You might be inclined to think you’ve reached a new low when Tim Rogers declares your night “the saddest sounding night ever.” Not I. I spent last night blissfully alone in a suite at Hotel St. Germain, drinking champagne, wearing a tiara, eating two-person servings of cheese and desserts, and watching American Idol. The original plan had me joined by my husband and dog at 9 pm, but when they played the wild card that allows them each one opt-out a year, I took it as a boon. How often do we, as adults, get a malice-free evening to just chill out and, as Elizabeth Gilbert (and the Italians) say, practice the fine art of doing nothing?
Not often enough, it seems. No matter how much you love your spouse and kids/pets, an evening of rolling around in blissful self-absorption doesn’t suck—especially when you do it in a foofy hotel room with butlers ready to buttle at the ring of a bell.
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I had been invited to sleep over as a guest, and looking back on the last 18 hours, I can honestly say that Hotel St. Germain nailed this whole royal brekky thing on the head. I received a wake-up call at 4:45 am, followed shortly by a knock on the door and a suited, white-gloved butler delivering a tray of coffee and juice (see exhibit A).
One cuppa later, a second butler arrived with a silver-domed breakfast tray piled high with fried eggs, sauteed mushrooms, grilled tomato, beans, bangers, bacon, scones (or were they crumpets?), and of course, English muffins with fresh butter. (see exhibit B)
Between tweets as scintillating as Love the red swan hat, and There are some fearless acts if millinery up in that abbey, and That is one bored looking royal couple. #royalwedding, and I like “do not lag in zeal.” Or was it lack?, I actually managed to eat and tweet about the food, which is why I was there in the first place. The following are a few pics and captions that pretty much sum it up.
As anyone who is not Tim would agree, eating spotted dick in your bathrobe is about as far from sad as it gets.
