Wasn’t it just yesterday that The Lord Erroll flooded and closed? When it did, it felt surreal, even to those who typically don’t visit it, like yours truly. It almost felt like KICC had flooded and drowned. It was a tragedy of titanic proportions. But then they reopened and sprung back like nothing happened.
Last week, an old great friend called and asked, “Would you like to have tea at The Lord Erroll?” It was a little after 6 pm, on an overcast, gray evening. “Tea?” I asked, “What am I, British? And why Lord Erroll?” She said it was halfway between where we both live. I threw on a jacket and a hat and headed out.
There was some sort of Mercedes Benz event happening, which meant a small clutch of well-heeled folk milling about with drinks in their hands. I like The Lord Erroll; I just don't understand the carpet in the main bar. It’s quite mad. But I also understand I'm not the target audience. But what do I know about opulent British decor?
We settled at the corner of the lovely wooden bar, my back to the wall. I like to see the doorway. In my head, I’m often a spy, someone carrying many secrets that terrible men want. And Lord Erroll seems like the kind of place spies meet other spies in tuxedos, drinking martinis in the company of equally dangerous temptresses in long, scandalous slits.
I had two gins and a Fernet Branca. She had a Prosecco and later a gin. The lighting at the bar at The Lord Erroll is fit for the Oscars. A fire was going in the fireplace, faced by guests seated on the deep leather seats, staring into the flames. It truly felt like something out of a Guy Ritchie movie.
I don’t remember if there was music, but it mattered little, for at The Lord Erroll, it seems you go to converse, or to sit alone in the corner of the bar and have a cognac as you wait for someone to show up in a hat and classified information.
