Crazy Classy

While I was studying abroad in London, my friend Amy decided she would visit with her friend, Olga. Amy has always been one to extensively research a travel destination. A result of this for London was she decided we needed to have drinks at the swanky hotel, The Savoy. Whatever guidebook she read said you couldn’t get better cocktails anywhere in the city. 

What does a 20 year old college student wear to one of the most expensive hotels in London? As I write that, I realize how ridiculous it sounds. Most 20 year olds probably have strappy, slutty, sequined dresses, but I was never much of a partier. So I went in for a simple pink sweater with rhinestone flower buttons. (Look, this is the kind of thing people spend a lot of time worrying about. I dread to think how many hours of brain power went into this concern.)

On the night in question, we were joined by Olga’s friend Tim, my friend Jess from NY, and her friend Yvette from Australia. What a diverse bunch we were. So our version of the United Nations strolled down the Strand, turning onto the quarter block you have to walk/drive down to get to the slightly-set-back Savoy. Thinking about walking in there like I belong gives me anxiety just thinking about it today, but I must have felt strength in numbers. 

Yvette, myself, and Jess. We joked that this should be the cover of our Girl Band debut album

It didn’t take more than walking in the front door to know I was in the fanciest place I’ve ever been. It was dark and quiet and I truly wonder what they thought of our clearly not upper crust crew. We turned left to find The American Bar, which greeted us with a sign informing possible patrons of a £5 cover charge for non-hotel guests. In 2006, one dollar was worth half a pound, so we were looking at $10 just to walk in the door, before what I knew would be overpriced drinks. 

The dark ambiance meant I needn’t have worried about my wardrobe. And none of the hotel staff made us feel out of place. They seated us in a corner alcove where we could scope out the clientele, and we settled in. Drink menus dropped, and with them, so did my jaw. Cocktails were a whopping £11, so $22. Plus the £5 cover. It almost physically hurt to order something, but we were paying for the experience as much as anything. There were some fantastic looking drinks on the menu. I went for the Tennessee Tea Cake, something with cinnamon and vanilla and cream and whiskey.

After the monetarily painful order was placed, Amy, Olga, and I decided to use the ladies’ room. Our eyes had plenty of time to readjust to the suddenly bright lights as we walked past a guardian at a desk and through a veritable labyrinth to get to the toilet (as they’re known in Britain, although rest room, a completely foreign term to the Brits, would have been more apropos here.) We were confused when we were greeted with baby blue walls, cream colored vanities, and ornate wall mirrors. Quite a bit of time was spent taking pictures, because these bathrooms had to be seen to be believed.

During our photoshoot, a rosy-cheeked blond took to watching with a gleeful smile on her face. “Are you guys tourists?” she asked. 

“Did our taking pictures in a bathroom give it away?” I laughed.

“Oh, it’s okay. Listen, I go to America all the time, and everyone there has always been so nice to me. My name is Rosie. We’re over at the bar. Why don’t you come over and we’ll get you some drinks?”

We blinked at each other in confusion. Did she work there? Who was the we she meant? Would she still want to buy us drinks if she knew there were three more of us? We thanked her and took a few more weird bathroom pictures for good measure. 

When we headed back to our table, we saw Rosie at hers (not a cocktail waitress then) with two men - one about 30, one about 50. We gave her an acknowledging nod before heading back to our own alcove, where our drinks were just arriving. I felt pretty fancy, sipping a strong, creamy cocktail that I started feeling after three sips from a martini glass.

Just as the quick buzz was settling in, our waitress returned to tell us that Rosie’s table wanted to buy us a round of drinks. Despite there being six of us! I mean, that was about $150 worth of alcohol right there, no questions asked. We put in our next order, which the waitress said she would deliver once we were done with the first. 

As our first glasses emptied, Rosie and the older man came to sit and chat with us. It was only then that I realized how drunk Rosie was. We laughed and talked about god knows what, and Rosie let us all have a sip of her drink of choice, a strawberry Bellini. When we all gave our stamps of approval, she called the waitress over and ordered a round for the table. 

Seriously? Another round? Ooookay then.

She told us about her job and mentioned that the man with her, Zaffa, worked in Dubai. At some point, Zaffa and Rosie began heavily making out. We all awkwardly shrugged it off, as Zaffa signed the bill for our extra two rounds, and excused himself and Rosie from the table.

Then the younger guy who had been sitting with them originally joined our table. He introduced himself as Arthur, Rosie’s good friend. He filled us in on the situation – Rosie was Zaffa’s mistress. He was married, she had a boyfriend, but when he was in London, they’d hook up. It was just a bit of fun for both of them as Zaffa would buy Rosie anything she wanted. Hence the many beverages. Arthur hung out with us for quite a while, even conversing in Chinese with Amy, as he did business in China and she took the language in college.

Eventually, Olga excused herself from the table to go to the labyrinth bathroom. When she came back, she paused to stare longingly at the black lacquer Steinway piano in the middle of the room. Olga was music major, and earlier in the night she had lusted after that piano. There had been a very standard jazz pianist playing unoffensively in the background. She had asked if she could play something, but was told no due to the amount of insurance on the piano. 

Now, the piano bench was empty, and imbued with liquid courage, Olga took it upon herself to sit down and begin playing. She played a beautiful melody of her own composition, and applause that was more than polite followed.

When she sat back and rested her hands on the bench beside her, a waitress approached and asked that she step away. Just then, two overweight 50 something men interjected. “She was amazing. Better than that other guy you had before. This is the Savoy, dammit. You have to be able to get her a piano.”

By that time, Olga had started crying, the drinks

mixing with the gratitude she was feeling for being recognized for her talent. The waitress was back moments later to tell us that we could have the River Room until 2 o’clock in the morning, giving us approximately 45 minutes of piano time. She led a small parade of patrons down a long dark corridor to a gigantic room, more than likely used for weddings. One entire wall was windows that looked out over the Thames and the glistening skyline. Olga treated her followers to a concert of her own compositions while my eye lids grew increasingly heavy. Not her fault at all - if you know me, you know I’m not a 2 am or three cocktail kind of gal. 

The concert demanding men then offered us YET ANOTHER ROUND of drinks. In other words, for the $30 we paid, we could have had four cocktails, on top of our own private room. All in all, not a bad night. 

Lucky for me I wasn’t the only one with droopy eyelids at that point, so we declined the offer of imbibing and went for teetotaling instead, accepting bottles of water. Arthur helped us line up mini cabs, sharing one with Olga and Amy, and paying for another for me and Jess.

The night was completely over the top and ridiculous, possibly more so than any other night of my life. Going out of my comfort zone was well, well worth it. 

I returned to London for a week the following year. Feeling suave and overly important, I led a convoy of friends from Montclair onto a bus and into the Savoy lobby. Maybe it was my overconfidence, or maybe we had changed policies with our piano demands, or maybe the universe was just trying to tell me that sometimes you shouldn’t try to recreate the magic, but we were met with a sign in front of the American Bar saying the bar was only open to hotel guests. My heart dropped at the sight, but at the same time, I knew there was no way the new adventure would have lived up to the original. Not without Rosie’s drunk love, Zaffa’s blind generosity, Arthur’s amusement, and the kindness of overweight, middle aged strangers.