Dining at The Dorchester

Post date: Oct 24, 2008 6:07:43 PM

The discotheque opened. There was a la-de-da in London and the Prime Minister went to hunt grouse in Scotland. The newspaper back home told of his grouse-hunt day and showed pictures of him, in boots, in the marshes with hanging-grouse and all. He returned and was installed at the Dorchester. There was a party at the High Commissioner’s official residence on the Thames. His grouse meat tasted like soured grain yet compliments flowed and everyone liked it. Those particular grouses had been hunted at the wrong place and the wrong time because what the bird feeds on affects the taste of the flesh.

“Get her out of my room.” The Prime Minister’s best friend was furious, humiliated and insulted. A fat, political yard-fowl from Birmingham had taken up the Prime Minister’s less than honest invitation to come visit him and he had dumped her and her baggage in our hotel room in the London Hilton across the way.

“The courteous man of impeccable manner, yet a man to be found behind the counter where the food was being prepared and dishing out the rice and stew ... a man who was at home and totally comfortable in the lowest echelons of society in whichever village or city back street he found himself.”

Reads the book about the Prime Minister written by Peter Morgan. This same man would not be caught dead with this woman at the Dorchester. This trip his energies were spent on the telephone to Sweden, talking to one of Europe’s most sexy women - blond, blue-eyed luxurious and in her late twenties, Alexandra. Her husband was the owner of Alexandra’s a discotheque in Stockholm, where European royalty danced. The Prime Minister visited Stockholm and saw the woman and the disco. He convinced and encouraged her husband, and he did all he could to bring both to his country. When Alexandra’s Barbados, the new disco, opened its door the Prime Minister was a regular, especially when Alexandra who ran mainly the club in Stockholm was present.

The immediate problem was to sneak the big fat mama into his suite at the Dorchester. The Prime Minister’s friend walked ahead. We entered the lobby passed the doorman wound the way up the elevator and along the floors, which creaked to the Prime Minister’s suite.

The Prime Minister hid his amour away in one small bedroom for two days. The first night he had a fancy appointment and she was taken for Chinese food where she stacked the used plates together despite insistence that the waiter do his chores. The next day was lunch at the Dorchester. Boiled corned beef with dumplings, new potatoes and baby carrots in an Irish stew was ordered from the day before. The Prime Minister sat far away from his situation. She was ordered for and shown what to do but there was no protection from the ever-so-correct and ever-so-polite waiters.

“You are beautiful.” The Prime Minister said the next day.

“She could have passed for your sister.” I said.