THE DORCHESTER HOTEL
PARK LANE
LONDON
https://www.dorchestercollection.com/en/london/the-dorchester/
The words “The Dorchester Hotel” can send a tremor through men’s hearts but I have always felt very relaxed and safe like being in comfortable country house.
Perhaps it’s the opulence, staff, sense of security, that long high endless foyer, tea room that just pulls you in further, enveloping you totally until the outside world ceases to exist. Las Vegas casinos are masters of the same feeling.
“Don’t bring me the car keys please; it’s a lovely day I just might walk” I said to the door man in a top hat, and soft greens with brocade on every seam as I pointed to a huge, glossy, red Bentley parked by the door.
He hesitated and smiled at me and replied, “Are you sure? It’s no problem but your probably better off having some exercise. Shall I keep them then?”
I took my hand off his dark green, velvety warm arm and gave him a huge grim knowing we were both on the same wavelength.
“I can always take it tomorrow” We both laughed.
“Can I help you with the bag? He asked outstretching a gloved hand.
“No darling, I’m good” and clunked the case up the black granite curved stairs, through that magical revolving door and on through towards the legendary The Grill Room.
Standing by the grand open double doors I looked into a room I no longer recognized but mumbled something to two young girls at the welcome desk looking like air hostesses.
The breakfast crowd had gone, leaving the room empty and lunch service had not started, but I wanted to see the new subtle, peachy, shimmering designer décor, which everyone was talking about.
“Do you remember this room before?” I asked them and they both said ‘no’ as I had expected because they were too young. London Hotels and restaurants are staffed by youngsters who have no idea about the history of the place they worked in.
The Dorchester Grill was once a symphony of red tartan, high backed chairs, baronial splendor, big statements for brave people who had the guts to go in there. It was ‘all man’, testosterone, and heavy on ‘impressive’ and light on ‘escaping’.
My last breakfast there had all the trimmings bacon, eggs, toast, mustard, mushrooms, orange juice and coffee.
“My, you don’t mess about with a croissant do you?” remarked the American man I sat with.
“It took me an hour to put on a good suit, made up and travel over, here so a small croissant isn’t going to do it for me” I replied looking him in the eye. We then spent the next 13 years together.
Now I was standing, slightly confused, before some kind of international stylish room in a blush peach, more reminiscent of a cocktail lounge with dining tables. “What was I looking at?”
The young women showed me the very long pale peach wall louvers with Japanese’s style writing on them, which turned at night to show a darker evening colour. It was all impressive and expensive, as one would expect.
“How nice” I said flatly, I was not yet convinced. I could see work, money, time and effort and a room that would photograph beautifully. The problem was some of these super designer rooms make the actual dinners look tatty, unwashed and ugly.
I had to move on.
They gave me the chef’s card and I would call and set up a meeting.
I crossed over the hall to the bar opposite entering into the dark purple hall they refit about 15 years ago so ripping out the classic Delft blue and white tiles, pale wooden paneling, side banquets, white grand piano, small tables with starched white table cloths and little silver salt and pepper pots.
The heart, soul and elegance of the hotel was ripped out when they destroyed that room. I waked down a couple of large dark purple curved stairs to stare in horror mumbling it was “room murder” again.
The updated decor now looked like a worn out old hooker who should have left town and gone off to the country while her legs could carry her. Only the dark tall glass sculptures by Dale Chihuly still looked vibrant, pleasing, worth displaying and were the only items not to have wilted, dated or saddened.
I asked the young barman “Is Guido here?”
“No sorry madam its his day off” I gave him my name and asked him to convey my best to one of the most charming, good looking, elegant barman whom the Dorchester Hotel had the brains to keep.
Turning pensively, like it was my last visit to this empty sad room I saw two young men in their early 30’s drinking water in a far corner and I thought they might be plumbers.
“Please, do us all a favor and put that room out of its misery and redecorate it,” I pleaded to one of the ‘directors of something’ I found outside hanging outside the door of Alan Ducasse. He laughed nervously but admitted he had never seen the blue and white Delft Tiled bar and probably thought this ‘brothel look’ was quite chic.
At least the hotel had the secured the great Alan Ducasse Restaurant before someone else had. I had eaten in the Paris Plaza Athenee several times, and in Monaco, which was very exciting, full of surprises, including the bill, which could have made a strong man weep.
Back in the central gold, green, brocade, fringed, and pillared central tea room I realized it was very hard to keep up the standards, while the customers were constantly dragging them down.
The mix of interior styles all seemed to compete with each like jealous sisters.
Even Disney World kept a theme running through the park, while keeping the customers interest but this felt odd.
The truffles and I went back out through the magical revolving doors, stood on the curved steps in the sun, looked out towards Hyde Park and admired the view.
It wasn’t such a large sweeping entrance but my God it packed a punch as a hotel entrance; it was the unnoticed classical details that one ‘felt’ with out even consciously ‘seeing’ them.
“Leave the car please, I can’t deal with the traffic,” I said to both the doorman who laughed saying it was a wise idea.
I wondered if the owners of those stunning unique cars parked outside had actually taken a walk today or were still in bed upstairs sleeping and I wondered if they ate truffles…?
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