5 HERTFORD STREET
LONDON
http://www.5hertfordstreet.co.uk/
I remember when 5 Hereford Street was built as it was the renovation of the entire block in Sheppard’s Market Mayfair but it took so long the scaffolding became a permanent feature which hid hammers, brick dust, and workman and a lot of money spent.
This was prime real estate, which was going up in value like a clock adding up our national debt in an area previously known as a red light district, with narrow lanes, small ethnic restaurants and the odd old English pub, all tucked away behind Park Lanes five star hotels.
When word got out No 5 was going to be an exclusive club it was announced with great fanfare, as a new magnet for the rich, the beautiful and competition to Annabel’s Club in Berkeley Square W1.
The web site is so understated it must have taken dozens of meetings, for many hours to actually come to such a decision.
Its just one page with a simple watercolor painting, no links, photos, menus, interactive drop down, flip up menu, or even a Google map.
The subtle message is “if you are important enough to become a member, here is one page with the address.”
Interestingly the web page makes no mention of the intriguing Mark Birley whose personal history has already set him apart and whose presence in the club sends tremors through the staff who are so eager to please.
Often the more exclusive the venue, the more polite the staff behave just in case you are someone of importance they had not recognized, arriving at their burgundy glossy front door.
It didn’t take them long before they realized I was of no importance but well dressed enough to be allowed entry and to get the chefs business card.
I thanked them with sincerity, went outside to make a call and with in 10 mins I was back inside.
“Hello I have a meeting with chef as he has a few minutes to see me before the lunch service begins” I smiled and delivered the words as this was a directive not a suggestion.
“Oh….. I see……. let me see if he can see you….?” She wanted to ask me questions being sure I had just left and was confused to see me back at the desk, but it was not her place to. I wasn’t auditioning here.
I sat down in the most comfortable large duck feather chair and melted into it like a sculpture drinking in the elegant surroundings and relaxed muted tones of sands, greys, creams, gilt framed paintings, and fringed furnishings.
Men with suntans came in, handed over cashmere scarves, inquired about treasured guests from long distant lands, and accepted the explanation with grace.
Ladies, with large eyes, smooth obedient hair, clutched treasured calfskin handbags like babies, studied each other while listening intently to stories unfolding.
Staff in soft gold/beige uniforms, floated between them like solid ghosts bringing offerings that would sustain and calm their hungry souls.
Noises were hushed, like a private hospital, not to wake up a baby, and there was no need to insist or ask twice the nurses wearing gold brocade.
Time slowed down in here, the madness of the outside world ceased to exist and I didn’t really care if the chef saw me or not.
As I watched the clean and the beautiful come and go I wished everyone would forget I existed so I could claim that chair as my own, and blend into the wallpaper.
My thoughts flickered involuntary back to my anonymous black bag filled with precious truffles.
Smiling, it dawned on me I could nibble, suck, crumble and gnaw on my precious cargo and keep myself alive for days if I were left undisturbed, sinking like Venice deeper into the feather chair, utterly forgotten.
My reverie was shattered by a tall women who marched across the floor and said “chef will see you now” and it took all my will power not to reply, “does he have to?”
The more you pay for food, the smaller the kitchens, as the real estate gets pricey in bowels of downtown historical Mayfair and as I entered the cramped kitchen that reminded me of a yacht galley. Instinctively I was looking for a very small chef.
He wasn’t small but his kindness, Italian charm and almond brown eyes were even larger. We sniffed, we turned, we squeezed and we prodded but spoke about so many other things, his country, and his history all at the same time.
“Are you married?” I asked him as he picked up a particularly large truffle and he looked at me over the bumpy black gold his eyes flashing but too polite to ask, “why is she asking that!!!”
“Perhaps we should marry? I have always wanted a chef as a husband but don’t worry it wont last; I wont stay long-in fact you will hardly see me- and I never take any alimony” I explained earnestly not even waiting for him to answer my question and on some level he knew I was serious.
What a lovely person he was but I had to be going as the lunch service was marching upon us like a 12.00 pm curtain lift with music, action, and lights please.
I left as quickly, as I had arrived, and made a point to sweep out of the rich glossy burgundy door as was expected by one who had been so lucky to get inside.
Crossing the small but cozy entrance, I gulped in the air, as I wanted to take the magic with me allowing it to permeate my being.
This wasn’t just about money it was about being invited, belonging, extended family, genetically related, safe, protected and perhaps a bit deluded. It’s what exclusive clubs offer to their handpicked members.
Outside the Mayfair cobbled pavement looked worn down after hundreds of years invisible footsteps as it undulated into Sheppard’s Market disappearing into twisted illogical alleyways whose end was out of view.
The cold air attacked me with a host of unrelenting small pricks passing through my clothes shrinking my ego back down as I blended back into grey.
I suddenly realized that it was almost dangerous to have so many wealthy privileged folks, all shut up in one easily accessible place at one time, and in relief I felt safer, anonymous and insignificant back out on the street.
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