I am very fond of the Connaught Hotel in Mayfair, because I once saw Mr and Mrs Bibi Netanyahu breakfasting there, and they had a moody teenage son who skulked, and Bibi was powerless over the skulking. It is not brown like the Savoy and, unlike the Dorchester, it has never mistaken me for a prostitute. This is one of the drawbacks of being a restaurant critic. You are constantly mistaken for a prostitute, although I suppose it is better than being a gossip columnist, where you are sometimes mistaken for a fan. Bill Clinton thought I was a fan, probably because I dropped my notebook and bent down to pick it up.
And so to Hélène Darroze at the Connaught, to celebrate my impending marriage, and to admire the Christmas tree. I may not care for the theology, but I adore the tree. It is Christmas, beloved readers, and you need a proper restaurant to drool on, not the Hamas Chicken Shack, which my friend Patrick wants me to review.
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