In which a hotel bar is the order of the day

I could spend hours sitting in the perpetual dusky twilight of a hotel bar. I love hotel bars, good hotel bars, fancy ones with monogrammed coasters and deep buttoned sofas and flocked wallpaper and ancient books and cocktail menus and wine lists thick and heavy; weighty tomes. I love the dark light that seems to live in them, the palpable air, the rows and rows of single malts, the steady hum of the day passing unbeknownst to the quiet souls within it. Yesterday, Tam and I, in celebration of her birthday, spent much of the afternoon nestled in the nook of one, glasses of red wine winking up at us in the moody light.

First, we went for lunch at Kitchen W8 – a superb pick of Tam’s that did not disappoint. I had a rib eye so meltingly tender and utterly delicious it made me re-evaluate my whole ‘last meal on earth’ dinner plan all over again, and go back to the original menu, of which steak was the star of the show. There was also the added benefit of after having felt a bit peaky and somewhat wan for the last few weeks, the steak made me feel as if I had mainlined iron. Lunch was long and leisurely and there were guest appearances by chanterelles and wild mushroom foam, foie gras mousse, Roast John Dory and dark chocolate truffles. After lunch, we took a stroll up High Street Kensington, popping into a shoe store so that Tam could purchase a pair of lovely tan brogues and I could stroke the soft leather of as many pairs of boots as possible without being frogmarched from the shop by world weary shop assistants, desperate for a commission and tired of the sighs and gasps and lip quivers of terminal window shoppers, such as myself. As we exited she shop, we partook in a bit of Chelsea beast spotting (yes, you, in the grey jumper. I’m talking about you.) and made our way to The Gore.

The Gore is a small hotel moments away from Hyde Park, hidden inconspicuously down a very Kensington looking street without much to-do. Through the austere stone pillars, typical of the area, a little bit of wood paneled heaven awaits. The Gore is opulent, but not ostentatious. There are huge gold gilt mirrors, oils of not entirely attractive women hang proudly on the wood paneled walls, elaborately carved staircases lead, white rabbit like, up tantalising plush red stairs. There are bronzed bits and pieces all over the place, soft carpets underfoot, wrought iron candelabras that wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval castle, and beams of coloured light that peek through the stained glass windows. Quite simply, old world charm personified. After seeing pictures of The Gore on the Lisa Borgnes Giramonti’s breathtaking blog, A Bloomsbury life, I knew that the bar and I simply had to get acquainted. Oh, and how we did. Tam and I ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir and reclined into the oddly deep leather armchairs and sat for hours and hours and talked and joked and laughed, and spent the afternoon in the comfortable confines of the chasm of time that exists solely in hotel bars.