Putting on the Ritz
December 4th 2007 06:45
The Ritz Picadilly
Frequented by Royals, rock stars and the rich, hence, dripping with class and privilege, the Ritz has long enjoyed a reputation as the best joint in town – any town - Paris, New York, Rome or London. To ordinary folk it is the epitome of all that is luxurious, exclusive and, often, unattainable. Its pomp and opulence have informed such songs as the cheeky 1930s “Putting on the Ritz” and stories like F. Scott Fitzgerald’s whimsical “A diamond as big as the Ritz”, not to mention expressions, like the stock reply to any dissatisfaction with fare or service at family tables the world over - “What do you think this is, the Ritz?” or even “Where do you think you are, the Ritz?” So, what, really, makes the Ritz so special? What is it actually like behind that grand façade? What exactly is it that brings in all those big names and all those megabucks? We’d always wondered. Then, thanks to a recent surprise invitation to lunch at the London Ritz, we found out.
Arrival at the Ritz is a kind gauntlet run (and probably a well disguised presentation and security check, too) past top-hatted, waist-coated and bowing doormen, from the taxi, up the steps, through glass doors (opened and held by more top-hatted waist-coats) and across a lobby gleaming with polished wood.
The interior is, as they say, a symphony for the eye – no discordant note of mismatched colour or misplaced decoration here – no, everything, from the perfectly pleated and draped curtains, the deep-piled carpets, the ceiling roses, the choirs of sculpted cherubs, the plaster cornices, the chandeliers bristling with twinkling bulbs, the huge wall mirrors, the furniture, the table linen, the china to the cutlery, is in perfect, soft-sheened pink, green, cream, white, gold, glass and silver baroque harmony. Classical piano music plays quietly against a background of discreet voices and the subdued tinkle of silver – no musak, no bursts of raucous laughter, no clash of stainless steel or crash of smashing plates here. No camera flash distracts the guests or disturbs the subtle lighting. Photographs are not permitted at the Ritz.
My three course lunch, from an unpretentious, English, three-choice menu, probably speaks for all Ritz cuisine. It all looked too good to eat but, in the end, tasted even better than it looked. The monkfish entrée was small, a manageable, melt-in-the-mouth lead-in to the just-roast-pork-with-apple-sa uce-and-four-veg.-but-oh-boy- what-they’ve-done-with-it main while the not too sweet and deliciously healthy vanilla yoghurt and fresh fruit dessert was a fabulous finale.
Service at the Ritz strikes the perfect balance between the discreet touch and the flourish. Glasses never empty while plates and cutlery come and go as if by magic. Serviettes flap into place with a flick and a twirl while main courses are ferried by waiters in single file who lift their silver covers with one accord. Staff are formal but not stiff, friendly but not familiar, attentive but not intrusive, respectful but not obsequious, efficient but not brisk, and mindful of their jobs but not afraid to be themselves.
Undoubtedly, the Ritz is luxurious, classy and exclusive but the thing that really made our Ritz experience so special and that would certainly keep us coming back, reunions with dear friends understood and bucks permitting, is that it is comfortable, pleasant, welcoming and hospitable.
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