Not every relationship is meant to last — trust me here, this is an area of expertise, if not exactly an aptitude. It happens to the best of us. Take Claridge’s: pretty, popular, comes from money — and always flirting with top chefs, but always ending up in bits.
The first of recent times was Gordon Ramsay; they stopped fancying each other after 12 years. Simon Rogan’s Fera proved the rebound but it was destined not to be — for a start, the banquettes looked like bile, and for some reason the centrepiece tree appeared to have been hooked up to a car battery. In 2019 up stepped Daniel Humm of New York’s Eleven Madison Park, whose Davies and Brook opening was a hit, there being only two problems: one, the walls were the colour of a hangover and two, Humm soon decided it was time to go all-vegan. Claridge’s said ta but told friends it was “not the path we wanted to follow”. In other words — it was him, not them.
Now after a run like that, you and I might start enjoying cocktails of vodka and power ballads. But Claridge’s? This is a hotel that practises self-love. Partners, who needs ‘em? And so, just as it was 20 years ago, the room is once more simply Claridge’s Restaurant, all gorgeous stained-glass in the ceiling and British Racing Green leather in the seats. “You look like you again,” is how you might say it to a friend. But their point is, this is somewhere about the guest being the star, not the chef.
Cheers for the history lesson Dave, you’re thinking, but isn’t there a bit where you start necking Scotch and give the waitress your number (like last time)? And yes, by the new entrance, the small bar has had an overhaul. You might go to a restaurant for the food, but I know better. Barely are my sunglasses lowered before I confess a lingering fogginess from the night before: “Perhaps you’d like to lie down?” is the sweet suggestion. “Actually,” I say, “what I’d like is a martini.”
I explain that they sharpen the brain, which is exactly the sort of logic people tend to deploy at the point they should be cut off. But the waiter doesn’t, so the games begin. My martini — half gin, half vodka, not dry but withering, twist — is the starting gun. How quickly can they whip up a Vieux Carre (rye, cognac, Benedictine, two types of bitters)? I’d also like a Manhattan (whisky, bitters, sweet vermouth, cherry garnish), but washed with absinthe. No problem — though they’ve also one made light with melon. “Next time,” I cry manfully, “Right now I’ve some serious drinking to do.” Fruit would only slow me down. Have they heard of the Red Hook (maraschino, Punt e Mes, rye)? They have. And could they make a De La Louisiane (like the others, only stronger)? They can. Did I already order a martini? Oh. What about another? At this point I believe the crowd at my table were cheering for more, but in a fit of modesty I ordered a cab (wheels, driver, judgement).
But there are others, like the clever-clogs Mandarin Garibaldi (Campari, oisco, mandarin, honey), or the Peach Piquant (tequila, mezcal, Cointreau, peach, chilli), which uses a kind of alchemy to meld everything in balance. In fact, there’s plenty more too, but I’m not writing up this little restaurant bar because it has a long list of ideas; I’m writing it up because it is somewhere that will do exactly what’s wanted, no matter if obsolete or obscure, with no agenda to shift its own. And, moreover, it will do so perfectly. Just as it’s a restaurant about the diner, it’s a bar about the drinker. And that’s a comfort no matter how the relationship might be going — whether you’re torn up or, say, happy, but just missing someone.
