Episode 5 – Dukes Hotel, London

Earlier this year I was in Borders with a 15% off voucher that was about to expire. I couldn’t find any novels I particularly wanted, and their selection of science/history of science was not great (it was Canberra) but I found a little red book called London Secrets, a collection of comments by a variety of people – authors and such, even the historian T.K. Rabb, if I remember correctly – on their favourite places in London – walks, historic buildings, shops, bars and so on. One described the martinis at the Dukes Hotel cocktail bar as he best in the world, so I felt compelled to try one, if only for research purposes so I could tell my brother about it.

Today I’ve been at the British Library all day – dressed fairly casually in olive trousers, white top, black cardigan, flat shoes with socks (unfortunately visible, as the trousers could be longer), no make up and hair in a ponytail. I was planning to go back to my room before venturing out again this evening, but decided to work a little longer at the library instead.

So I rocked up at the Dukes Hotel, a little damp as it was raining, with my laptop bag over my shoulder. I walked down St James’s Place, past the house where Chopin was staying when he gave his final performance, turned into the courtyard of the hotel, walked past people bearing spiffy Dukes Hotel umbrellas, saw the doorman and realised that this was a very swish place. I thought about giving it a miss, but decided to go in anyway. I shook off my umbrella (outside, not on the carpet in the foyer!) and found the entrance to the cocktail bar just to the right. From the door, I could see a small room with a few tables of suited businessmen. No women. I nearly walked out again. But to the left was another door leading to the bar, more tables of suited businessmen, and some spare seats. I sat myself down, perused the menu, and ordered a gin martini (they have a separate list for martinis). A few minutes later, a bartender in a white dinner jacket and tie arrived at my table with a stool and a tray bearing a bottle of (apparently frozen) Plymouth gin, a small cut glass perfume bottle of vermouth, a lemon and a chilled glass. He misted the inside of the glass with vermouth, filled it with gin, peeled a strip of lemon rind, gently swiped the edge of the glass with it, and then released it into the cocktail. I was also brought not just a small bowl of spicy nibbles, but a bowl of olives, a large bowl of rice crackers, and a large bowl of mixed nuts. Very classy indeed. I considered wrapping up the remaining nuts and crackers in a serviette to take back to my room, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate.

I’m sitting here writing in a notebook because pulling out my laptop doesn’t seem the thing to do. I feel extremely underdressed, and quite out of place, which is kind of strange because I am fairly used to swish bars and quite capable of dressing appropriately. I’m rather tempted to come back later in the week, dressed up all fancy, and see if the service is any different (not that it’s bad – it’s very good). I might have a chocolate martini next time. Mmm… Rather expensive, though. £14 just for the martini.

Just finished the martini – took me over 45 minutes! I’m eavesdropping on the people at the next table. A guy is saying that he has a friend in the police force who said that there was a huge bomb threat at Canary Wharf that was defused but didn’t make the press because it’s just too scary. Hmm.

(I mentioned that to my friend Erin, who I caught up with the following night, and she said she’d heard that rumour too. She said that there’s no way something like that wouldn’t make it into the papers.)