MEX1K
Sep 27, 01, 2:17 pm
I arrived at LHR on the afternoon of Sept. 13. The first thing the taxi driver asked me when I got in and heard my accent was “Have you bombed the &% http://www.flyertalk.com/forum/thumbsup.gif$ out of those bast*&$s yet?” I instantly liked him, and I’m not a Brit fan, although I would come to be over the next few days. A reservation had been made for me by my London colleagues at the Churchill Intercontinental on Portman Square. I had checked the website before I left home for the phone, address, etc., to leave behind, and noticed it was positioning itself as a recently renovated hotel with a “British, club-like” atmosphere. The last time I had stayed in a “club-like” hotel in London, it was this super-straight place called the Connaught and I had just come from Amsterdam, where I had decided to eat a huge chunk of hash rather than throw it away before leaving town. It kicked in right as I was checking in, and as the elderly butler was unpacking my suitcase, I was paralyzed on the bed laughing hysterically; he thought I was nuts, I thought he was the archetypical Jeeves and that the whole place needed to LOOSEN UP.
At first sight, the Churchill Intercontinental was kind of like the Connaught---if the Connaught had just been re-“decorated” by Broyhill; I guess you’d call it a wanna-be club-like atmosphere, complete with a wanna-be Sloane Ranger staffing the check-in desk, who blithely informed me my room wasn’t ready yet. I informed her it was almost 1600, I was tired and wanted a room NOW. I almost informed her the whole Sloane Ranger thing was totally old-millenium, but didn’t get the chance, because she told me if I wanted a room now, I could get a “club floor” room for only GBP 65 more a night. Gee, that would bring the total cost per night to only GBP350, I calculated out loud. She nodded her head. I asked why a club-like hotel would have a club floor and did that mean I would be getting a club-within-a-club room and to please explain the concept. She excused herself, I assumed to get security, but came back with a room that was ready, complementary upgrade, and no extra cost. I thanked her and told her I’d see her at Harvey Nic’s. She looked at me and said, with a completely straight face, “Yes, right.”
I’m glad I didn’t see the room that I was upgraded from, because the one I got was nothing to email home about. Nice…if you like pseudo-country home, greenish, horse-print on the wall kind of room for $US350 a night, but this was London and I wasn’t paying for it anyway. The phone rang. The meeting, for which I had just traveled 18 hours, had been cancelled due to the crisis. They would do everything possible to get me home as soon as possible. They would let me know in the morning. Please try and enjoy myself.
I turned on CNN and opened the mini-bar. This was the British version of CNN that cut in and out to the US version. It was Thursday afternoon in London, morning at Ground Zero. I sank back into a jet-lagged haze and the reality of being an American who hadn’t lived in America for 15 years, but who had never felt more American, or patriotic, or helpless, in his life. Here I was in yet another foreign country when the only place in the world I wanted to be was the one place I couldn’t be. America. With my family.
Note to Churchill Intercontinental: Why, with France a few hundred miles away, have you stocked the mini-bar with an undrinkable American brand of wine called Blossom Hill? Very un-club like. At the Connaught, they would have Claret. I only drank this out of patriotism. Please change brand.
Fortunately, I have a group of friends in London, two of them American. I had made plans to get together with them that evening, so I watched the horror until I could take no more, took a bath, and was picked up in front of the hotel by the cool Welsh husband of one of my friends in a super-cool convertible, and we headed across London on a beautiful evening with the top down to their super-cool flat across the river, where 5 of us began to drink Sancerre and talk. One friend’s husband was in New York, safe, but unable to come home. We missed him. We drank, we ate, we cried. We switched to something red after the first five bottles. I have no idea when I got back to the hotel.
The next morning, I awoke to the ringing of the phone, head pounding. The first flight that could be found for me back to Mexico was on Tuesday morning on KL via AMS. They would try and do better but didn’t hold out much hope. BA had a non-stop on Monday but it and everything else was overbooked as people heading to South America were using MEX instead of MIA. I asked them to try AF/AM thru CDG. They said they already had.
Throughout the next four days, I learned to love the British. Everywhere I went, I saw acts of kindness towards America and Americans. Whether lining up to sign the book of condolences at the embassy, to playing our anthem at the changing of the guard, to the service at the cathedral, to the lighting of candles at 7PM on Friday, they were behind us. Tony Blair was constantly on TV supporting us. The Prince of Wales expressed sorrow that they couldn’t do more to help us through this. The press was outstandingly fair, analytical and intelligent. When people I met realized I was American, many actually touched me (we’re talking about Brits here), asked if I had lost anyone, and expressed nothing but sorrow, sympathy and support. The hotels were full and people were taking Americans into their homes. Many on budgets had run out of money and were sleeping in the airport; they were provided with food.
The hotel was full of Middle Easterns; like 80% full, and despite my best efforts, I realized that fact made me slightly uncomfortable, and I was uncomfortable with being uncomfortable. I did some meditation on the subject and came to the conclusion that they probably needed more respect and compassion than I did at the moment; after all, their entire culture and religion was under attack because of some psycho fraction they had nothing to do with, so I went out of my way to hold doors and smile whenever possible. It seems, although maybe I’m just imagining it, that my efforts were understood and appreciated. If nothing else, I felt a lot better for trying.
Anyway, to avoid slipping into a major depression, drinking Blossom Hill and staring at the TV in the room for hours on end, I got out a lot and made some bar and restaurant discoveries, some good, some bad.
The Churchill Intercontinental is on Portman Square, which is near Marble Arch. On Friday afternoon, on the way back from a much needed run in the park, I passed a bar on Old Quebec Street that seemed to be the closest pub to the hotel. Quebec Bar. I showered and headed back, went in, and ordered a pint of Stella Artois for about GBP3. I looked around. The crowd was mostly (as in 100%) male. The crowd was mostly (80%) over 55 and white. The other 20% was significantly younger and ethnically diverse, with Middle Eastern and Asians in the majority. This was getting very interesting. The place was modern but still pub-like. There was a bar area, and an area with benches and tables and chairs. I headed for a table to watch the scene. Not being an expert on gay bars, but perfectly comfortable in them, I decided I was on to something unique. I was soon joined by a guy around my age, who sat down and said nothing. Finally, I asked him if he was a local. He said not really but he lived in London. Once he heard my American accent, he warmed up and introduced himself. He was a Canadian who worked in broadcasting. We talked about the horror for a bit, and then I bought him a pint. I asked him what was going on in the bar. I soon learned that the bar got a good share of tourists who came in expecting what I was expecting, so he was wary at first. “Well, it’s a gay bar,” he said, waiting for my response. I said, “Well, yeah, but what are these guys into?”
The Quebec Bar is a bar where older men and younger men who are into them come to meet. A few of the younger men are in it for the money, but a majority of them aren’t. In the cellar is a disco, and people move back and forth between the pub and the disco throughout the afternoon and evening. The overall atmosphere is pleasant and friendly upstairs. Many people seem to know each other. My new friend and I were joined by two older gentlemen (60’s) and soon we were chatting happily away. As I had dinner with my friends, I finally had to excuse myself. They suggested I come back later to see the disco, when the dancing started, which I did. While I prefer the more upscale pub atmosphere upstairs, the disco is something that shouldn’t be missed. It is a throwback to the 70’s, and the one vision I will remember forever; an 80-year old guy with his shirt off, dancing with total abandon together with his much younger friend to a classic disco hit. While the Quebec Bar may not be for everyone, everyone is welcome, and they are used to tourists coming in; I saw several couples on my two visits. So if you’re looking for a one-of-a-kind experience in London, I say check it out and avoid the downstairs bathroom unless you’re looking for another kind of experience.
Between visits to the Quebec, I had a Cool Brittania experience; my friends had made dinner reservations for 21:00 at the Great Eastern, a trendy restaurant in some newly renovated artist-chic neighborhood . First we met for drinks at Blu, a trendy bar somewhere along the way, which was packed with attractive variety of young hipsters. The evening was beautiful, so we stood outside on the front porch, drank pints of Stella before switching to white wine and watched the crowd. The crisis was not a big subject of discussion here; we all needed an escape and it was the last evening the 5 of us would be together.
Around 9, we headed over to the Great Eastern, a converted-something hotel/bar/restaurant with an equally hip, if not hipper crowd (average age, early 30’s, the five of us brought it up to maybe 37), good food and wine, and reasonable (for London) prices. I started with a warm goat cheese and rocket salad, then stracci (didn’t know what it was but found out before ordering; unevenly cut fresh pasta) tossed with tomatoes, basil and olive oil, we had three, perhaps four bottles of good Argentine wine followed by a dessert wine and I think the check for 5 of us came to GBP195 including service. Not bad for London. The place was very high energy (a bit loud), the service friendly and efficient and we all had a great time. We hugged goodbye. I headed back to the Quebec; couldn’t talk anyone into joining me.
As our 3 friends had an event in the country on Saturday, my remaining friend had made reservations at Drones, a new, hot and super-high end restaurant by Marco Pierre White on Pont Street, somewhere between Chelsea and Belgravia, I think. MP White is one of the ruling class of London chefs, specializing in, no surprise here, a lot of French-based stuff with a British twist. We were greeted at the door, and ushered to our table by a young French guy, who asked us if we wanted to sit face to face or side by side. We said face to face and got a small table wedged between other couples at much larger tables sitting side by side. The crowd here was definitely not the party crowd of the evening before; we’re talking maybe some minor royalty, media types, lot’s of jewels and some of the older women had clearly had some work done (average age: 45, although we certainly didn’t increase it any). We were handed menus by a French waiter and then the wine list by a very attractive French sommelier. The prices were astronomical; the least expensive wine being GBP45. This being our big splurge evening, we decided on a big splurge bottle of wine from the Ribero del Duero. “There is a lot of sun in this wine” said the sommelier-babe as she opened and poured it. The room itself was upscale modern, trendy, open, not dark but not lit, with strategically placed flowers. Generic expensive. Nothing special. Nor was the menu, which was simple and pricey. I had “Dressed Crab with Mayonnaise” as a starter, followed by the grouse. My friend had foie gras and duck. I couldn’t really detect any crab in the crab, it was more like a disk of crab paste with some minced vegetables on top, looked pretty, tasted pretty bad. My friend’s foie gras was nothing special, and we were already dreaming about the foie at various places in Paris as the second bottle of wine arrived. My grouse was almost inedible and I like gamey-tasting game, but this honestly tasted like it was rotten. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and just say it didn’t taste like the grouse I remember having before, but my friend’s duck, which I have frequently, was terrible as well. Chewy, stringy and bad. Yuck. We skipped dessert and had a bottle of dessert wine. At some point, the waiter came over and told us that Marco Pierre had been out shooting (apparently, he loves to hunt wild game) and my grouse had been freshly shot by MP himself. I resisted the urge to suggest that maybe Marco Pierre should try shooting something else (like himself, or us for being suckered into his outrageously overpriced and bad restaurant) or at least taste what he shoots before he serves it. We paid the obscene bill and left. Now, I’m sure this place will soon get a Michelin star or two, and I’m no restaurant critic; I just like to eat and drink. I won’t be doing it there again, however.
Our dinner on Sunday was at Zani, a small and friendly Italian restaurant in Chelsea. We were joined by a friend of my friend’s from Milan, who seemed right at home, as she was known by all the young and attractive Italian staff. We had a couple of bottles of Sicilian red (Corvo), some fried zucchini to start, I had a simple fresh salad, basic penne with a tomato/anchovy sauce, and biscotti with vin Santo for dessert. The restaurant had a good feel to it, friendly, a bit stylish, not a tourist to be seen, and it was reasonable for London. We left satisfied, and the vin Santo was the thing that finally washed the taste of Marco Pierre’s grouse out of my mouth. I will be going back again, hopefully when the world is back on track.
At first sight, the Churchill Intercontinental was kind of like the Connaught---if the Connaught had just been re-“decorated” by Broyhill; I guess you’d call it a wanna-be club-like atmosphere, complete with a wanna-be Sloane Ranger staffing the check-in desk, who blithely informed me my room wasn’t ready yet. I informed her it was almost 1600, I was tired and wanted a room NOW. I almost informed her the whole Sloane Ranger thing was totally old-millenium, but didn’t get the chance, because she told me if I wanted a room now, I could get a “club floor” room for only GBP 65 more a night. Gee, that would bring the total cost per night to only GBP350, I calculated out loud. She nodded her head. I asked why a club-like hotel would have a club floor and did that mean I would be getting a club-within-a-club room and to please explain the concept. She excused herself, I assumed to get security, but came back with a room that was ready, complementary upgrade, and no extra cost. I thanked her and told her I’d see her at Harvey Nic’s. She looked at me and said, with a completely straight face, “Yes, right.”
I’m glad I didn’t see the room that I was upgraded from, because the one I got was nothing to email home about. Nice…if you like pseudo-country home, greenish, horse-print on the wall kind of room for $US350 a night, but this was London and I wasn’t paying for it anyway. The phone rang. The meeting, for which I had just traveled 18 hours, had been cancelled due to the crisis. They would do everything possible to get me home as soon as possible. They would let me know in the morning. Please try and enjoy myself.
I turned on CNN and opened the mini-bar. This was the British version of CNN that cut in and out to the US version. It was Thursday afternoon in London, morning at Ground Zero. I sank back into a jet-lagged haze and the reality of being an American who hadn’t lived in America for 15 years, but who had never felt more American, or patriotic, or helpless, in his life. Here I was in yet another foreign country when the only place in the world I wanted to be was the one place I couldn’t be. America. With my family.
Note to Churchill Intercontinental: Why, with France a few hundred miles away, have you stocked the mini-bar with an undrinkable American brand of wine called Blossom Hill? Very un-club like. At the Connaught, they would have Claret. I only drank this out of patriotism. Please change brand.
Fortunately, I have a group of friends in London, two of them American. I had made plans to get together with them that evening, so I watched the horror until I could take no more, took a bath, and was picked up in front of the hotel by the cool Welsh husband of one of my friends in a super-cool convertible, and we headed across London on a beautiful evening with the top down to their super-cool flat across the river, where 5 of us began to drink Sancerre and talk. One friend’s husband was in New York, safe, but unable to come home. We missed him. We drank, we ate, we cried. We switched to something red after the first five bottles. I have no idea when I got back to the hotel.
The next morning, I awoke to the ringing of the phone, head pounding. The first flight that could be found for me back to Mexico was on Tuesday morning on KL via AMS. They would try and do better but didn’t hold out much hope. BA had a non-stop on Monday but it and everything else was overbooked as people heading to South America were using MEX instead of MIA. I asked them to try AF/AM thru CDG. They said they already had.
Throughout the next four days, I learned to love the British. Everywhere I went, I saw acts of kindness towards America and Americans. Whether lining up to sign the book of condolences at the embassy, to playing our anthem at the changing of the guard, to the service at the cathedral, to the lighting of candles at 7PM on Friday, they were behind us. Tony Blair was constantly on TV supporting us. The Prince of Wales expressed sorrow that they couldn’t do more to help us through this. The press was outstandingly fair, analytical and intelligent. When people I met realized I was American, many actually touched me (we’re talking about Brits here), asked if I had lost anyone, and expressed nothing but sorrow, sympathy and support. The hotels were full and people were taking Americans into their homes. Many on budgets had run out of money and were sleeping in the airport; they were provided with food.
The hotel was full of Middle Easterns; like 80% full, and despite my best efforts, I realized that fact made me slightly uncomfortable, and I was uncomfortable with being uncomfortable. I did some meditation on the subject and came to the conclusion that they probably needed more respect and compassion than I did at the moment; after all, their entire culture and religion was under attack because of some psycho fraction they had nothing to do with, so I went out of my way to hold doors and smile whenever possible. It seems, although maybe I’m just imagining it, that my efforts were understood and appreciated. If nothing else, I felt a lot better for trying.
Anyway, to avoid slipping into a major depression, drinking Blossom Hill and staring at the TV in the room for hours on end, I got out a lot and made some bar and restaurant discoveries, some good, some bad.
The Churchill Intercontinental is on Portman Square, which is near Marble Arch. On Friday afternoon, on the way back from a much needed run in the park, I passed a bar on Old Quebec Street that seemed to be the closest pub to the hotel. Quebec Bar. I showered and headed back, went in, and ordered a pint of Stella Artois for about GBP3. I looked around. The crowd was mostly (as in 100%) male. The crowd was mostly (80%) over 55 and white. The other 20% was significantly younger and ethnically diverse, with Middle Eastern and Asians in the majority. This was getting very interesting. The place was modern but still pub-like. There was a bar area, and an area with benches and tables and chairs. I headed for a table to watch the scene. Not being an expert on gay bars, but perfectly comfortable in them, I decided I was on to something unique. I was soon joined by a guy around my age, who sat down and said nothing. Finally, I asked him if he was a local. He said not really but he lived in London. Once he heard my American accent, he warmed up and introduced himself. He was a Canadian who worked in broadcasting. We talked about the horror for a bit, and then I bought him a pint. I asked him what was going on in the bar. I soon learned that the bar got a good share of tourists who came in expecting what I was expecting, so he was wary at first. “Well, it’s a gay bar,” he said, waiting for my response. I said, “Well, yeah, but what are these guys into?”
The Quebec Bar is a bar where older men and younger men who are into them come to meet. A few of the younger men are in it for the money, but a majority of them aren’t. In the cellar is a disco, and people move back and forth between the pub and the disco throughout the afternoon and evening. The overall atmosphere is pleasant and friendly upstairs. Many people seem to know each other. My new friend and I were joined by two older gentlemen (60’s) and soon we were chatting happily away. As I had dinner with my friends, I finally had to excuse myself. They suggested I come back later to see the disco, when the dancing started, which I did. While I prefer the more upscale pub atmosphere upstairs, the disco is something that shouldn’t be missed. It is a throwback to the 70’s, and the one vision I will remember forever; an 80-year old guy with his shirt off, dancing with total abandon together with his much younger friend to a classic disco hit. While the Quebec Bar may not be for everyone, everyone is welcome, and they are used to tourists coming in; I saw several couples on my two visits. So if you’re looking for a one-of-a-kind experience in London, I say check it out and avoid the downstairs bathroom unless you’re looking for another kind of experience.
Between visits to the Quebec, I had a Cool Brittania experience; my friends had made dinner reservations for 21:00 at the Great Eastern, a trendy restaurant in some newly renovated artist-chic neighborhood . First we met for drinks at Blu, a trendy bar somewhere along the way, which was packed with attractive variety of young hipsters. The evening was beautiful, so we stood outside on the front porch, drank pints of Stella before switching to white wine and watched the crowd. The crisis was not a big subject of discussion here; we all needed an escape and it was the last evening the 5 of us would be together.
Around 9, we headed over to the Great Eastern, a converted-something hotel/bar/restaurant with an equally hip, if not hipper crowd (average age, early 30’s, the five of us brought it up to maybe 37), good food and wine, and reasonable (for London) prices. I started with a warm goat cheese and rocket salad, then stracci (didn’t know what it was but found out before ordering; unevenly cut fresh pasta) tossed with tomatoes, basil and olive oil, we had three, perhaps four bottles of good Argentine wine followed by a dessert wine and I think the check for 5 of us came to GBP195 including service. Not bad for London. The place was very high energy (a bit loud), the service friendly and efficient and we all had a great time. We hugged goodbye. I headed back to the Quebec; couldn’t talk anyone into joining me.
As our 3 friends had an event in the country on Saturday, my remaining friend had made reservations at Drones, a new, hot and super-high end restaurant by Marco Pierre White on Pont Street, somewhere between Chelsea and Belgravia, I think. MP White is one of the ruling class of London chefs, specializing in, no surprise here, a lot of French-based stuff with a British twist. We were greeted at the door, and ushered to our table by a young French guy, who asked us if we wanted to sit face to face or side by side. We said face to face and got a small table wedged between other couples at much larger tables sitting side by side. The crowd here was definitely not the party crowd of the evening before; we’re talking maybe some minor royalty, media types, lot’s of jewels and some of the older women had clearly had some work done (average age: 45, although we certainly didn’t increase it any). We were handed menus by a French waiter and then the wine list by a very attractive French sommelier. The prices were astronomical; the least expensive wine being GBP45. This being our big splurge evening, we decided on a big splurge bottle of wine from the Ribero del Duero. “There is a lot of sun in this wine” said the sommelier-babe as she opened and poured it. The room itself was upscale modern, trendy, open, not dark but not lit, with strategically placed flowers. Generic expensive. Nothing special. Nor was the menu, which was simple and pricey. I had “Dressed Crab with Mayonnaise” as a starter, followed by the grouse. My friend had foie gras and duck. I couldn’t really detect any crab in the crab, it was more like a disk of crab paste with some minced vegetables on top, looked pretty, tasted pretty bad. My friend’s foie gras was nothing special, and we were already dreaming about the foie at various places in Paris as the second bottle of wine arrived. My grouse was almost inedible and I like gamey-tasting game, but this honestly tasted like it was rotten. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and just say it didn’t taste like the grouse I remember having before, but my friend’s duck, which I have frequently, was terrible as well. Chewy, stringy and bad. Yuck. We skipped dessert and had a bottle of dessert wine. At some point, the waiter came over and told us that Marco Pierre had been out shooting (apparently, he loves to hunt wild game) and my grouse had been freshly shot by MP himself. I resisted the urge to suggest that maybe Marco Pierre should try shooting something else (like himself, or us for being suckered into his outrageously overpriced and bad restaurant) or at least taste what he shoots before he serves it. We paid the obscene bill and left. Now, I’m sure this place will soon get a Michelin star or two, and I’m no restaurant critic; I just like to eat and drink. I won’t be doing it there again, however.
Our dinner on Sunday was at Zani, a small and friendly Italian restaurant in Chelsea. We were joined by a friend of my friend’s from Milan, who seemed right at home, as she was known by all the young and attractive Italian staff. We had a couple of bottles of Sicilian red (Corvo), some fried zucchini to start, I had a simple fresh salad, basic penne with a tomato/anchovy sauce, and biscotti with vin Santo for dessert. The restaurant had a good feel to it, friendly, a bit stylish, not a tourist to be seen, and it was reasonable for London. We left satisfied, and the vin Santo was the thing that finally washed the taste of Marco Pierre’s grouse out of my mouth. I will be going back again, hopefully when the world is back on track.