High life

Send Fergie to Paris

Taki

o say I didn't detect a soupcon of panic among the rich clientele of the Paris Ritz last Monday would be like saying there is law and order in Beirut, yet as poor old Scott Fitzgerald said, the very rich are different, and they show it when under pressure. The only table at L'Espadon grill without caviar and champagne was mine.

The latest one-upmanship ploy, inciden- tally, is to announce in a loud voice how much money one has lost during the time it took one to slip out to the lavatory. (An Italian tycoon, much too much of a gentle- man to say it, nevertheless lost 30 million smackers while under the knife in New York.) Every great hotel in Paris now offers those funny screens yuppies spend their days looking at, and one could hear their howls while having an aperitif in the hall.

The Ritz, by the way, must be the best hotel in the world. I've been to a few good ones in my time, but this one takes the proverbial cake. With the exception of the Al Fayed-inspired gold fittings in the bath- rooms, the rest is simply perfect. My room looked out on the Place Vendome, and it was as tastefully decorated as the view outside. The service was excellent and the chambermaids young and pretty, and very polite. They say that one can judge a hotel by its concierge first, its barman second (Jeff, of course, will disagree), and by its food third. The Paris Ritz gets it right on all three counts.

There is a bronze bust of Papa in the Hemingway bar of the rue Cambon now, probably to remind the money men who frequent it what grace under pressure is all about. And speaking of Hemingway's de- finition of courage, I needed all I could muster on the Tuesday, as suddenly I felt a square, out of place and overdressed in my grey flannels. The spring collections are on with a vengeance right now, which means a heterosexual man can be made to feel as lonely as a girl in San Francisco. Most of the heavy hitters of the fashion world were staying at the Ritz, along with their cata- mites and entourages, not to mention their female assistants who seem straight out of central casting in anti-Nazi films.

Luckily, my great friend Arnaud de Borchgrave was also staying, so we had a few laughs at Papa's bar trying to figure out the difference between a Valentino and a Lagerfeld, without any great results.

Arnaud is the journalist with the world's greatest contacts. No sooner had we ar- rived, than a large 500-SEL Mercedes with chauffeur was waiting for us outside, com- pliments of the French secret service. We drove to the Place de L'Odeon, and dined at my favourite fish restaurant, La Mediterranee.

I have fond memories of La Mediterra- née, as it was there that I began my

flirtation with the girl I had two children with and eventually married. (Two or three bottles of Pouilly will do it every time.) This time I was placed at the exact same table as on that fateful evening 22 years ago, and happened to mention the fact to the maitre d'hôtel. He smiled broadly and went looking for the boss.

Now there is nothing the French like better than a story that ends up in bed. The owner arrived with a large grin and an even larger bottle of champagne. As we were toasting each other, and the children the evening had eventually produced, he asked me, 'Mademoiselle est votre fille?"Er..er ...pas exactement,' I had to answer.

Arnaud, in the meantime, was beside himself, as was the couple indiscreetly listen- ing from the nearby table.

Still, I had the last laugh, because Arnaud got stuck with the bill, and if you think yuppies looked ill last Monday, you should have seen the short count — as he's known among hacks — when he was

handed la douloureuse. Paris must be the

most expensive place on earth for those unfortunate enough to have the once almighty dollar as currency, which I guess explains the lack of American tourists in the City of Light. And although I love Americans, I must admit it was nice dining in chic restaurants without having to hear Noo York accents on the subject of money.

Even nicer, though, were the Parisian women. There is no city on earth whose women have a better sense of style and are more feminine. (Alas, there is no city on earth whose men are more aggressive and pompous.) Just as Paris is a part of every red-blooded young man's education, so should it be for every young Sloane. It would transform them overnight, and I suggest Fergie lead the way.