If London was a flat, the surrounding areas would be bedrooms, The City and the East End would be the kitchen, Soho would be the toilet where people come to shag and snort cocaine off faux marble counters, and anything west of Picadilly would be the parlour. The Gore hotel is swept under a chair in a sunny part of the parlour, close to the balcony of Hyde Park.
Anabelle and I opted to take our tea in the bistro as opposed to the bar. The establishment exuded the familiar Victorian comfort often encountered in London without feeling overly fusty. Giant gilded-frame mirrors offered near infinite reflections of the room and its vintage chandeliers and 19th century prints.
We were a bit taken aback to find ourselves ushered to a nearly empty restaurant. Save for a jovial birthday celebration we were the only guests there. I like when a restaurant is busy, when the waiters are gliding from table to table in their quiet efficiency. Servants become waiters, their dreaded destiny becomes a job. It's something my lower middle class origin can process and justify. The service was very good, although the maitre'd (cum servant in my twisted perception) looked a bit flummoxed when we asked for Champagne. The waiter was very attentive to timing, making sure we were ready for the food after having our Champagne and doing his best to make us not feel rushed.
