Tea at Harrods? More like MSG at Harrods.

As a joint birthday present from our good friend Amelia, Chesca and I were treated with tickets for the prestigious high tea at Harrods. We both absolutely love drinking tea (addicted? me? don't be silly! -detaches intravenous tea drip surreptitiously-) so what better way to celebrate our birthdays than going to drink tea in one of London's iconic landmarks, where surely the glamorous setting would only further enhance the deliciousness of the tea. This would be the best tea to ever grace our taste buds, and one of the best birthdays ever. 

So do not be disappointed reader, when I tell you that it was one of the most awkward yet hilarious experiences of my life.

Chesca and I had no idea what to wear. We convinced ourselves that jeans and trainers were out of the question. The high society that attends tea at Harrods will be adorned in the finest robes and jewellery, complete with designer contact lenses and genetically engineered Chihuahuas.

We don’t want to stand out like sore thumbs so we both go for dresses.

We arrived fairly smoothly, with little disruption to our journey, but dishelleved, with hair matted to our foreheads with sweat from the stuffy tube. As we drooled at the sight of teapots, tea cups and bunting hanging in the window display of one of the many fascias of Harrods, I noticed how despite our best efforts, maybe we weren’t looking as dignified as I had previously thought. Staring back at me in the reflection of the window pane were two young ladies. One in a leopard print dress with Pat Butcher style dangling earrings, and the other in a bright orange  and yellow Hawaiian-esque patterned dress, our respective hair flying in the wind distributing the sweat globules onto passers-by. Note to self: invest in a full length mirror ASAP.

It was too late to do anything about it though, so with coat zipped firmly up, we entered, hearts palpitating at the grandeur of this labyrinth. We sought refuge at the concierge desk and asked where the high tea is served as we have a reservation. It takes her a while, and a couple of repetitions on our behalf informing her that “We have it booked already” for her to understand that we’re here for high tea, not just any old restaurant tea. She must’ve really convinced herself we weren’t the high tea types. Eventually directed to the right place, we make the marathon journey to the Georgian Terrace, which it turns out, isn’t actually a terrace. It’s more a ballroom with a magnificent opaque domed ceiling, filled with tables and chairs and a grand piano. “Oh my God, Chesca, a piano!!! Someone’s playing the piiiiiano!”

Except they’re not. Someone is in fact playing a CD of someone playing a piano. The first sign that the grandiose of this place is perhaps a little artificial, a metaphorical mockingbird. Less high society, more A Level Theatre Studies classroom. Chesca is offended by the clash of the green carpet with the pink chairs but I remind her we are not one to criticise based on our own vestural choices.

Another thing that displeases us is the lack of real lighting. As mentioned, the ceiling although beautiful, is veiled with a thick frosted glass, and seeing as its not actually a terrace, but a WINDOWLESS PIT, there are no real windows which renders a horrible, unnatural feeling within me and an instinct to flee.

We are seated and Marco our waiter explains to us we need to select a flavour of tea whilst he reels off the sandwiches we will receive.

“Lobster, salmon, ham, coronation chicken, goats cheese“.  As he lists them I wait eagerly for the vegetarian option. Chesca, aware of my aversion to all things flavoursome throws me a look, I turn to Marco, my best attempt at puppy eyes all large and round and plead to him "Do you have any vegetarian sandwiches?" He mentions again the goats cheese and something about pesto and hummus. I don’t hear the rest as I’m already imagining a world where I am force-fed three of my culinary enemies, three things I hate most in the world and there he stands, carelessly THREATENING to put them into my sandwiches.  Oh God.

“Could I have some bread and butter instead please? If it’s not too much trouble, it’s just I don’t really like any of those, sorry”. I respond apologetically.

“Goats cheese?”                                                       

NO MARCO, NOT THE BLOODY GOATS CHEESE.

“No, I really don’t like goats cheese, bread and butter is fine, honestly”.

We settle on cheddar cheese and I am smug as the cat that’s got the cream when my own little plate turns up with cheese sandwiches cut in little triangles. Yes, it looks like a 5 year olds lunch, no, I don’t care.

However, harmony is once again disrupted with the problem of the teas. Where in this tea menu is the PG Tips? Chesca and I read it several times over, but it’s full of jargon and all the teas seem to have ridiculous ingredients in them. My head’s starting to spin; please dear God let them have normal tea. We can’t identify it so we wait for Marco to reappear and he assures us he will bring us the least flavoursome tea they provide.

Cheese sandwiches fit for a Queen.

After the traumatic ordering experience is over I need a stiff drink. But at £36 a pop for a glass of champagne, I think not!  Waiting for our tea Chesca and I take a moment to relax. I scan the room.

Everybody around us is wearing jeans and trainers.

Sigh.

Marco pours our tea for us and it is scrumptious, we start to feel comfortable in our surroundings. The tea is perfectly flavourless so I reach for the teapot to pour ourselves another cup each but end up recoiling at the slightest touch of the silver inferno before me-it’s piping hot! I immediately begin to assess my chances of successfully suing Qatar Holdings for first degree burns….

A wandering waitress has seen my feeble attempt for tea and walks over to pour it for us. She informs us that the waiters will always pour the tea. I ask her how come she doesn’t burn herself when holding the teapot (she wears no protective equipment on her hands at all) and she responds looking at the ground that she is used to it. I joke that maybe her sensory receptors have been desensitised from touching it so often. She smiles but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She looks sad deep within. But then again, I would be too if I didn’t have any thermoreceptors.

A while later, when Chesca and I are on an eating hiatus to allow the bloating to subside and the food to digest, we pass the time by creating little faces on our scones. Chesca makes a wonderful little smiley face on a scone that actually I believe, conveys such raw human emotion. It genuinely looks like a happy person!

                                                                          

Case in point: Barry the fruit scone, having the time of his life.

My attempt. Barry's detained twin that nobody really talks about.

I’m so impressed and proud of my artistic lady friend that when Marco eventually returns to pay us a visit I say to him ‘Look, we made a face!’ like an excited child.

He replied ‘Thank you’. I dismiss his comment despite it not quite following the course of dialogue.

He saunters off and Chesca asks, “Why did you say that?”

“Say what?”

“That he had a nice face”

“WHAT!? No I didn’t!”

“It sounded like you did!”

The realisation that if Chesca who is seated half a metre from me thought I said such a thing likely implies that Marco who was one metre away probably heard that interpretation of my speech also.

Oh dear.

End of Part 1.

(Part 2 doesn’t exist yet. But when it does, it will talk about my lighthearted suspicion that Harrods have pumped their food full of some food additive that renders the consumer full after mere mouthfuls, hence the title of the blog).