18 - The Long Wait 1997

RITZ  HOTEL, Madrid

 

The Goya Restaurant 1997

     My brother worked for a brief time for the billionaire buyout king Henry Kravis and his socially motivated new bride, Marie-Josée.   His well paid job was that of  preparing food on their private jet, much of which was discarded at the end of each flight.  It didn’t work out for very long, but while it did, Dickie had an intriguing view of life at the top.  In the few months he was with them, they seemed to travel just about everywhere.

Dickie, the in-between years

  While in Madrid, he discovered the Ritz.   He told me about an old Spanish woman he had observed in the hotel’s elegant Goya Restaurant, and to look out for her as an interesting anecdoctal bit of Ritz folklore.  I was not disappointed.

It turned out that she lived next door and she lunched there most days, usually  wearing the same worn and long-outdated leopard coat.

Luis, the chatty maitre d’hotel, said she was 92 and occasionally travelled to Switzerland (“probably looking for a miracle fountain of youth cure,” he volunteered).

Luis 1997

Some days she would be delightful, other days quite the contrary.  A week earlier he had asked how she was.  Her reply was chilling:  “This is not a hospital.  You needn’t concern yourself with how I am.  I come here to eat, not to answer your questions.”

On the particular afternoon I first saw her, however, she was exceedingly friendly, and the staff was falling over itself to be in her good graces.  It was the week before Christmas, but despite the season, she ordered homemade vanilla ice cream.  I remember, because I ordered it, too, and it was delicious.   Elvis Presley was singing "Blue Christmas" in the distance, and I wondered if it made her melancoly or if she understood the words.

On another occasion her son had joined her for the Sunday buffet.   I was told he accompanied her once a week.  As was the case this time, he often brought papers for her to sign, and they didn't always find her favor.  I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and wouldn’t have understood the language anyway, but her tone was unmistakably impatient and demanding.  As my little granddaughter once said of someone, "Her voice was not kind."

Clearly, relationships were not her strong point.

The son, a little scruffy and none too young, himself, seemed rather lost.  He impressed me as someone in the process of waiting.

The wait has now certainly ended, and if the dowager’s son is still alive, his life is no doubt rather more comfortable today.

The Ritz, Madrid

SIDEBAR --CESAR RITZ (1850 - 1918)

César and Marie-Louise Ritz circa 1890

       César Ritz, founder of the hotel that made his name an instantly recognizable synonym for elegance and luxury, was born into an exceedingly modest family in a Swiss mountain village that would have made my Aberdeen look citified.  He spent his childhood tending goats alongside twelve siblings, and in 1863 at age 13 was sent to do an apprenticeship to become a waiter.  

 Summarily dismissed after a trial period, he later remembered his first boss telling him he need never expect to find success working in a hotel.  “To become  a hotelier, you need a special talent and flair,” he was told. “and you have neither!"

Undeterred by such an inauspicious career debut, he soon worked his way to Paris, and from waiter and dish washer in a working class brasserie to general manager of any number of fine hotels in Switzerland, Italy, Monaco and London.  And all this before he was 30! 

Hotel Ritz Paris 2009

 

Of his own name-bearing hotels, there were only three –first and foremost the Paris landmark in 1898, then London, finally Madrid.  No others were ever real Ritz Hotels, at least not created by the founder himself.

He saw the completion of his life-long dream with the opening of the Paris Ritz.  By that time he was already famous on both sides of the Atlantic, and some clever publicist had coined the moniker “hotelier to kings, king of hoteliers,” which stuck.  He is reputed to have invented the motto “The customer is always right ” while managing the Savoy Hotel in London.

The London Ritz 2012

Ritz was a workaholic before the term existed, and he suffered from what was then called a nervous collapse during the building of his London hotel.  He remained nominally head of the Ritz empire, but he never really recovered, and had little control after the early years of the century.  Marie-Louise, his wife and an astute manager herself, increasingly took over the day-to-day running of the Paris hotel

Approached by King Alfonso of Spain about building a similarly prestigious hotel in Madrid, Ritz agreed to a kind of consultancy.  With declining health ever more incapacitating, he continued to participate in the Spanish project until its completion in 1910, but never took an active part in its management.

Ritz died in 1918 after more than a decade of ill health.  His widow, Marie-Louise, was still living at the Paris Ritz when she died in 1961 at age 93.

The main foyer, The Madrid Ritz  (photo Orient Express)

 

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

Next Friday:  "The best and the worst" AND "The Movie List"

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

The (Paris) Ritz Hotel is also featured in blog No. 25, "The Importance of a morning suit" Feb. 22, 2013 (to access, click on above title).

17 - Celebrating the holidays away from home

Christmas at The Negresco, La Cote St. Jacques, The Gritti Palace and The Millennium

   

Christmas rush at Union Station (1944) by Norman Rockwell

      Christmas used to be a time I liked to travel.  I never thought I minded being alone, but during the holidays, I often found it more satisfying and certainly more dramatic to be alone in a hotel.

     I stayed four days over Christmas in 1982 at the Negresco in Nice, never suspecting that I would one day be back so regularly, as Brenda and I now enjoy a rental apartment there (in Nice, not in the Negresco) as often as possible. 

The Negresco, Nice

     I chose Nice and the Negresco on that first visit because of its Chantecler restaurant.  I was then just beginning to get passionate about food, and the Negresco had one of the finest, most creative chefs of the day, Jacques Maximin.   I also chose it because of a particularly appealing Christmas promotion.

 Negresco mezzanine

     When I arrived around eight in the morning, the hotel manager who showed me to my room asked if my trip on the overnight train had been a pleasant one.  At the time, I couldn’t imagine how he knew I had taken the night train from Paris.  In retrospect, I realize that he would have been acquainted with train schedules, and no one else would have conceivably been checking in at such an early hour of the morning.

A faded self portrait from Christmas 1982

     My room, which was decorated with a lot of burgundy and French empire furniture, was quite splendid.  I regret terribly not having a better picture, because I recall it being so exceptional with a big bear skin rug by the side of my bateau bed.  Memory may exaggerate, but the fact remains that I was very happy with both the hotel and Nice.

That first trip to Nice (photo R. Franklin)

 I had an artist friend who had recently moved to the South of France, and I spent some time with her during that trip.  We lunched in the old town one day, and took in a traditional orchestral concert on Christmas morning at the Nice Opera House.  

Renée leaned politically far to the left, and invitations to tea or dinner at my elegant hotel were always rejected.  We saw each other every day, always with pleasure, but she steadfastly refused to put a foot into what she saw as my bourgeois den of excess!

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

      I spent at least two Christmases in Burgundy at La Côte St Jacques, a charming country inn with one of France’s finest restaurants.  I first chose it because it was an easy two hour train ride from Paris.

 La Côte St Jacques 1991 (photo K. Horgan)

     One year, I was already on my way when the trains were grounded by last-minute strikes.  It was the day before Christmas Eve, if you can believe it, and I refused to give up. 

     Highly motivated not to have my yuletide plans stymied,  I found myself at the regional bus station.  (Contrary to travel in the U.S., the French train system is generally so superb that long distance buses had already pretty well gone the way of the steamboat.)  Because of the train strikes, a supplementary south-bound bus was about to leave. 
  
     I didn’t have time for reflection, and boarded what seemed an outmoded means of transport without knowing precisely where it was headed.  I knew that it would be going fairly close to my destination, and was prepared to hitchhike the last miles if absolutely unavoidable.

     As luck would have it, a very kind bus driver made a detour of quite a few miles, and in an extraordinary gesture of holiday goodwill, deposited me smack in front of my hotel.  I seem to remember other passengers applauding when we arrived, but I now wonder if that is not one of those false memories, enhanced by time.

Michel Lorain in his Joigny kitchen circa 1988

     Monsieur Lorain, the owner-chef, came running out to address the “problem” (he may have thought the vehicle had broken down in front of his property), and couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw me alight from the rickety autocar.  That evening he made a point of introducing me to any number of guests as the only client ever to be delivered by the milktrain-bus to the Côte St Jacques' front door!

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Christmas pantomine at the Gritti

      One year at the Gritti in Venice I was to return to Paris on Christmas Day.  Surprised and appalled to learn at the last minute that the vaporetto (public transport boat) had completely closed down for the holiday, I found myself in desperate need of a taxi-boat to get me to the train station.

Barman at the Gritti

     No matter how grand the hotel, I would never normally dream of taking a taxi in Venice.  Those sleek wood-paneled speedboats that call themselves taxis are really reserved for the rich, whereas the equally efficient public transport boats are inexpensive.

     With little time to make my train, and not having counted on this unforeseen expense, I was well short of the cash needed for a taxi ride.  It was still in the days when cash dispensers were infrequent and unreliable in Italy … and even more so on the 25^th of December. 

     The young assistant concierge who was filling in on Xmas Day very graciously proposed finding a taxi and trying to negotiate a special price to accommodate my reduced means, which he succeeded in doing.  I don't know what I would have done without him, and I hate to admit I cannot even remember his name today.

Good Samaritan whose name I have since forgotten

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

      I met George and Angelia for Christmas 2003 in London at the Millennium Hotel on Grovesnor Square.  Just two years after September 11, I remember the U.S. Embassy, which was next door to our hotel, looked like it was in the middle of a war zone, completely bunkered in with protective scaffolding and hundreds of sandbags.  In addition, there were plenty of armed soldiers –even on Christmas Day-- ready to keep unauthorized visitors away.

The Millenium Mayfair Hotel on Grosvenor Square

     George is an old childhood friend from Aberdeen, and I have taken several trips with him and Angelia.  Although they arrived from Boston, I think they were on their way somewhere else, so we probably only spent three or four days together.

Angelia in hotel coffee shop

     The hotel was fine, fairly empty, relatively inexpensive, and as my memory serves me, unmemorable.  I had completely forgotten --despite having lived in London years earlier-- how thoroughly everything shuts down over the holidays.  We had enormous difficulties locating anywhere open to eat, whether on the 25th or on Boxing Day, the 26^th.   Discovering even the hotel's coffee shop closed, we finally settled on a nondescript little pub for Christmas dinner.

      My fondest memory of that trip (and of any Christmas, for that matter) was a fine production of Cole Porter’s Anything Goes at the Drury Lane on Christmas Eve.  It was really a moving moment when the cast and orchestra stayed after the last curtain calls, sitting around the edge of the stage singing carols with the audience.

With Dickie (left) and Mickie, circa 1953

-o-

Photo Album --some Christmas cheer from a few grand hotels
(hotels are Parisian unless otherwise indicated)

Outside the Mandarin Oriental

Le Crillon 2011 (closed for major renovations)

The Shangri-la (above and below)

The Lutetia

The Ritz 2011,  inside (above) and outside (below)

Plaza Athenée (above and below)

The St. Regis, New York City a few years ago ...

 

The George V Four Seasons(above) and in the rain (below)

The Meurice

The Biltmore Millenium, Los Angeles 2011

 

A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!! 

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

Next Friday:  "The Long Wait .... The Ritz, Madrid"

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

16 - A Momentous Long Distance Call

 

CLARIDGE’S HOTEL, London

Luxurious living at Claridge's,  if only for a day or two ...  

     

      At Claridge’s, the innovative Christopher Cowdray, the London hotel’s general manager between 1998 and 2004, once inaugurated a particularly democratic program whereby every full-time employee spent a night as guest of the hotel.

Michael, one of the French waiters at the time, was among the first to avail himself of the opportunity, and he and his wife were thrilled with their stay.  They were given a beautiful suite with flowers and champagne.  He told me it had completely transformed his concept of life at Claridge’s.

Christopher Cowdray  (Google archives)

I never actually met Mr. Cowdray, though I have long followed his career with interest, and once I did have a thrilling long distance conversation with him.

I had spent a weekend in London with my friend Marguerite in 1998.  We had profited from one of those unbeatable suite-weekend packages.  It was a period of recession and it was the kind of deal you just don’t find any longer.

Marguerite in apartment 115

 

We had a great time, and the suite was spacious and gorgeous.  Then towards the end of our stay we had a couple of oddly incongruous mishaps. 

Exceptional room details

Marguerite had a loose button on her jacket, and we called Housekeeping to request a needle and thread.  We were pretty dumbfounded when told that neither were available.  Coming from a hotel that prided itself on opening up amusement parks at two in the morning for middle eastern royalty, the impossibility of finding so much as a needle and thread was disconcerting.

On our last morning, arriving back from a trip to the flea market, we discovered three men in overalls with their hammers and various power tools spread out over the bedroom floor.  They had removed one of the doors and were in the process of transforming our suite into a larger apartment for the next guests.   Someone had prematurely decided we had already vacated the premises.  

We decided to write to the management, and I set out our grievances with a maximum of humor, emphasizing that it was only my affection for Claridge’s that prodded me to share this less than perfect experience.

Whenever I write, and for whatever reason, I always aim for the top man on the totem pole, though never sure he’ll actually see my missive.  I sent the letter on a Monday to the very top, Christopher Cowdray.

When the telephone rang early Wednesday morning, the excitement was almost too much for me to bear.  It was the managing director, himself.

After profusely thanking me for my letter, he said (and I'll never forget his choice of words) he was “absolutely devastated” to learn of my recent trials and tribulations.

Had Louis B. Mayer been on the other end of the line, entreating me to sign a seven-year Hollywood contract, I wouldn’t have been more excited.  Mr. Cowdray invited me to contact him directly for all future bookings, and he further proposed a highly advantageous promotion if I’d give them another try.  

I felt a little guilty, as I had had a splendid time already, even without locating a needle and thread.  At any rate, my next visit was impeccable, and the suite had its fair share of flowers and fruits and little notes from various managers welcoming me back. 

It was several years afterwards that Mr. Cowdray’s rather brilliant career took him elsewhere, and I must say Claridge’s has never seemed quite as tip-top since.

-o-

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

Next Friday:  "Christmas away from home"

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]

CROSS REFERENCING … a look at other postings

Christopher Cowdray is also featured in:  blog No. 39, "Living It Up On Park Lane!" May 31, 2013 (to access, click on above title).

15 - Around and About Hanoi

 

 HOTEL METROPOLE, Hanoi

Hanoi street scene 2003, the way it was

      I’ve been to Hanoi on three occasions, and always stayed at the venerable Hotel Metropole,

The first time, thanks to a low-cost United alliance package, followed stopovers in Hong Kong, Bangkok, Singapore and Bali.  For a world traveller I’m not much of an adventurer; my destinations are much influenced by where the mythic hotels are to be found. 

On this first around-the-world trip in 2000, I learned the necessity of juggling some really cheap lodgings with the more costly ones, plus a few guest rooms with friends along the way. 

A city of contrasts ... of cacaphony and elegance and color

  

The off-season summer in Vietnam can be blisteringly hot, and I lucked into a special deal of just over 100 dollars with full breakfast.  The biggest reason for the price was that the trip coincided with the waning days of a major SARS (viral pneumonia) epidemic throughout Asia, and tourists were few and far between.

Traveling alone and paying far less than normal rack rate, I began to fear a kind of discrimination of the poor.  I was afraid of finding myself, if not in a broom closet, perhaps in lesser accommodations than I might hope for.

I decided to reach out to the hotel’s managing director, a Frenchman recently named to the job.  I labored for days on the letter in which I more or less threw myself at his mercy, stating my passion for historic hotels, and making it clear that my means did not match my tastes.   

Explaining that I had long dreamed of staying there before finding  this bargain-price promotion, I pretty much implored him to find it in his heart to put me in one of the nicer rooms in the hotel’s original, historic wing.

Let me be clear, this tactic doesn’t necessarily give any results, but I figure there is nothing to lose, and in this case I was rewarded in spades.  My room was spacious, elegant, and with just the right touch of old-world Asia.  I don’t know that I’ve ever been happier with a hotel, and I let the management know.

First room at the Metropole 2000

It is surprising how rarely clients come forward with my kind of enthusiasm which usually seems to give a lot more pleasure than you’d imagine.  Those involved in the running of these out of the ordinary, historic hotels are almost always proud and passionate about their properties.  They are usually thrilled to hear that their efforts are appreciated.

 With Brenda in 2008 (above), we were upgraded to club class.  It was more than comfortable, but just lacked that note of old world authenticity that I had so enjoyed my first time at the Metropole.

* * * * * * * *

Life around the Metropole 1904  (photo Sofitel)

Of  all the world class hotels I have visited, the Metropole has probably seen more ups and downs than any other.  When it opened in the summer of 1901, it was undisputedly the pride and joy of France’s extended colonial empire.

Separate rickshaws for honeymooning Goddard and Chaplin 1936  (photo google archives)

Charlie Chaplin chose it in 1936 to spend part of his honeymoon with third wife Paulette Goddard.   He was purportedly surprised when thousands of local Vietnamese crowded the streets to greet him.  Noel Coward, Somerset Maugham and Graham Greene were among the British literati  spending time at the French hotel in its heyday.

After the French were booted home in 1954, the Metropole began a long slide from its former glory. 

By the time of  the outbreak of what the Vietnamese call “The American War” in 1965, the Metropole was no longer recognizable as a grand hotel, though it still received some foreign journalists, diplomats and peace activists.

Jane (google archives)

Immediately prior to the arrival of Jane Fonda in 1972, soldiers were sent with brooms to run screaming down the long corridors in an attempt to frighten the rats away.  It is said that they were more successful in dislodging the rodents than they were with the bats which continued to soar through the hallways after dark.

Joan (google archives)

Although Fonda is the celebrity best remembered for her two-week visit towards the end of the war, she was not the only one.  Joan Baez also toured the communist capital and gave an impromptu concert, singing for the troops in the hotel’s bunker during U.S. air raids around Christmas of 1972.  The government had constructed an important air-raid shelter in the courtyard, which is still in existence underneath the hotel’s swimming pool.   

Hanoi pagoda 2008, days of the beard  (photo B. Paladini)

 

Click below to view Vietnam photo album

SIDEBAR --DIGITAL MEMORIES   

  With the advent of emails, surviving internet correspondence sometimes resurrects travel memories that would probably be otherwise forgotten.  The following is an example.  [Extract from email to Harriet in Aberdeen from me in Hanoi, August 2003]

Hanoi is a city of lakes. The largest park is on West Lake in the town center.

 Had a funny experience yesterday i wanted to share.  While at the internet shop, a charming young Vietnamese woman approached me.  She said she worked for the major Hanoi television station, that they were doing a publicity film at a new cafe next door, and that she would consider it a great service if i would allow her a few minutes to make a little film, interviewing me.

The Jackie Gleason Show 1952 (photo CBS)

I have no idea why she chose me, but found the whole thing very exhilarating.  I was told my job would consist of vaunting (as sincerely as possible, and in my mother tongue) the merits of a local coffee.  Seated in front of several young ladies of varying degrees of beauty (a little like the way Jackie Gleason used to surround himself with a bevy of glamorous showgirls on his early variety shows), I was told to answer their questions as enthusiastically and naturally as possible.

I played the game to the hilt, and revelled in my moment of celebrity. After the long Vietnamese question was relayed by an interpreter, my unscripted reply came with a certain aplomb, I thought. 

Though the beverage was in fact entirely mediocre, I had no qualms in heaping great praise upon it.  They did one take, and then asked if i could elaborate a bit more, so i continued, saying the quality of the coffee was, in fact, the best i had tasted during my entire stay in Vietnam, and that as a resident of Paris, I was not so easy to please.

 I was as though possessed, on a roll, and nothing could stop me.  People started gathering around, perhaps wondering if I were some sort of Western celebrity.    The young publicity woman along with the production director-cameraman both decided my performance was nothing short of excellent, and offered me a free freshly squeezed orange and mango juice as a reward.

Unfortunately, I have no possibility of ever viewing the fruits of my labor, as much as I’d love to.  I don’t suppose it’ll be imported anywhere outside of Hanoi, and am at any rate keeping my feet on the ground and not much counting on any calls from Hollywood.  Bye for now from an extremely sunny Vietnam..

p.s. --just as i was settling in at the internet place yesterday, i saw a really ENORMOUS rat, strolling between the computer tables, totally unperturbed by the considerable human activity going on around it.   

No one seemed to pay any attention, and the young woman who had just pocketed my money finally gave the giant rodent the most casually unconcerned look, before distractedly shooing it away with a mini broom.  I am proud to say I don't think i so much as raised an eyebrow.  I find my bravery inexplicable.

I am now back at the same establishment (as I can't find another internet café other than at the hotel, which is WAY beyond my means), so every few minutes I kind of casually stamp my feet underneath the table, hoping to discourage any potential unwanted visitors.  

Gardens at presidential residence (Ho Chi Minh mausoleum in background)

  

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

Next Friday:  "A momentous long distance phone call"

  [Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]