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This World that We Seek at Hartwell House

Tuesday, December 13th, 2011

In the restaurant, we sat, just staring. Sometimes at each other, sometimes out over the plains of the forest and then out further across the twilight hours, carried as they are on the wings of a thousand swans, sometimes white, often black with all the poetry of nightfall. Their wings glide, high above Hartwell House and swoop along the rushes and further along towards Blenheim Palace and Woburn Abbey along the way.

It is here, just an hour from London, that deer dance across ravines now frosted over by the drip of mid-winter, tripping as they do across the Vale of Aylesbury. It is here that a lake shudders in lonely thought, impressed as it is by the silhouette of this 17-th century stately mansion – the very metaphor of ‘pensive reflection’ – in-awed by its strange inhabitants, by their laughter, their pensive smiles, amused too by their fond appreciation for its Jacobean furniture, its eerie figurines – each with their own unique countenance, becoming graver, darker, lighter, then stronger in bearing and power, then sensitive to your own sense of amazement as they climb up the sweeping staircase to 33 suites covered in fine fabric and a selection of shortbreads and ‘luxury fruit’.

I couldn’t figure out if my sighs in the almost forgotten candlelight were for the one, or for the other. My eyes rested on the one, the one I repeatedly called ‘buttercup’ (keeping a straight face all the while, and this just to try and make her laugh, for her smile had started so thinly, and was now growing steadily). My fork was heavy with a poached fillet of brill with lemon grass, and her lips were pressed against Ruinart Brut Rose, and they turned to find themselves reflected in the purple glass that divided the moon beam and shattered it on ten pale, motionless fingers (and one sapphire ring). I noticed that mine own eyes were both dilated, and shone with a similar intensity to that moon which found a place in her own.

Dear reader (for you are dear to me if you are reading this), you will ask me if such is the poise of romance that the world inside must find its immediate reflection in the world outside, that the sigh must escape from the heart into the ether and not in the other direction. And I will agree, and passionately at that. For what is this forest and these grand public rooms, the high ceilings and yellow cupolas and the fine paintings and the exquisite plasterworks (even if carved from a golden blade), and the beauty of this bookish garden, that infamous porch and its dark blue grass where a fountain and a poet that looks like you sit for one moment in time….what is it, and how can it be appreciated unless its sigh goes from the inside out, from one pair of eyes to another, from one lip to another, now acquiescing and saying ‘Yes. But look, there’s another one…another deer…another rabbit…another moon!’

My ponderings, so far, and so often, describe hats, and coats, the perfection of a stuffed saddle of rabbit (yes, and here it is brought over by one so elegant and softly spoken as to seem almost part of the country tweed that covers my shoulder), or the soft and supple notes of another glass of rosé that she had with the specialité de la maison – chicken breast with perfectly creamed potatoes – and the home made fudge or the pyramid of blackcurrant parfait with puddle of summer berry compote – so deliciously prepared, so thankfully devoured.

But I think of you as you read this, and I realise that such detail, though necessary, though in ‘the manner of things, and important for that reason’, are only details, and not the reason why you would choose to come here at all.

For I, in this twilight hour that I hold the pen, and remembering the air of wealth in that library with the great fire where we played chess for hours until finally she won (my boast has its purpose here too), and those fluffy white bathrobes, and that waistcoated man with the wide ancient smile that carried my bags out and into the waiting cab, and her smile as he hugged her goodbye, am left with a feeling of… Yes!

For it is the beauty of such a place in old Albion, with its lakes and swans and winding shadows so stoically wrought, that it holds the remnants of a thought that itself reminds us that such beauty cannot be around us if it does not exist with even greater potency within the very fibre of our beings.

www.hartwellhouse.com

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An Autumn Enchantment at Broadway House

Tuesday, November 22nd, 2011

It was sometime in early October that I sat down to dinner at Brasa in Fulham. I took the window seat, and she sat down very demurely and ordered a glass of Syrah Rose. I had the same, but it didn’t matter what I was drinking. Outside, the autumn light made the streets burn red and gold, and I half listened to her relate a date she had once been on. ‘One quite like this’ she said, ‘but the outcome was much more predictable. He wore a hat not dissimilar to your own, but his smile was softer, brighter, and his eyes made signs that he actually cared for my storytelling.’ She giggled, and paused over her starter of grilled baby squid, capers and shallots. I stuck my fork into the potted rabbit terrine, and called the waiter over, ordering another bottle of something, plucking at my cap, rubbing my chin, distracting myself by making small, sad shapes in the sourdough.

I realised then that words were needed, so I tried some pleasantries… ‘your necklace, is it…I mean, I have seen one quite like it…oh, it’s a real diamond?’ and then, with the gulp still in my throat, and my eyes turned to the little boy and his mam on the corner outside…‘they will be opening a new members club here.  Do you watch Made in Chelsea? No? Oh, well they will be attending the launch party.’  I then hungrily did away with the 14 Oz Galloway Sirloin (“one of the best I have ever tasted” I said to myself right then), swallowing a large glass of Montepulciano d’Abbruzo as I did.

That night was one of those nights which end without much more being said or done or won.  ‘Probably because the food and service did all the winning for me’ I reasoned later on, lying in my bed with a ridiculous smile pasted across a very confused face, remembering how she devoured the triple chocolate brownie and vanilla ice cream while I did my best Bruno Mars impression. ‘Nobody’s gonna tell me I can’t’ I had said apologetically, finding her smile too desirable to really make sense of my failed attempt to force feed her a spoon of white chocolate mousse, ginger crumble and strawberry coulis.

Now, nights come and go, and autumn winds turn colder, and a man keeps up his swagger by buying a tailored three-piece tweed suit, a new ‘long hat’, and for more informal occasions, tries the almost-unsightly almost-revolutionary prescription of crossing a waistcoat with a Lacoste polo shirt. Such was my attire when I stumbled up the stairs to the newly designed Broadway House Members Club just a month later.

My lips were curled up menacingly, for I knew she would be there again, probably standing in a red dress at the rooftop bar, sipping on a house fusion of chilli vodka, pink grapefruit tequila and lemongrass & ginger rum. The dress was purple, distinctly rich-looking and two emeralds glimmered on two perfect ears. She was framed by the West London skyline, draped in a cool mist that lingered about her bare shoulders. I was aware that this was going to be difficult, for there were three others marked on her horizon, with slicked back hair (the fineness of which reminded of a rare black stallion), polished shoes, and cigarette lighters that seemed to be set in pure gold. I didn’t notice the barbecue, the trays of champagne and the smell of apple wood chips diffused with Chanel No. 19 perfume. All I saw was the cherry in her mouth, the outrageous smoothness of her being.

Now please, indulge me a moment. The setting was spectacular – rarely have I been to a member’s club with a rooftop and waiters on hand to mix a homemade orange cocktail infused with Jack Daniels, marmalade and old-fashioned Victorian lemonade. Nor have I seen so many cool cats drift so far away from Shoreditch, each with their own peculiar brand of necktie. Nor has the feeling of complete and utter ‘love’ followed in one person’s wake, she, half-floating towards a gentleman lying nonchalantly on a black bean bag, his obvious prowess a razor to my heart. She held eye contact with him all the while, smiling, passing him a drink, before turning, her eyes opening wide, her lips pursing with amusement. ‘How long are you going to stand their staring at me? And what on earth are you wearing! You look utterly daft. Come here you mad boy!’

Later that evening, it was just me and her and the moon, with a couple of Nordic looking chaps in close proximity that didn’t appreciate my very particular method of grooming.  ‘Are they going to be here all night?’ I ask casually, ‘I mean, it’s obvious that you can’t resist me. Even I can tell you that.’ ‘Well, you’ve definitely improved since last time’, she murmurs, sipping some Vina Pena ever so elegantly. ‘You can even put a sentence together this time. Really massive fail last time.’ ‘I know. I shouldn’t have worn that hat.’ I return, smirking bashfully. There is silence, and I offer to find her another drink.  ‘No, I’ll get you one.’ She giggles, and sides away, her profile making me fall down onto the black bean bag. ‘You must be outta your mind my lady.’ I say softly, obscurely, almost tearfully as she goes down to the cocktail bar.

Broadway House Members enjoy the use of wi-fi, a licence open until 1am, priority dinner and party bookings at Brasa, access to Eight Members Clubs in Moorgate & Bank, and perks including hotel deals, members’ wine tastings and cocktails master class evenings.

Brasa London
474—476 Fulham Road
London SW6 1BY
Phone: 0207 610 3137

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A Boat Trip into Paradise – Part One

Thursday, September 1st, 2011

Interlude

The defining motto of this journey, I decided, would be ‘Eat well, Sleep Well, Drink Rum.’ It didn’t have to be rum, of course, but it sounded good, and that’s all I was really searching for in a defining motto.

I got off to a bad start. On arrival in Mali’s very 70’s airport café/boat lounge – at that moment but a hazy apparition of very happy folk bedecked with confusing sartorial embellishments – I realised that my own luggage, which itself held a collection of hats and a tiny guitar, was still at Columbo’s International Airport.

Coming out of a trance, I now saw myself quite clearly in the café mirror. The outfit I was wearing was not fit for five days in Paradise, hobnobbing with what seemed like high society at two very five star hotels.

I ordered a glass of cheap red wine. Ill fortune is best offset with a sickly glass of wine, together with the faintly optimistic odour of suncream, daiquiri cocktails and the ‘ Pirates’ theme tune ringing in your ears. I soon wore an outlandish smile, quite at odds with my vampire-pale complexion and a hat I bought off a strange gentleman selling roses.

‘They’ll bring it on the next flight, probably tomorrow morning. And besides, I don’t really need to quaff my hair. Or shave. And I really only need one hat.’ I said to anyone that would listen, before jumping aboard a cruise missile-type speedboat for Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort & Spa.

Now, this is a ride, a real, memorable one that you need to take the kids on. Even the steam fair of my youth that got closed down for insufficient safety measures didn’t have a ride like this one. Every five seconds I flew a few feet in the air, got a plume of spray in my face, a leg in the back and a jolly hand on the shoulder by one of a giggling trio of Chinese businessman (they also wore hats). ‘We like Maldives’ they screamed, and I wiped my Lemtosh shades with a euphoric, nauseous feeling that made me smile even wider.

‘Your hat. Where did you get it?’ The captain lisped in perfect English. He looked like a cross between a young Keith Richards and Mohamed Nasheed – the Maldivian president.

‘I found it in my attic. It’s vintage.’ I lied, too tired to explain. ‘Probably my grandfathers.’

‘Your grandfather?’

‘Yes. He liked hats.’

He eyed my clothes carefully. ‘Your suitcase will come soon. Don’t worry.’

Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort & Spa

The boat slowed and a sea of shining faces greeted us from Sheraton’s Furanafushi Island, just one gem in a trove of 1200 islands that, together with their surrounding lagoons, impress the mind and soul of man with the most sublime juxtaposition of form and colour this side of eternity. Slither of bright white moon and dark tropical plant against water the colour of pure green Versace dress, the water turning from amethyst to emerald to sublime tints of jade and sapphire.

I leant over as Captain Jack hit the brakes and I jumped off, scooped up a little, and got overly emotional as they fixed me a welcome cocktail that had rum in it. They then told me how much they liked my hat, and made me believe that my person, in the superficial sense, at least, was quite welcome at the resort.

This is where I met Milja, a sprightly, intelligent Scandinavian girl with a persuasive accent that reverberated in a joyful major key, picked up, it turned out, after circumnavigating the seven seas in her own good time. My five senses battling with each other to distill these vital first impressions for my audience back home, I only picked up threads of the conversation I was supposed to be having. ‘Yes, we have the best of both worlds here…The scuba diving is great…some of the best marine wildlife…dolphins? Yes, there is a cruise tomorrow afternoon…go to the Spa later for an hour long massage if…yes, amazing…no, I don’t recommend it. The surf is for advanced boarders…now promise, you’ll sleep then meet me at the Coconut Grove for lunch…’

She was very sweet, and informative, and steady like all Scandinavian’s are, and helped me into a green buggy with a couple of Latin American footballers. ‘You from England, man?’ Someone said behind me. ‘Yes. I know, I should have taken my boots off.’ I replied nonsensically, before Milja said ‘Take him to Ocean Villa. It’s the best on the island.’ She winked at me cryptically, then added; ‘Believe me. It’s to die for.’

Now, all I saw at first was a hammock. I slipped off my tattered boots, my wine-stained Savile row trousers and quickly fell into a coma as the water crashed against the rocks just inches away. I heard music playing in gasps of warm salty air – Beethoven and Wagner and then laughing from a fishing schooner on the surf. My eyes opened. I grinned, like a pirate, stretched my arm out, lifted a warm bottle of something expensive I had taken from the mini bar earlier. ‘Bring me that horizon’ I said, popping it open with a burst of laughter.

Inside, with Beethoven for company, I wondered at myself in the mirror before slipping into a bath of warm oils and creams and lotions. Basically, I threw the whole lot in, as is my wont, and gave the interior design five stars after a strong thirty minute inner dialogue that brought every detail into focus – the LA style lighting fixtures, the shabby-chic sofas and rattan armchairs, the play of white, green and tan furnished mahogany panelling and a bathroom probably designed for a beautiful mermaid that lives here in off-season. You feel important in that bathroom, drinking cold beer and reading some inane biography that makes you want to take up oil painting again.

That’s when I jumped into the swell. Now, I had been warned. I knew the risks. But I had gotten hold of the scuba gear, and instead of heading out over the quiet water like most, I decided that there was better fishing up on the rougher East Side of the island. I had a couple girls take pictures of me as I waded out to look for Stingray, Sweetlips, Snappers and Bat Fish. ‘I might even see a shark’ I told them, but they didn’t understand what I was saying and just looked horrified as I dove into a five foot wave. After an hour of thrashing around aimlessly, narrowly missing the schooner, I came up for air, my snorkelling crown stuffed up my nose. I went back in, counted 20 species of day-glo oddities, then threw myself onto dry land, chilled with wonder at the mystery of the ocean. A girl was bathing outside her water bungalow (these are for the true Romantics – with a private sun terrace right up on the lagoon), pouting at the sun with just a hat dipped low over two raven-black eyes, smouldering quietly as they do in a Peroni commercial. She rolled over and shook her finger, and I just stood there, staring, trying to remember what I had just been so excited about.

The next day, at exactly 6pm, after a delightful al fresco lunch of grilled prawn, haloumi and watermelon salad on the beach, the sun was a tiny red disc in a smoky blue sky. I stood on the upper deck of a small tender and hummed along to Keith Richards haunting rendition of ‘The Nearness of You’.

We were headed due South, looking for dolphins. The Jolly Roger wasn’t flying that day, and the Captain stood up front, staring with dreamy eyes towards the horizon, his eyes blinking quietly, waiting for his sweethearts to arrive. ‘They may not come.’ He whispered dramatically. The loved-up Chinese and Dutch on the boat around me let out a faint cry. ‘But I’ll try and find them. For you, just for you, I’ll bring them in.’

As if hearkening to that aloof gaze, or to the melancholic breath that escaped my now crooked smile, a moment later the angels flew before us, carving silver rainbows above the prow. I took off my fedora by way of salute. I had even grown a small goatee, and my pendant swung back and forth across my coppered chest in the 2ft sway. ‘Marvellous, intelligent creatures’ said I, and a girl with ringlets and little Chinese shoes tugged my arm and smiled at me for a moment.

The same night I told Milja as much. We sat down to dine at Seasalt Restaurant– a pantheon of torches and enchanted tropical faces inside a circular wall of coconut trees. They were playing Chopin’s Etude, and the chef was there, decrypting the laws of gastrodynamics. He had a fragrant smirk on his face, one, I imagined, that might only come with creating edible art for folks that really, truly, sincerely appreciate it. He liked me, I could tell, and so spent more than enough time pointing out the necessity of each dish on the a la carte and the flavours that go to make it so unique on the islands. The fish was fresh from the boat and the giant lobster and other delicacies had people murmuring the poetry of love, their hearts softening in that diffused glow, their life stretching out so long and beautiful beyond the tropical flowers, red and yellow and white, beyond the still warm sand and the cool lilac sheen where the moon had found its perfect reflection.

I commended the food heartily, spearing the fish with gusto ‘Milja, I don’t quite know what to say.’ My eyes were full of emotion, and so were hers. ‘I have never tasted such fish, so soft and tender and with that after-taste our friend was talking about.’

‘The caramelized hazelnuts are good aren’t they?’

‘Yes. Each dish is full of sympathetic flavour and texture. Nothing goes missing – the prawns are just rapturous’

‘How is the wine.’

‘Obsessively brilliant – and not too heavy with the sauce. And have you tried this cake! – I think I may just have to give the chef my compliments – by which I mean one from my collection of hats. A strange gentleman I met gave it to me – but on deep reflection, I think it would suit him far more.’

For a virtual tour of Sheraton Maldives Full Moon Resort & Spa, please click here.

For special offers, click here.

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McQueen Visits Shoreditch

Friday, August 19th, 2011

He had a scruffy beard, long hair and liked to kick in the wheels of pick-up trucks that wouldn’t work. He lived on his own terms, known by a select few to whom he bared his soul. Many of his fellow artistes had that vagrant romantic quality, but none spent this quality in quite so distinctive a fashion as Steve McQueen.

He lived in an aircraft hanger. He wore a pair of Persol sunglasses, made some relatively good movies (The Cincinnati Kid is a good movie), and is remembered for such novelties as riding motorcycles and finding the perfect pose to any given moment.

With all this in mind, what do you think a restuaurant/bar/club should look, feel, sound and taste like that serves as an ode to his name? Dezzi McCausland of the Kingly Club, Soho brooded for a while, and then, gazing long and hard at the mean streets of Shoreditch, lit upon what many considerable punters deem the perfect expression.

I went looking for the sign outside Tabernacle Street near Old Street station, the one that reads ‘If you go past this point you better have a damn good reason’. That was his catchphrase. Every superhero needs one. Every superhero also needs a theme tune, and in the cocktail lounge area that I think was designed by the guy behind Johnny Depp’s Viper Room, they like to think its funky house with a bit of Bob Marley thrown in.

My date thought McQueen was Paul Newman, and wasn’t too bothered by his shirtless apparition on the screen behind us. We sat down and I fell in Love with a Proper Stranger. The home-made raspberry syrup in it is good, and the Woodford Reserve bourbon gives you a proper kick in the teeth. They should have had some rocking chairs in there. But other than that, Papillon would approve.

I was here to eat. “You see, what I want to do, I’m gonna do.” Another sentiment of his thrown around the bar by boys drinking martinis at happy hour, a little confused by what a couple girls further along wanted from them. Nothing as it turned out, but that’s just part of McQueen’s aura – you take it on, whether it works for you or not.

Steve McQueen was a bad boy that liked to collect cast iron toys. But he was also soft inside, a little sophisticated, a little vulnerable, aloof, and yet constantly in need of reassurance. He wanted to be nondescript, and yet hated the everyday snub. All in all, he was a lot like fans of gourmet dining. A lot like us.

The interior decorators thought as much, and plastered the walls with McQueen’s face. They recreated his soul from brown leather chesterfields, and padded it with Honduran mahogany and swirls of leather; Orient Express by way of a McQueen frat house. They hesitated to serve us, and we got anxious, biting our lips, checking our bb’s, wondering how much his Persol’s would have gone for at auction, or if he really was that cool, as cool as either you or I, and what it is that makes someone really cool, and admired predominantly for that quality.

The chef was cool. A sensitive soul, he came out afterwards to see what I really thought. She looked at him and said ‘your lobster was so good. So good.’ and really meant it, and he pressed my shoulder happily. Cool is sincere, and diffident, and self-assured, and remarkable in that it doesn’t need words to convey its intent. The menu is cool. American almost-there-gourmet grill, with creole spiced grilled prawns and parmesan mash and compassionate cuts of Sirloin that I worked on with a glass of red, all cedar and cigarbox and red berries from Bordeaux.

She lined her lips with orange gloss, took my hand. “I like this place”, she said. “Quite cool.” And if she said it, then it’s got to be. I put on my Lemtosh glasses, put on my hat, my three quarter length coat and gazed back at the emotion swelling behind her eyes. It’s warm, and shiny, and not a little bit affectionate.

‘Let’s get another drink.’ I said, ‘It’s actually pretty cool in here.’

www.mcqueen-shoreditch.co.uk/

McQueen,
5-61 Tabernacle Street,
Shoreditch, London EC2A 4AA

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A Pudding With Puccini

Wednesday, July 20th, 2011

The London Sketch Club in Chelsea.

We went there last month. It was really for the pudding that I went, though they also told me Puccini would be there. I imagined he would be a little world weary, given he was brought into this world 150 years ago. But they told me he wasn’t weary at all, and that he wasn’t adverse to the Smoked Paprika Risotto that we would all be sharing under the spotlights, courtesy of Damian Clarkson and The London Kitchen (heroes of the enigmatic four-course private party).

So I walked in, and looked for him – the ashen-faced vampire-genius, his Italian spark still kindled in eyes of inordinate dramatic power. Instead, I met a chap in a tweed jacket matched with red and yellow socks, and he quickly showed me to my seat, for fear, most incredulously, that I would speak for too long with foodie maestro Roy Ackerman (CBE), Chairman of the world master of culinary arts and one of the most gentle spirits I have ever met in person. I told him so, and added (in my own head) that his humility could be seen in the smooth gesturing-in of one lovely lady that reminded of Michelle Pfeiffer in an impassioned period drama.

Next to me at the table (there were ten of them, dotted around), a girl of an incredibly artistic beauty and silken locks, as if she had just alighted from the small operatic stage up front. The first floor club/painting/dining room is also small, and there are enchanting studio windows, and elegant silhouettes on the walls, and then there are strange musical notes drifting between the tables as the chatter falls away from the proverbial musings of the Kings Road into a twilight of obscure sciences. At this point the light food and heavy wine is slipped almost transparently between your noses as Puccini’s arrival at the Sketch Club in 1905 becomes the reason to indulge in a long, absent-minded analysis of the beauty of Tosca, and Turandot – which you saw in Florence the year before last – all the while keeping your eyes fixed on another pair of eyes that speak of unspeakable appreciation.

I was told shortly afterwards that Puccini wasn’t going to make an appearance that night (the maestro is in Rome, Michelle informed me later, seen driving a very fast car with as much care for bleak classical chords as I have for the charms of resident member Arthur Conan Doyle, who along with Charlie Chaplin and GK Chesterton, is still known to pass by the club on his way to the sweet shop on Baker Street).

Now guess how much you have to pay for all this? I mean, for all the food, and wine, and bon humour, and pudding with a soprano and tenor redefining love in a tremor of Bimba, Bimba, non piangere – loosely translated as ‘sweetheart, sweetheart, do not weep’, the famous love duet which ends with the butterfly pleading for her love to Vogliatemi bene, loosely mimed by pinning two arms to a table (the butterfly wings) and screaming ‘I have caught you. You are mine’.

Well, it’s all yours for the cost of a truffle-buttered chicken liver parfait, paired with a bottle of Pinot Grigio Rosato Ca’Lunghetta, finished off with a white chocolate tart with raspberry syrup (£100 at most fancy establishments).

Now the pair of eyes with unspeakable appreciation were becoming more and more enthused. And I divulged my knowledge of Puccini and my own recent exploits in Rome, and told of how her butterfly earrings were made to look bland in the company of her naturally ephemeral aura. For you see my friend, such a dinner party (or any such surprise gathering of peoples, elliptically fashioned with subtle movements towards the grandiose) inspires the Giacomo Casanova in one, the poet and his muse standing well outside of the confines of time.

And so, when the lamplight and garden whispers and the real-life portraits around you dissolve, and you are left enfolding the once careless glance, the oft-implacable fluttering of the eyes, the obscure musical cadence of her laughter, and dance in step to Puccini’s final act, you will catch a reflection of yourself in the studio windows where the leaves roam freely, and you will see a picture of the artist as a young man.

And you will smile, and remind yourself that you are indeed an artist, and a quite marvellous one at that.

(Future seasons open to both members and non-members include: * Summer 2011: The English Season – ‘Trifle, Custard and Coward’ * Autumn 2011: The French Season – ‘Pudding with Piaf’.)

Private Dining Rooms offer the opportunity to book The London Sketch Club for private parties – ranging from canapés to full scale dinners.

The London Sketch Club
7 Dilke Street
London
SW3 4JE

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Blueprint for Corporate Love

Wednesday, July 13th, 2011

You may be the MD of a company that pretty much rewrote the way we think about modernist design.

You often wear a belted cashmere cardigan (probably Louis Vuitton) and a black polo neck (you have three by Marc Jacobs). You only ever wear Van Cleef & Arpels Cologne and many people comment on the beautiful coming together of this most ravishing scent and the all pervading mist of stale cigarette smoke that lingers about you. Whenever you deign to call someone into your office, they can’t help but remind you how splendid you are, and yet, still, how much more splendid you could be if your pearly blues just looked a little further into the distance – past the accolades on your desk, the whiskey, the scrolls of genius, the miniature model of a Mercedes Benz 190SL (the very blueprint of your existence) – and noted, even desultorily, how much great work they’ve been doing the past year.

But you remember last years, ‘team bonding session’. It was messy, and failed to achieve any of the said objectives outlined in the pretentious, even offensive mandate your young Squire Anthony drew up on a whim. That weekend, aforesaid Anthony almost drowned in the Thames, and after your own drunken shenanigans on the ‘dream yacht’, your Director of Sales can never quite look you dead in the eye anymore.

But you could do with some fine country port, and the splendour of changing winds as you cruised the Pacific coast in the Mercedes one long summer way back when gives you a rather grand idea.
Soon, you’re taking them all on an adrenaline-charged escape to postcard-perfect English countryside. The Thames will again mark the boundaries of your horizon, except this time the theatrics will start and end at Cliveden Mansion in Taplow. Infamous playground of American and Russian socialites in the 60’s, this opulent den of fine art and finer food is too respectable a haunt to allow for any of last year’s unabashed tomfoolery (even if you’re on your fifth glass and your new recruit – the one that likes older guys – happens to be wearing that ridiculous outfit you’ve recently warned her about).

But let us get to the point. That morning, 6 supercars will be awaiting you in front of the Romanesque pillars out front. One will be Ferrari (either the F430 or the California), one will be the Aston Martin DBS, and the other four will be handpicked to create the most beautiful on-road symphony known to man. A Bentley GTC, the arrow-like Porsche 911 Turbo, and perhaps, if you’re a major key kinda guy, the Lamborghini Gallardo (that one you see in Knightsbridge of a weekend, purring at 30 on a constant loop around Harrods that strangely has no effect on the women outside Cafe Rouge).

The almost-too-beautiful new-age beasts are there, together with the boys from dreamcarhire – aficionados of British, Italian and German engineering, and masters of the corporate everyone-gets-to-really-know-and-love-each other experience.

For the next few hours, you are going to have one hell of a ride, and your Director of Sales will be in the seat next to you, circumnavigating your now popular, slick gear-shifting ass around a spray of lakes and jackdaws and jaw-dropping sunsets in the rear view of a car you can both very quickly get used to.

Then, in the evening, you take off your aviators, slip off the cashmere and Ralph Lauren military jacket, and are treated to a gourmet dinner with the whole works in the pudding and in the service and on the walls. Later (much later), you play a game of poker with Neela (you finally learnt her name) and the boys and take her away for a sneaky smoke on the balcony with the stars lapping up gently against a silhouette of trees that sway in the South-Westerly breeze, heady with the scents of fleurs de parterre (Cliveden is infamous for romantic, highly inappropriate trysts, in case you’re wondering where this is going).

Now, let’s bring this to a close. That’s how you sir, will play it out. I’ve done it all before. Last month, it was me and a few other writer-types, all pretending to be corporate and szhmoozy for a day, just so you could read this, reflect a little, and then, encouraged at the excellence, elegance, and preposterous sensibility of what was written, make the fateful call.

Later this week, I’ll tell you all about the hotel itself. For now, just start rounding up the numbers.

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