FOOD
High Church hotel eating
Victoria Mather
The Ritz has always had a good cast. During the war Emerald Cunard lived there, attended by her faithful maid, Gor- don; when King Zog of Albania arrived, most of his luggage consisted of trunks of gold bars; the present Marquess of Tavis- tock was born at the Ritz in 1940, and Chips Channon noted excitedly that the outbreak of hostilities had made the hotel fantastically fashionable, 'as we are all cookless'. Lunching with his wife, her sister Lady Brigid Guinness and Harold Balfour, he experienced that feeling of relief known to those of us who mind passionately with whom we eat: 'All the great, gay, the gov- ernment; we know 95 per cent of everyone there.' The table-hopping must have been bliss.
Well, nothing has changed, or rather the Ritz has seen its way back to the future. After the Andy Warhol-Jacqueline Onas- sis-Mick Jagger years, the hotel went into a coma; the curtains in the Marie Antoinette suite drooped like Germolene-pink cami- sole knickers and the Palm Court pulsated With obese American tourists gorging on cucumber sandwiches because they had been told it was the thing to do. Now owned by the Barclay brothers and man- aged by the professionally suave Giles Shepard, the Ritz has perked up no end. There are still enough Japanese to whistle `Colonel Bogey' at, but they don't make it into the dining-room. The combination of cherubs and, on Wednesdays, steak and kidney pudding with Guinness, oysters, but- tered carrots, broccoli and mash might be too much for Oriental sensibilities.
I'm mad about the fat, pink cherubs and the stout, brown food; in these days of grilled pancetta, baked pithiviers and wilted spinach, there is a great deal to be said for a restaurant that addresses itself whole- heartedly to the Yorkshire pudding. You may not want to eat it, but it is immensely comforting to know that it is there — a good deed in a naughty world currently dedicated to roast fillet of cod encrusted with black olives. And then there's the fun of seeing the gargoyles: Lady Thatcher by the window, light refracting from her hair; the Queen Mother in her pet corner; Lord Hanson, and the Sir David English memorial table. Sir David was such a stalwart regular that a black-edged tablecloth would not be amiss.
The Ritz has a joie de vivre that eludes the Connaught, London's other great hotel dining-room. It was here that Robert Maxwell once importuned Keith Water- house, 'Give me your pension, dear boy, and I will enhance it,' an idea Waterhouse found strangely resistible. Today, there are no evident ogres melding with the dark, conspiratorial panelling, no titans tucking into the Scotch woodcock. And, my dears, one is down to a mere six sorts of potato (Carlos, nouvelle, frite, purée, soufflee, cro- quette). Be this as it may, there is nowhere else in the restaurant universe that can pro- vide onion soup, kidneys and bacon, oxtail and bread-and-butter pudding with such aplomb. This is High Church nursery food, and chef Michel Bourdin is a priest slaving at the altar of the mixed grill and boiled sil- verside (a special on Thursdays, should you wish to avoid it).
There are certain anomalies: I fear that homard d'Ecosse grille 'My Way' is a regrettable endeavour to indulge, at £37.50, the rich and bemused Americans eating there. (And Frank Sinatra was still tiede when I was there.) Rich and bemused Americans are just as sad as the obese ones from Idaho, and one is not convinced by drinks too much at these occasions.' London WI; tel: 0171 499 7070. the presence of either species. Where are the sleek, smart Manhattanites who, sprung fully formed from the Ralph Lauren shop, can grasp a feuillete d'oeufs brouilles aux truffes du Perigord when they see it? Gone to the Square, every one, I expect. As with plays, they love the new sensation rather than the long-running hit.
There is a solemn theatricality about the Connaught's menu, with a consomme Prince of Wales and a consomme Cole Porter, not to mention the oeuf en gel& Stendhal and the oysters Christian Dior. One shies away slightly from lamb cutlets at £27.30, but you could not have a finer treat than M. Bourdin's terrine de foie gras d'oie en gel& au Porto. It comes in a pulsating red loaf of scarlet gelee, like an elongated Gouda cheese; when slicing this poem, much play is made with silver knives heated in boiling water (indeed, the whole cutlery thing is a four-act play, waiters constantly rushing to one's side to reassure themselves about the number of fish-knives). The foie gras is yummy, soft not bounceable, almost — but fortunately not quite — too much of an indulgence after the gulls' eggs which the maitre d' remembered that I love. Nursery food is one thing, but nannying is special.
There's also a tut-tut, finger-wagging reassurance that nothing is wrong with the old-fashioned: Nick Laing had avocado and prawns, which as he was emerging from a crushing hangover he found incredibly comforting, and the avocado actually tasted of something. His kidneys were frothing with butter (very brave, considering the hangover) and soft as a baby's bottom. My Dover sole was surgically removed from the bone by a gentleman in a frock coat.
In truth, the Connaught is a winter restaurant, brown (the carpet is terrifying), womb-like and formally welcoming but with oddly utika.,,ian glasses — it seems eccen- tric to have collected the entire set at a garage — and motorway cafe salts and pep- pers. One likes a bit of dash with the place- setting, and I've never before had a thank- you letter which read, 'The food was divine, shame about the cruets.' Also, although they struggled gamely, the staff retain a cer- tain olde-worlde surprise at a woman being the host. The Connaught is a dear, crusty old bachelor, a bit stained around the mouth, like an old spaniel; the Ritz is a grande dame who would tell you the name of her plastic surgeon. The ghosts — and the delicious gossip — of Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh are still redolent, and I am thinking of buying that Chanel suit in cherub pink.
The Ritz: Piccadilly, London WI; tel: 0171
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