Putting on the Ritz
Richard McComb lives like a king – for a day and a night – at the most famous hotel in the world.
Harold Macmillan favoured Table 39 while the Aga Khan entertained at Table 1.
Jackie Onassis, though, had impeccable taste and enjoyed the view from Table 9. I can see why she was drawn to the window position, overlooking Green Park, because it’s where I am luxuriating, drinking in the atmosphere of one of the finest hotel dining rooms in the world. It is utterly palatial, like nowhere else I have ever eaten.
It’s not just the rarified air of The Ritz Restaurant I am imbibing. Dinner has been preceded by a glass of Champagne in the Long Room, essential to revive oneself before dressing for the evening.
Then there has been a cocktail, obviously, in the incredible Art Deco spectacle that is the Rivoli Bar. Stepping inside this sparkling room is like walking into a giant jewellery box, which is just the effect the interior designer sought to create.
After a very dry Martini, I take my seat in the Louis XVI dining room, under the great circle of chandeliers and gilt bronze garlands. The cheeky sommelier suggests another glass of fizz. Who am I to say no? After all, I’m putting on The Ritz.
It is my first stay at the hotel, arguably the most famous luxury hotel in the world. All the clichés apply and for once they are justified. Yes, this is the playground of the rich and famous. This really is where kings and queens come to dine.
The 104-year-old hotel has undergone a complete renovation since it was snapped up by the billionaire Barclay brothers 15 years ago. No expense has been spared in recreating the former glory of the guest rooms and suites, restoring antique furniture, decorative gold leaf mouldings, light fittings and chandeliers.
The bedrooms conform to a colour scheme of salmon pink, rose pink, yellow and blue. My fifth-floor, £1,000-a-night suite looks out over the bedlam of Piccadilly, but you could hear a pearl drop in the room.
The bed is the size of a polo pitch and half bottles of Krug are in the mini-bar just in case you can’t wait to get down to the bar. In a way, it is disconcerting, everything being this quiet, this comfortable, in central London. Yet that is why people spend a small fortune to come here, to live their lives, or, like me, live the dream.
Tea at The Ritz is, of course, an institution. When I arrive mid-afternoon, the Palm Court is in choreographed full flow. A pianist is at work, soon to be joined by a string section. Every so often a couple come together for an impromptu dance off the Long Room, the carpeted avenue which flows down from the lobby to the restaurant, parallel to Piccadilly.
