London Part 3: Putting Off the Ritz

Needing a hot drink MWF pulled out her phone and a quick Google search later showed the nearest option was the Ritz.

Well, why not? The extra cost would be worth it just to say we’d been there and if I could swipe a branded saucer or something it would be cancelled out.

We walked along signs for the Ritz’s bar and jewellery store (who knew?) And asked a doorman where the cafe was, he guides us down to the far corner.

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We were walking along and as we rounded the corner we saw the main entrance. In situations like this the best course of action is to just act as though you belong there. I’d just passed on this advice to MWF when she broke this and spoke to the doorman.

“Excuse me.”

He turned around with barely disguised distaste etched on his face.

“Yes, may I help you?” His voice was posh and professional.

“Umm, we were just wondering if there a tea room inside?” MWF asked.

“There is, yes.” He began. “But there is a slight problem with your clothing. We have a dress code and, well, you’re wearing sports shoes.”

This was true, we were both wearing trainers but I found it annoying. A dress code to buy a cuppa?

I know the Ritz has a rep for being upmarket and classy, but it’s all b*****ks, isn’t it? That reputation only exists because we go along with it and they artificially maintain it with daft dress codes. They make out that dining there is an event, and a special one, one that requires you to dress up nicely.

Imagine if your local cafe started doing that? Insisting that you dressed a certain way, you’d tell them to jog on, but because the Ritz has been around for a long time (110 years) we go along with it. I suppose that’s why people like going there because it has that “classy” appeal, and maybe even why MWF and I tried going in, but it’s silly.

If Prince Harry rocked up in trainers would they turn him away? It’s enough to make you want to get obscenely successful and wealthy just to turn up as slobby as you like, to see how dedicated to that dress code they are.

If I ever got wealthy I’d set up a five star restaurant with the best chefs, plush decor and the finest wines known to humanity. I’d have a dress code. Tracksuits only. For those unsure, think Goldie Lookin Chain.

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“Is there anywhere else we could go around here?”

“There is a Cafe Nero just up the road, madam.” Again, all politeness but the meaning was clear “P**s off to the chain store with the rest of the plebs!”

Denied entry we wandered back and took our seats among the common people. And the tea in Cafe Nero was bloody lovely.

Any thoughts? You know what to do. BETEO.

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