There is a “right way” to arrive in London for leisure.
GWR first class from the West. A black cab from Paddington, none of this Uber Exec stuff unless absolutely necessary. The tube is functional, good for work and locals, but it serves as a novelty for tourists. I’m in London often enough to know I’m not interested in living it like a local when on a leisure trip. One does not drag tube dust through the lobby of The Savoy (I jest). Pure pleasure, please.
The entrance is a cul-de-sac off the Strand, connected to their own theatre, and the doormen have already clocked you before you’ve clocked them. That’s the first sign you’re in the right place. The attentive eye contact that says right this way without actually saying it. The Savoy gets this right in a way that doesn’t feel performative. There’s no faff. I don’t want someone fanning or fawning over me. I want to feel like I belong, and they make that easy.
The lobby is art deco and enormous and the materials are impeccable. If you know, you know. If you don’t, you will within a few seconds.
We were there for my daughter’s birthday and a theatre outing. River view room overlooking the Thames, the London Eye, Big Ben. We’d paid for an upgrade and the Amex Platinum got us a further one. As a value proposition, that card upgrade alone was worth multiples of the annual fee. That’s a separate article, but I mention it because arriving at The Savoy and being handed something better than you expected sets the tone for everything that follows.
The gentleman who took our bags and showed us the room told us the story of Kaspar. He’s the hotel’s black cat, and arguably its most distinguished permanent guest. In 1898, a wealthy South African diamond merchant named Woolf Joel (not sure how I feel about that one?) hosted a private dinner at The Savoy. One guest cancelled last minute, leaving thirteen at the table. The first to leave that evening was Joel himself, who was shot dead a few weeks later in Johannesburg. The Savoy’s solution, eventually, was to commission Basil Ionides to carve a life-size black cat from a single piece of London plane tree, lacquered black and named Kaspar. Any party of thirteen is joined by Kaspar as the fourteenth guest. Napkin tied around his neck, and served every course. Churchill is said to have dined with him regularly, and his famous champagne drinking at the bar is a key reason why we wanted to go there. I’ve been on something of a Churchill kick recently, I will be doing a solo trip in the not-too-distant future.
You can still see Kaspar in the lobby today. My wife, my daughter and I stood in the entryway of the room listening to this story like it was the most natural thing in the world. That’s The Savoy.Breakfast at The Gallery was tremendous. It’s the kind of morning meal that recalibrates your expectations for the rest of the day. Dinner at Gordon Ramsay’s Riverfront delivered everything it promised. The Thames right there, the food doing more than its bit with confidence, no theatre required.But the moment that stays with me is room service.
Late. After a night out at the theatre. I ordered a late room service for us all. A Spanish waiter arrives. Handsome, composed, a leading man in his own right, and he proceeds to explain the burger and the pizza with the kind of knowledge and polish that most sommeliers don’t manage with wine. He talked to us about the weather in London. He was warm in the way that can’t be trained. And he was incredibly kind to my daughter. On her birthday. Without being asked, without theatre, without making a moment of it. He knew it was her birthday, because they’re good like that. That’s it. That’s the whole review right there.
You can spend more than The Savoy elsewhere. I’ve been in more expensive hotels. Above this level you’re paying for diminishing returns… a bit more marble perhaps? More silence, more performance. The Savoy’s genius is that the patrons are stealthily doing interesting things like being on television and the staff are quietly doing interesting things too. Somehow the whole place hums at the same frequency.
The Manhattan(s). The Penhaligon’s amenities. The turndown service. The random birthday chocolates for the turndown service. The orderly cab circle. Every member of staff, from the famous doorman to the man who delivered our room service at midnight and made my daughter feel like the most important guest in the building. She was after all.
It doesn’t get better than this. My daughter still sleeps with her Kaspar plush and a good friend of mine let me know that decades ago she got one too. She still has hers and “it’s a core memory” of hers, forever.
The other side of London, all vinyl and swagger: Virgin Hotels Shoreditch (VG, almost Masterclass).
M for Masterclass.
