Do Mind If I Don't #4
Adventures in posh hotels
Covid has gone, but that lost week has thrown a wrench in the schedule and it looks as though I’m stuck here through Mardi Gras. I looked and there’s a New Orleans-themed restaurant in town. A taste of home, I thought! Their menu for Mardi Gras day…a Mexican buffet. Oh, well. Here’s a couple of instances out of the many, many times I have embarrassed myself, professionally.
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March, 2003
I have to interview a chef at a posh hotel. I like talking to chefs, or really anyone that is very good at what they do, but I always feel slight pangs of guilt. Chefs seemingly have chaotic, highly-pressurised jobs, and they don’t really sign up to take time out to field annoying questions from people like me, and I feel bad about taking up their precious time. This chef is very gracious, though, and she helps the interview go smoothly.
As I’m leaving, I stop near the hotel doorway to check my phone and work out which bus I can catch. I’m dressed in a regular, office-standard suit and tie instead of jeans and a t-shirt, mainly because I didn’t want to look too scruffy or stand out in such a luxurious place.
There’s a doorman, who is dressed very formally in an elaborate red uniform, with epaulettes and gold fringes and a shiny black cap. Perhaps he assumes that I’m staying at the hotel and that I’m just looking at my hectic schedule of important meetings, but in any case, he sidles up to me and asks if I need any assistance.
I tell him I’m fine, that I’m not staying here, and that I was just here for a meeting, but thank you. He stays standing next to me. At first, I assume he’s understandably just making sure that I leave the premises without stealing a vase or something, but then he slowly leans in.
“I shouldn't really tell you this, but do you know who stayed here recently?” he says, quietly, in a weirdly conspiratorial way. My non-guest status has apparently and unwittingly unlocked some kind of speculative, working-class camaraderie.
“Who?” I say, thinking that if I was a real journalist, one who actually knew what to do with sensitive information, then this would be very exciting. Still, it’ll be some gossip that I can use for some much-needed social capital later.
“Bruce Springsteen,” he says.
“Oh, wow,” I say. This isn’t as groundbreaking as I’d hoped, to be honest, but it’s an unsolicited tidbit, and I can drop it casually into conversation over the next week or so. “Yeah, it’s apparently where Bruce Sringsteen stays when he’s in town,” I can imagine myself saying to an unimpressed date as I half-wonder if I’m being expected to pay for the whole meal. I smile appreciatively.
The doorman isn’t finished, though. “And do you know what they call him?”
“The B…”
“That’s right, The Bruce.”
“I don't think tha…”
“Yep, The Bruce! That’s what they call him.” I look at the doorman, blankly. “Think about it,” he says, tapping his nose and walking away.
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June, 2002
I wrote a feature for a website promoting ten new boutique hotels in London, and I received a nice email from one of the hotel owners, inviting me for a drink at his hotel, which was one of the featured properties. It’s after the fact, and the piece was already online, so it doesn’t feel like bribery, just a welcome display of thanks. I quickly agreed and we set up a day and time.
He’s been very complimentary about the article over email, even though I didn’t have much creative input into the list. In fact, I was outright told to include certain hotels, but it’s refreshing to get a positive reaction, especially in person. Most feedback, usually the reader comments under an online feature, always obsesses on one detail that’s not even the focus of the piece.
Once, in a very brief, throwaway line in the introduction to a piece on New Orleans, I referred to it as “one of the least American cities in America”. It was just a casual observation, given its long history of Caribbean, European, and African influences. Some comments honed in on this throwaway phrase, people castigating me for being so moronic and saying that there are several much less American cities. They mainly thought this because of what they perceived to be runaway immigration levels. The feature was about restaurants.
Simon is a wealthy young entrepreneur, and is fizzing with enthusiasm and praise when I arrive, straight from the office. He orders us a couple of cocktails, and talks about the article at some length. It’s just a run of the mill round-up and it wasn’t even in a very prestigious publication, but I lap up the attention. “It was so appreciated, Paul,” he says. “You know, I read some of your other pieces and you really are a rare talent.”
A rare talent! I don’t even have very many features published and so this feels like he’s buttering me up for something, but he seems vaguely sincere, and so I take the compliment. We have our drinks and make conversation. He does talk about expensive cars and the acquisition of expensive cars quite a lot, a subject I don’t have any knowledge about. “You never forget your first high-performance sports car, Paul!” he says, laughing and slapping my shoulder. I laugh too, but only out of politeness. I don't even own a low-performance sports car, or a car of any kind. I mainly take the bus.
It’s unclear as to whether he thinks that I have already bought and owned several sports cars, and so I would naturally agree with him, or whether it’s just something that he thinks will happen to me in the future. Maybe one day I’ll be writing and selling so many top ten lists of hotels that I will be able to buy a high-performance sports car, and he’s right, I’m sure to remember it, I think.
Two more cocktails arrive. I excuse myself to use the bathroom. Just as I’m leaving earshot, I hear him talking to the bartender. “These are great, Pete,” he says. I’m positive I then hear him add, “You really are a rare talent.” I ponder this the whole time that I’m in the toilet. Did he just reuse the compliment because it was fresh in his brain? That must be it, I figure.
He’s on his phone when I return, wrapping up a conversation. He finishes his call, and turns to me. “Sorry, Paul, that was just my interior designer. I don’t know what I’d do without her, she’s completely transformed my flat, you know.” I nod, as if talking about the services of interior designers is the most natural thing in the world. A few seconds of silence pass. “She’s such a rare talent,” he says.
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