Essential Snobbery 101: Ritzy on Piccadilly

A London Weekend

A fascinating London weekend it was, in which most of what was intended was achieved, including the benefit that being over the age of sixty offers; a third off transport fares, if you remember to show up with the bona fides for your age.

On the Piccadilly line of the London Underground, the glimpse I caught of buttons on the back of a jacket suggested an untucked, ruffian look from the front; with a tie rather than a bow tie or cravat, it was a tailcoat of undecided pretensions to putting on the Ritz.

The Ritz and Recognition

Indeed, I did alight at Green Park and exited onto Piccadilly on the side of The Ritz London, one of the swankiest hotels in the city, opened by César Ritz in May 1906.

I could never walk down Piccadilly without being acknowledged, and I was quite dressed down, standing out simply because I wore a straw hat, carried a walking cane, and had a jacket finished with an elaborate pocket square collage.

The doormen at the Ritz doffed their top hats and even muttered a greeting, which I returned.

Heading to Fortnum's

I was on my way to Fortnum & Mason, a walk that takes you past The Wolseley Piccadilly, the Caviar House, Burlington Arcade across the street beside Burlington House, the home of the learned Royal Societies too.

Fortnum's is always busy, yet a very different busy from Harrods in Knightsbridge, which I only ever entered once at someone's behest; the less said of the garish, gaudy place, the better.

Inside Fortnum's

In existence since 1707, this shop is famous for its teas and other exquisite foods. It has been picketed many times for selling foie gras, the making of which does not greatly concern me, as the taste is as different from pâté as fish roe is from beluga caviar.

I have a predilection for Earl Grey tea, and they have many blends, of which Smoky Earl Grey wins every time. It is best to have the loose tea dispensed at a counter by weight rather than buying packaged tea bags or the ready tins, which can be more than 33% dearer.

Along with some Lapsang Souchong aromatic tea and Strawberry with Fortnum's Champagne Preserve, which takes the edge off the sweetness of the jam, that was my first visit in about seven years.

Leaving Piccadilly

As I left for the station, the doorman at the Wolseley offered a greeting; not the one who always took time to compliment my dressing, but they do see enough to know the difference between being dapper and just snooty.

He had a bowler hat on, and I had to ask where he got it, as mine, bought from a gentleman's outfitters in Ipswich some thirty years ago, was looking the worse for wear.

He recommended a milliner near Liverpool Street, but that might require another visit to London.

There is a quiet, unbothered sophistication about Piccadilly; the London tour buses gather at the entrance to Green Park just as a patron of The Wolseley urges his dog to take a pee. The carefree appearance demands a dress code enforced on the serving, whilst remaining non-existent for the served.

Putting on the Ritz

A short note on the places that punctuated this walk: The Ritz London, opened in 1906, was the realisation of César Ritz, the Swiss hotelier whose name became shorthand for refined luxury. Fortnum & Mason, founded in 1707 by William Fortnum, a footman in Queen Anne's household, and Hugh Mason, his landlord, has supplied the British establishment with provisions for over three centuries.

The Wolseley, by comparison, is a relative newcomer; a former car showroom turned grand European café, it opened in 2003 and has since become a Piccadilly fixture in its own right. Burlington Arcade, opened in 1819, remains the original covered shopping promenade, still patrolled by its top-hatted Beadles. The Royal Societies along Piccadilly include the Royal Academy of Arts at Burlington House, where the learned and the artistic have gathered since the eighteenth century.

It is no accident that the Ritz lent its name to a song. When Irving Berlin wrote Puttin' on the Ritz in 1929, he was reaching across the Atlantic for the very idea César Ritz had built into a brand. The original lyric pictured "Park Avenue", with its "high hats and Arrow collars, white spats and lots of dollars", as the place to dress to impress.

The 1946 revision moved the scene to "up on Lenox Avenue", but the spirit remained the same; to put on the Ritz was to wear your best and walk as though the pavement belonged to you. 

Piccadilly, in its quieter, more unbothered way, has always done the same. Park Avenue performs its wealth; Piccadilly assumes it. The doormen still doff their top hats, the bowler hats still need replacing, and the tailcoats of undecided pretensions still ride the Underground, hoping nobody notices the buttons on the back.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

A red hat in Paris

My heart in Paris

Paris, a city I know like the back of my hand and have not had the opportunity to visit since November 2018. Now, I do transit through Charles de Gaulle Airport, but that is another story. The truth is I miss Paris, the café culture, and my seat on the first floor of Café Beaubourg watching onto the front of the Georges Pompidou Centre, that I have never visited, as the world goes by.

That view I have cherished for 21 years, a place of memories and much else, for some friends have departed or fallen apart, and this apart from those from whom one receives no alerts of conversation or communication anymore.

A walk of life

Stepping out of Café Beaubourg after brunch, I bear left onto Rue Saint-Merri, cross Rue Saint-Martin which as certain times host venues of excitable pleasures with strangers and then I am at a milliner’s where every colour of hat exists to challenge your daring. That is where I eventually decided, the day after on a red pork-pie hat.

I put the hat I was wearing in the bag and stepped out with this callout of brilliance that elicited commentary every few steps I took, I was looking good and feeling just as good too. Then on to Boulevard de Sebastopol past Place du Chatelet, down the ramp to the north side of the Seine and a walk westwards towards Pont Neuf where I found a seat to observe the river traffic, take in the winter sun and some photographs too.

You can’t have not

One of such photographs became the source of a compliment, my outfit with the red hat according to him, he loved, and I looked really cool. I acknowledged and asked if he was doing well too. He was preparing for the day and out of interest asked where the picture was taken which gave life to my knowledge of Paris.

To my concealed shock, he had never visited Paris nor been around Europe though he planned to do a bit of travel before he was 50. Now, I can understand people planning for adventures and exploration at a later point in life, taking it as a given. For instance, he had another 12 years to fulfil those desires, if we are sure of things, times, and terms.

The time for travel is now

I have learnt, the only time we have is the moment called now, the past is gone, the future uncertain, so we are left asking the question, what are we doing with the now? It is where I suddenly get philosophical because it is necessary to have things in perspective.

Any time you get to do travel, do it, do not wait for a time you might think is convenient. I am 55 and thankfully 12 years after cancer which at prognosis only gave me 5 weeks to live if my physiology could not tolerate the treatment. Before that illness, I thought myself inviolable and invincible.

Banish the spectre of regret

Whilst not trying to sound morbid, the time we have for anything is now and what we must not waste the now on is to set ourselves up for a future of regrets at what we could have done. It is the same thinking I had at the end of 2018 when at one point I was undecided about going on holiday to South Africa until I caught myself thinking, if I did not travel, I might well regret it.

I did travel and I met Brian with whom I hope someday to visit Paris and see the sights that have enthralled me. Too many people have options and opportunities before them, but they, out of the embarrassment of choices and an inkling of self-worth set themselves on for the prospects and possibilities ignoring what is at hand. I hope they can reset their course before no option is available, those opportunities are lost and the possibilities they dared to dream of shatter into shards of regret.

No prophet would come into your indecision, but you will hear some voices and some advice as good as prophecy, now for the discernment to make that move and make it count.

Paris by the Seine - February 2017

He walks the earth in our shoes

Late for an appointment

I was in hospital again today for an appointment at 15:00, unlike my other appointments, the Orthopaedic department does not seem align its scheduling with the Oncology or Internal Medicine departments.

I usually get a letter in the post asking for me to attend at a particular time, there are times I have wanted to shift the appointments but somehow the personnel do not have the availability that allows for such flexibility.

I made it to the hospital by bicycle and I must say it was dreadfully cold last night when I was out at the main library, I was dressed like an Eskimo with my leather gloves doubled over and I arrived for my appointment a few minutes late – I do hate being late, but my day seemed to start a bit slower than I wanted.

Hats off in greeting

After waiting about 20 minutes I was called by the man who did my shoe fitting in November, I do not know his technical capacity but he seems to be the hands-on man, the orthopaedic consultant was in the office along with a specialist nurse.

As one is wont to do, I took off my hat before shaking hands which seemed to impress the consultant as he remarked to the nurse in Dutch, they introduced themselves and I sat down.

Everyone wanted to see my foot which I said had improved considerably, the shoe and socks came off but before I could get my scissors, the nurse came forward with hers and cut the bandages off, they were quite impressed with the condition of the foot.

New treatments recommended

The consultant advised that I reduce the use of special shoe by half over the next two weeks. I could now use my normal shoes for outdoors and the orthopaedic shoe mainly for indoor use, they also recommended that the Mepitel dressing be discontinued because the dressing will now not help the skin thicken and firm up as it should, the Vaseline massages of the soles should also stop because the grease would not be as effective.

Tomorrow, I can collect from my local chemist a special cream that I can apply to my feet to deal with the dryness and help complete the healing process.

In the process, I can also reduce the use of the crutches, but considering I had lost some muscle mass over the time I was unable to put weight on my left foot, that support is useful, I think I would return the crutches soon after Christmas.

Pulling one for the hat

During the conversation, we did talk a lot about hats, the consultant liked my hat and asked I got it from, well, there is a milliner in Cologne who has been making hats since 1969, they are a married couple and every opportunity I have had, I have visited to get a hat or two.

When I first shopped there some 6 years ago, I bought a pork-pie hat that allowed for the front end to be pulled down almost in trilby style, of all the hats I have bought from that shop, it has been the most durable, so the last time I was there, I bought of that style and I have been quite happy with them.

If you in need of capable, efficient and professional milliners with a traditional sense of purpose and service you can visit Gronau M. & A. at Friesenplatz 12 in Cologne, and if you say they were recommended by the black man from Amsterdam, they will probably go Aha! Smile and serve you very well.

Walking the earth in our shoes

As the meeting closed, the consultant, revealed he had been at a concert where a prolific drummer who used to be part of Fela Anikulapo Kuti’s band played, he had been in Kenya for 8 years and could speak Kiswahili and since he was visiting London soon, he wanted to know where Nigerians mostly congregate.

He seemed to have a keen interest in things African, but more broadly, he just liked to know where his patients came from. For an orthopaedic consultant, he probably has walked the whole earth in the shoes of the many who have been under his care.

I thanked them very much for their care and concern, wishing them a merry Christmas, we now have a tentative arrangement to another appointment in March 2010 after which I suppose my foot would have been certified completely healed and back to its full functional ability.

Hanging on to nothing

Hanging onto nothing

Subconsciously, one visits the gents at work and makes to put ones jacket up and the coat hook is not there. It was there last week.

Maybe the other toilet and the coat hook there is gone too – somebody tell me why anyone would remove coat hooks from toilets.

Now, I rarely walk around the office without my jacket on, in fact, it is almost always on, I wear suits with material that keeps its durable look without getting unnecessarily crumpled.

This development was certainly very uncomfortable for me I had to lodge a report with our support office presaging my complaint with the statement that it was a bizarre question but one that needed to be asked.

A valet I require

I have no respect for a restaurant that does not have the means for keeping my overcoat, hat and cane in good order.

Sometimes, I have to keep my hat on walking through buildings or shops until I have to converse with ladies or strangers just because the hat stand that used to be at the entrance of public places some 60 years ago has given place to sloppy and indecent modernity and unwholesome fashion.

I was almost apoplectic with rage when a concierge in a supposedly 5* hotel where I was attending a conference stuffed my hat down my coat sleeve. I could not believe my effects could be so damaged by an uncouth hireling, that hotel lost a good 4 stars in my estimation, I have not returned there since.

Why? O, Why?

You just cannot be in nature’s succumbed stance in your jacket; it makes you wonder about the office apparatchik who thought up the idea of ridding the toilets of the coat hook.

It would hardly save the planet or pull down the walls of safety in that private place; for that little but quite significant inconvenience, I had to empty my coat pockets and place my coat on back of my seat to visit the gents.

A simple act of vandalism

I would hope when they do realise that that act of vandalism has been noticed, somebody would make amends or going to the gents would not be as subconsciously routine as it once was.

Given that there are very few of us who wear suits to work, it does not mean we do not need coat racks, hat stands and brolly holders – a sudden discomfort close to proctalgia strikes one as it is possible they would be making off with the doors next.

Save us from rotten facilities management, please!

Ushered into Milliner's Heaven - hopefully with those hats too

The symbolism of monarchy

Besides the grandeur of royalty and the semblance of power that accompanies the office of the monarch or royalty of a country. Their presentation in public drives certain circles of opinion in terms of their appearance, their poise, their affability, their interaction and their fashion.

Our monarch in the Netherlands, Queen Beatrix has a striking persona, quite easy-going and amenable to her people, be it chatting to youth rappers or exchanging one of those bizarre handshakes of a strange sub-culture.

Friendly and approachable

The Queen is hardly aloof and offers an approachable disposition, typical of the Dutch who are not given to fussiness, they, in the entire quest for egalitarian equanimity would always defer to their royalty in terms of allowance, tolerance and exception.

The Queen’s fashion is also striking, setting her well apart from her subjects, as nothing attracts you to comment more than her hair-do and her hats.

Being one who wears hats and sometimes has to visit ones hat maker in Cologne, from time to time to prospect a new design, as one is wont to; one would be utterly distraught if that service were to no longer exist for reasons beyond the control of the hat maker.

In that sense, I can understand how the Queen must feel when she would have been informed that her milliner died earlier this week.

Those hats!!! Exactly!

Our sadness can only be tinged with a ray of hope that a new designer with a more contemporary touch would help enhance the imagery from the “frying pan” look to something more regal and better than Ascot, which was an amazing stunner.

I would not advocate seeing the same happen to the hairdresser either, but that blonde bouquet look is really now passé, the point has been made, they want the appearance of the Queen to symbolise the crown – I know a tiara, when I see one, I know a diadem when I see one – but a hat, symbolising the crown – I think we are looking for a figurative representation here – because the literal just does not cut the muster.

Long live the Queen, but those who work in the head appearance department have to go.

Pictures from top to bottom are courtesy of Expatica.com (The opening of parliament) and the Queen of England's Golden Jubilee site (The Queen at Ascot 2002) respectively.

Madhatters cap on civil liberties

Humphrey, not Bogart

One would not look out of place in the 1950s being not what you might call trendy. Well, once I found myself seeking a Nigerian “restaurant” in Amsterdam South-East which has a train-station facing façade of modernity and newness which concealed an interior which might have been a 1982 throw-back with a sign “Welcome to Beirut”. Out of place, out of heart, out of my comfort zone.

The point, I wear hats, a boater in the height of summer, a bowler in deepest cold winter – these represent extremes that include a trilby, a fedora, and a bushman’s hat made of kangaroo leather – so soft and tender – yea, a panama but never a top hat – just one under ten for all occasions and weather.

The solemnity of retail therapy in a milliners or hat shop is refreshingly enlivening, a time to be enjoyed as you test the patience of the shop-keeper – but I like the idea of them making it if I cannot find what I want – delivered 2 weeks hence.

Not an obsession, but half of them are bespoke from a milliners in Cologne; a dear couple who have been master milliners since before 1969.

Hats for pats

Very occasionally, one sees a bowler on display, however, when last I was in England, the other three people I met wearing bowler hats were landed gentry who had come up from the country to see their attorneys or accountants. Three times my age and three hundred times as wealthy.

In Amsterdam, it is probable that after asking 10 people you could almost narrow down whom I am. Man, suit, cravat, pouchet, hat and cane (mostly for my back after long walks) or sturdy full length umbrella.

The distinguishing part being the hat – in some quarters, I might be dandy – I think I am just well turned out.

When indoors, obviously, the hat comes off; however, taking the hat off is not required of ladies and caps are just not so.

M’ lady, the hat comes off

So, this lady visits a pub in England and she is advised to take her hat off, not so much as a matter of courtesy but because her hat obstructs views of the Closed Circuit TV system in the pub. Utterly, utterly uncouth – I cough.

Maybe, that is understandable for both crime prevention and the recording of events if an altercation breaks out.

They have 13 cameras inside the pub – blimey! The sanctum of English conviviality; the English pub - has been invaded by modern technology.

Nothing wrong with trying to maintain a sense of security for person and property, but it is also now a dangerous place for a fling.

Surveillance, definitely not security

Imagine a partner filled with scorn being able to subpoena the tapes in some legal battle, and before long VHS or Betamax would have a revival as a legal pub license would require retaining recordings ad infinitum.

That is just one social angle, I have not returned to the UK since February 2001, I hear they have one camera per 14 people making it the Big Brother country in the world. [1] [2]

Even so, it is quoted that you might appear 300 times on camera in any one day in London. It is surveillance for the sake of more tape leading to the rape of civility.

A fine day for a fine

There is a thin line between the need for security along with crime prevention and the unwarranted invasion of privacy as one caught a caught a man “jerking the gherkin” in a secluded station car park – Episode 4.

We all are used to those cameras that flash your crime as you go a smidgen above the speed limit; however, there was the case a lady who was under the speed limit but was nabbed for having her hands off the steering trying to look beautiful.

How have our liberties departed

One fears for what it all means, but I dread the day when someone walks up to me with a compliment, “Suits you, sir” and then asks me to take my hat off, on a London street – I lament – Oh! How have our liberties departed.