This is a love story. It starts in discreet hotel Kettner’s, shrouded in Soho’s maze of streets, where a woman awaits her beloved on one of the bar’s velvet banquettes, sipping a glass of champagne and furtively eyeing the other patrons. Jazz meanders away in the background and the concerns of London’s media class play out in hushed voices. Then, the swish of the side door — she looks up, but no, it’s a production assistant flown in from LA who demands the Monday lunchtime discount and types loudly. At last, rattled, with suitcase in hand, her love clatters in. They embrace, together again.
But this is also a break-up story (and a Christmas special, but we’ll get to that) — not between myself and Mr Smith, rather with the city itself. After spending the last eight years in a one-bed in Camden, we’re following a band of DFLs (Down From Londons) to Hastings, which is why we’re at this Soho House outpost, rekindling an affair with London itself before we fly the coop. This concept doesn’t feel quite as romantic later on, when we’re moshing to Swedish metal; but Kettner’s is so gracious, so utterly charming — with its horseshoe-shaped marble champagne bar to one side and staff with a politeness as polished as the parquet — with such old-school glamour, that it all feels a bit Brief Encounter.
Amid all this velvet, tassel and art deco decadence, we feel as though we should order our Vouvrays and Vertes, and call each other ‘dahling’, in a clipped, RP voice, or a French accent — the hotel became famous as the city’s first French restaurant, opened in 1867 by Auguste Kettner, chef to Napoleon III, no less. The location was ill-reputed, but the food better renowned, attracting a famous clientele: Oscar Wilde, Winston Churchill, Agatha Christie, and King Edward VII, who made scandalous activities, such as romping in the rooms upstairs, fashionable. He allegedly dallied with his actress mistress Lillie Langtry via a secret tunnel from The Palace Theatre. We never find this ‘tunnel of love’ but displays of framed vintage corsetry in the lobby and a stash of condoms in rooms (hey, when in Soho!) show that carrying on carries on here. A ‘mini’ bar with a full cocktail kit feels all the more encouraging.
We have zero plans to use any of the above though, flopping on the super-king-size bed for an afternoon nap — after the emotional upheaval of saying goodbye to a place where we met, dated, became engaged and spent lockdown together, we’re happy for a soft place to land, and pillows that cost £175 a pop will definitely do. When it comes to decor, our Medium Room has rummaged through a Fin de Siècle dressing-up box, modelling William Morris prints, fringed tuffets and bathroom tiles with lace-inspired patterns.
We’re not here to stay indoors though. Soho in winter is a curious cross between Blade Runner’s neonscapes and a scruffy drowned rat; but flick the switch on those festive Oxford Street lights and it becomes more inviting than those boudoirs the neighbourhood was once famous for. Enamoured of London’s Christmas spirit, I shake Mr Smith awake. But first, downstairs for stomach-lining oeufs mayonnaise, silky lamb chops and beignets filled with Gruyère and Comté; there’s no faffing about with the food here, it’s simple, Gallic, superbe. A melonade- and jasmine-infused highball and citrusy Romilly 29 give us the oomph we need to stay the course.
Heading out onto the streets on this frigid night, I realise Soho and I have been estranged for a while — my beloved Intrepid Fox, Sin and The Crobar hangouts have long closed or moved, and even G-A-Y has given its last laconic ‘Byeee’ to its Old Compton Street home. Like a long-gone lover, the city moves on and changes; but it’s doing fine without me tonight. But we quickly fall back in step with it. It’s thronged with people eager for the year to start winding down. Those in Lucky Voice emulate Mariah’s warble; The French House dishes up duck in Armagnac gravy; Bar Termini slings a mean Panettone Bellini; and Mr Fogg’s place of plenty feels like it was written by Dickens on a good day.
Getting the love story back on track — sort of — we peep into some of Soho’s naughtier shops, giggling schoolgirlishly at the exotic offerings, wondering what Kettner’s housekeeping might think should they find any of this in our room. Then, a more comforting sight: an old favourite bar, the bizarre Garlic and Shots, is still here. It’s hanging on to Halloween with its skull motifs, but I drag Mr Smith to its zombie-accessorised basement to do shots in time to Pantera songs.
What joy that Kettner’s check-out time is 12 noon — even when you’re dreadfully hungover, it feels like a safe space. And if you stay in the elegant, top-floor Jacobean Suite at this time of year, you’ll find it festooned with garlands and a tree, too. It’s all so magical I want to sit on Kettner’s knee and tell it my desires. But it’s time to leave the hotel and London at large.
There’s a nostalgic weightiness to every sight. Sarah Maclachlan’s I Will Remember You plays in my fuzzy head as garlands of red Chinatown lanterns dance merrily above, the Sweatbox spa puts out its bins, and a pedicab in drag tries to kill us, as a light dusting of slushy yet promising snow falls on cue. Will there be shops selling melonpan and bondage straitjackets on the Sussex coast? Will there be bars where the weeknight crowd bays for ‘blood shots’? Will Hastings have light-up angels, rainbow stars and the sort of strange geometric blocks Carnaby Street is sporting to transport me to the most awestruck days of my urban childhood? Will I miss it all terribly? Who can say… but, London, we’ll always have Kettner’s, dahling.
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