently that kind of scenario makes some people want to drink more but it does not seem to work that way for me.
I drank my water instead, nibbled at the almonds, and observed. A well padded lady in late middle age and head-to-toe Chanel. A table of younger tourists who had clearly dressed up for the occasion. My American friend and the business colleagues he was meeting, one of whom was clearly a senior member of the Mafia.
I also had plenty of time to look at their list. The Beaufort Bar has been billed as having the best Champagne list in London Roederer NV
The red and white wines by the glass are fine but nothing in either category is a superlative example of its style. Stick to champagne. And in such a nest of plush luxury, surely that is the only relevant choice anyway?
The cloakroom where I went to retrieve my coat was in an advanced state of meltdown. A group of seven people from out of town were remonstrating with a pale, frightened looking young lady.
“The green Harrods bag on the top!” yelled one harassed member of the party. “NO!!! The HARRODS bag!” she continued as Ms Cloakroom, in a panic, proceeded to pull down everything but the Harrods bag.
When the bag was finally retrieved it transpired that the largest member of the group, a woman with alarmingly yellow hair, had lost her coat. It simply wasn’t on the clever rail thing that glides round, bearing garments and belongings. An ugly air of mutiny was descending and so Ms Cloakroom did what every reasonable human being wants to do in such a situation but generally, for reasons of social protocol, doesn’t.
She fled.
This left the mutinous provincials to take matters into their own hands. One of them made her way behind the counter and, while the rest bellowed instructions and encouragement, attempted to operate the glide rail thing.
“No, the yellow button, Denise, try the yellow button.”
“Are you sure it hasn’t fallen on the floor, love? Maybe you want to have a look on the floor?”
“It isn’t on your number, is it? Your number is completely empty, isn’t it? They’ve only gone and given your coat to someone else, Denise.”
Pale face returned with another no less nervous looking young woman in tow. Thankfully, Ms Cloakroom Number Two decided to deal with me and, with no fuss at all, retrieved my things while her colleague was left to face the lions.
I left as a solemn looking senior Savoy
I think it was probably ever thus and should always be so. Any building quite so large and so grand should not be a haven solely for those who are stick thin, excessively moneyed or sophisticated enough to know that you call the manager before taking over the operating of hotel machinery all by yourself. It gives life to the splendour.
I am so pleased the Savoy
Mind you, I don’t think my patent leather Doc Martins lend themselves much to being siren-like but still, they are at least suitably shiny.
The cloakroom where I went to retrieve my coat was in an advanced state of meltdown. A group of seven people from out of town were remonstrating with a pale, frightened looking young lady.
When the bag was finally retrieved it transpired that the largest member of the group, a woman with alarmingly yellow hair, had lost her coat. It simply wasn’t on the clever rail thing that glides round, bearing garments and belongings. An ugly air of mutiny was descending and so Ms Cloakroom did what every reasonable human being wants to do in such a situation but generally, for reasons of social protocol, doesn’t.
She fled.
