It's a figure we've heard endlessly in the past fortnight: People making £100,000 per year or more represent the top 1 per cent of the British population. They are the "super rich" in the minds of the government, and as of next year they will be made to pay much more. Especially those making more than £150k, who will now come under a new 50 per cent tax bracket.
For a lot of people, it's a hard figure to believe. Many tourists have an impression of a rampantly prosperous country. They start in London, where they're surrounded by well-paid professionals, high property prices, expensive restaurants and endless stage sets of fine architecture. In the countryside, they're likely to stay in posh B&Bs run by people with cut glass accents and fine educations, while touring charming villages and historic houses. I remember a family friend concluding, after a 10-day visit, that Britain must be much, much wealthier than the United States. No. It's just that the things most people come to visit are owned, patronised or staffed by the well-educated and the well-compensated.
It is, of course, the height of bad taste to discuss the details of your compensation with anyone besides headhunters and prospective employers. But most corporate management types in London, from their late 30s on up, seem to either be making more than £100k or within striking distance of that threshold. At least, they're talking and consuming like they are. Given the outrageous cost of living here (mortgages over £1000 a month not unusual; £20 to get to London on a rush hour train from the suburbs; £50 for a typical night out with friends; £65 to fill your car's tank; £100 for an unspectacular weekly grocery run), it's hard to contemplate survival on what the government says is an average salary: about £25k per annum.
I thought about that a lot when I met up with a high school friend, who was staying with her family at the exquisite Halkin, just behind the Lanesborough near Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park corner. We went on to dinner at the Grenadier, a pub right out of the pages of the tourist board fantasy book that I doubt has had anyone making the national average salary come through the door in years. Other than the staff, of course. A few days later I was discussing the brutal tax regime with stressed friends at the magnificent Carpenters Arms in Chiswick, where the most cheerful part of the meal seemed to be the seeming bargain of just £43 each for three courses and drinks. I rounded off the week sipping white wine in the courtyard of the Stafford Hotel in a beautiful little courtyard just off St. James' street, hearing people well over the £150k mark discussing plans to depart for countries more appreciative of business success.
At all three places ... and most certainly at the last ... a customer making less than £100k per year would NOT feel like someone in a national majority of 99 per cent. In fact, she would have wondered what was wrong with her, that she still seemed to be nipping at everyone else's heels. Such is the illusion (delusion?) of life in London. The people living within that dream are filled with much dread that the new definitions of "super rich", and the hefty taxation on the horizon, will destroy this country. Killing off innovation. Driving high earners to other countries. Eliminating the lubricating cash that cascades through the economy from their generous spending. A nightmare is emerging of a cash-strapped, deeply average Britain that's lost its world-leading industries and thought leaders and depends on tourists splashing money around against an ever-weaker pound. (Hmmm. Sounds much like the country I first visited in '82.)
Should that financial and social armageddon occur, the Grenadier, the Carpenters Arms and the Stafford may all be living on borrowed time. So you might as well get there soon.
The Grenadier lies down a winding mews road near Hyde Park Corner, easiest to find if you turn onto Wilton Row from Wilton Crescent and follow the road as it winds. You're on an almost completely traffic-free lane, filled with buildings of sparkling white Regency charm. The pub itself was an officer's mess for Wellington's troops (hence the name) and is so traditional they've even arranged to keep one of the old red phone boxes in front of it. It's a tiny place, with one front room and bar and two small back rooms with a few tables for dining. The decor carries on the Wellington theme and it's blessedly free of pop music, gambling machines or any of the other paraphernalia of the modern establishment. The food is resolutely traditional, majoring on fish and chips, pies and the house special beef Wellington. The quality was basic and unexceptional, and I wouldn't go out of my way to eat here again. Unless I were once again hosting tourists, in which case I'd reserve well in advance. This is exactly what most tourists dream about when they think "English pub".
For food, I'd be back at the Carpenters Arms in Chiswick. It is actually a bit of a misnomer to call this place a gastropub. It has a pub's name, and a long bar, but it is in reality all restaurant. Everyone there had booked tables and was laying in to two or three courses. Like the Grenadier, it's tucked away on another street of pristine and gleaming Regency architecture, but now far enough from London to be fronted by little gardens spilling over with spring blooms. The dining room, however, is much more modern than the Grenadier's, with simple fittings and lots of bare, scrubbed wooden tables. Nothing distracts from the quality of the food, which is local and seasonal. The menu is heavy on seafood and displays some interesting pairings and rare ingredients. (Salsify fritters, anyone?) I started with a plate of English oysters accompanied by a perfectly balanced shallot vinaigrette. Next was poached pollack, again perfectly cooked, served with black beans, fresh guacamole and pico di gallo. It is almost impossible to find decent Tex Mex in this country; I certainly didn't expect to find the best I'd had for years beneath a fish in a resolutely English establishment. God bless global diversity. All that saintly fish consumption left room for dessert, which was a small chocolate pot with a caramel base. Delicious, though ... and this is something I almost never say ... it was actually a bit too rich. Everyone else reported delight with their entrees, and a fine wine list with lots of options between £15 and £25 completed our satisfaction. This place is a treasure.
The Stafford is an exquisite little hotel wedged into a back street between the Ritz, Green Park and St. James' Palace. It's built within the frame of one of the aristocratic old houses back here that survived the war, and it reeks of the establishment from the portrait of the Queen Mother above the fireplace to the tasteful lounge that looks more like something out of a private country house than a public establishment. The Stafford has the grace and architectural elegance of the Ritz or Claridges, but with the size and quiet of a boutique hotel. If I were a visiting American with a lot of money to spend, I'd stay here. The bar in the back of the hotel spills out into what once must have been the mews and stables for the original town house. Hard to believe it's just through an arch off busy St. James'; I've walked by here a hundred times and never known it existed. I am delighted that a friend who works locally let us in on the secret, and now I pass it on to you. In a part of town surprisingly short of quiet, elegant places to grab a drink, this is a real find.
Whether you're amongst the super rich or just bumbling along with the rest of the population, these places all deserve your appreciation. They would fit on most people's list of what constitutes the "Best of British". I like to think that is relevant to more than 1 per cent of the population. We'll see...
For a lot of people, it's a hard figure to believe. Many tourists have an impression of a rampantly prosperous country. They start in London, where they're surrounded by well-paid professionals, high property prices, expensive restaurants and endless stage sets of fine architecture. In the countryside, they're likely to stay in posh B&Bs run by people with cut glass accents and fine educations, while touring charming villages and historic houses. I remember a family friend concluding, after a 10-day visit, that Britain must be much, much wealthier than the United States. No. It's just that the things most people come to visit are owned, patronised or staffed by the well-educated and the well-compensated.
It is, of course, the height of bad taste to discuss the details of your compensation with anyone besides headhunters and prospective employers. But most corporate management types in London, from their late 30s on up, seem to either be making more than £100k or within striking distance of that threshold. At least, they're talking and consuming like they are. Given the outrageous cost of living here (mortgages over £1000 a month not unusual; £20 to get to London on a rush hour train from the suburbs; £50 for a typical night out with friends; £65 to fill your car's tank; £100 for an unspectacular weekly grocery run), it's hard to contemplate survival on what the government says is an average salary: about £25k per annum.
I thought about that a lot when I met up with a high school friend, who was staying with her family at the exquisite Halkin, just behind the Lanesborough near Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park corner. We went on to dinner at the Grenadier, a pub right out of the pages of the tourist board fantasy book that I doubt has had anyone making the national average salary come through the door in years. Other than the staff, of course. A few days later I was discussing the brutal tax regime with stressed friends at the magnificent Carpenters Arms in Chiswick, where the most cheerful part of the meal seemed to be the seeming bargain of just £43 each for three courses and drinks. I rounded off the week sipping white wine in the courtyard of the Stafford Hotel in a beautiful little courtyard just off St. James' street, hearing people well over the £150k mark discussing plans to depart for countries more appreciative of business success.
At all three places ... and most certainly at the last ... a customer making less than £100k per year would NOT feel like someone in a national majority of 99 per cent. In fact, she would have wondered what was wrong with her, that she still seemed to be nipping at everyone else's heels. Such is the illusion (delusion?) of life in London. The people living within that dream are filled with much dread that the new definitions of "super rich", and the hefty taxation on the horizon, will destroy this country. Killing off innovation. Driving high earners to other countries. Eliminating the lubricating cash that cascades through the economy from their generous spending. A nightmare is emerging of a cash-strapped, deeply average Britain that's lost its world-leading industries and thought leaders and depends on tourists splashing money around against an ever-weaker pound. (Hmmm. Sounds much like the country I first visited in '82.)
Should that financial and social armageddon occur, the Grenadier, the Carpenters Arms and the Stafford may all be living on borrowed time. So you might as well get there soon.
The Grenadier lies down a winding mews road near Hyde Park Corner, easiest to find if you turn onto Wilton Row from Wilton Crescent and follow the road as it winds. You're on an almost completely traffic-free lane, filled with buildings of sparkling white Regency charm. The pub itself was an officer's mess for Wellington's troops (hence the name) and is so traditional they've even arranged to keep one of the old red phone boxes in front of it. It's a tiny place, with one front room and bar and two small back rooms with a few tables for dining. The decor carries on the Wellington theme and it's blessedly free of pop music, gambling machines or any of the other paraphernalia of the modern establishment. The food is resolutely traditional, majoring on fish and chips, pies and the house special beef Wellington. The quality was basic and unexceptional, and I wouldn't go out of my way to eat here again. Unless I were once again hosting tourists, in which case I'd reserve well in advance. This is exactly what most tourists dream about when they think "English pub".
For food, I'd be back at the Carpenters Arms in Chiswick. It is actually a bit of a misnomer to call this place a gastropub. It has a pub's name, and a long bar, but it is in reality all restaurant. Everyone there had booked tables and was laying in to two or three courses. Like the Grenadier, it's tucked away on another street of pristine and gleaming Regency architecture, but now far enough from London to be fronted by little gardens spilling over with spring blooms. The dining room, however, is much more modern than the Grenadier's, with simple fittings and lots of bare, scrubbed wooden tables. Nothing distracts from the quality of the food, which is local and seasonal. The menu is heavy on seafood and displays some interesting pairings and rare ingredients. (Salsify fritters, anyone?) I started with a plate of English oysters accompanied by a perfectly balanced shallot vinaigrette. Next was poached pollack, again perfectly cooked, served with black beans, fresh guacamole and pico di gallo. It is almost impossible to find decent Tex Mex in this country; I certainly didn't expect to find the best I'd had for years beneath a fish in a resolutely English establishment. God bless global diversity. All that saintly fish consumption left room for dessert, which was a small chocolate pot with a caramel base. Delicious, though ... and this is something I almost never say ... it was actually a bit too rich. Everyone else reported delight with their entrees, and a fine wine list with lots of options between £15 and £25 completed our satisfaction. This place is a treasure.
The Stafford is an exquisite little hotel wedged into a back street between the Ritz, Green Park and St. James' Palace. It's built within the frame of one of the aristocratic old houses back here that survived the war, and it reeks of the establishment from the portrait of the Queen Mother above the fireplace to the tasteful lounge that looks more like something out of a private country house than a public establishment. The Stafford has the grace and architectural elegance of the Ritz or Claridges, but with the size and quiet of a boutique hotel. If I were a visiting American with a lot of money to spend, I'd stay here. The bar in the back of the hotel spills out into what once must have been the mews and stables for the original town house. Hard to believe it's just through an arch off busy St. James'; I've walked by here a hundred times and never known it existed. I am delighted that a friend who works locally let us in on the secret, and now I pass it on to you. In a part of town surprisingly short of quiet, elegant places to grab a drink, this is a real find.Whether you're amongst the super rich or just bumbling along with the rest of the population, these places all deserve your appreciation. They would fit on most people's list of what constitutes the "Best of British". I like to think that is relevant to more than 1 per cent of the population. We'll see...
No comments:
Post a Comment