The not-so Ritzy Carlton

For anyone with an insatiable appetite of any kind, whether literary, artistic, cultural or culinary, you can be sure to get your fill in Moscow. On the agenda this weekend was a drink at the O2 Lounge and bar at the Ritz-Carlton in Tverskaya Street, for its incomparable panoramic view of Red Square, the Kremlin and surrounding areas as described in several guide books.

We walked through the door opened by the valet into the lobby like we owned the place. A visual sweep offered the sight of a lounge adorned in red and gold – regal colors – as befits a place of its caliber. On display were also the ubiquitous marble columns and gold and black capitels omnipresent in Russian architecture, plush seats with a few scattered guests surrounded by antique figurines. We didn’t linger around to see what they were consuming or hear what they were talking about. I found it strange that no one came to offer any assistance after the valet had let us in. On a mission, we went up the east staircase to the upper lobby to see if there would be an indication of our destination. There was none.

I approached a young lady in a skirt suit, walking in our direction but with no intention of communicating with us, to ask for directions to the lounge. She kindly and efficiently informed us it was on the 11^th floor. We thanked her and set off in the direction of the elevators. One answered our call request and we joined a couple, obviously staying there, to our much-desired destination anticipating a sip of something we knew would create a significant hole in our wallets, as well as to partake in the joy of experiencing the much-revered and talked-about view.

The elevator however, had a mind of its own and would not accept our request to be lifted to the 11^th floor. The gentleman got the lift to accept his request. He had the secret – the electronic key to their room, and advised us to use ours. Well, we had just come for the above-mentioned purpose after which we would return to our modest digs in the south of Moscow. We explained that we were just going to the bar, and with no such open-sesame device; it was quite clear we weren’t staying there. He then went on to inform us that the bar was on the 12^th floor, not the 11th, which got me wondering about the lady in her suit with a pile of papers under her arm, who obviously looked like she worked there as she came out of a door with a gilded label on it, most likely for staff only.

We civilly exchanged goodbyes as the couple got off and we continued ascending. Finally we exited on the 12^th floor and were immediately approached by a lady who addressed us in English. She must have seen us on a screen somewhere as she literally just appeared as we were walking out of the elevator. She offered to assist us and we made our request. She subsequently offered us the only two seats available, unfortunately not overlooking the much sought view we were after.  I chose the sofa as she called it, and realized as we were led there that a canopied couch would have been a better description. Our view was that of the Bolshoi and a few other not very significant buildings. Oh, well…

Another visual sweep of our surroundings transported me to the rooftop bar and lounge at the Yas Hotel in Abu Dhabi where I’d stayed when I went to see Shakira perform at the Yas Island Arena. The layout may have been slightly different, but the furniture was exactly the same – it must be mass-produced these days. The lack of exclusivity and the feeling of déjà-vu in a place of supposedly such high standards were a bit of a let-down, nevertheless, I hoped the evening would get better after we’d been there for a while.

A few interminable minutes after we’d been seated, we were approached by a young waiter and offered a drinks menu. The prices were as I expected. I ordered a glass of red wine and have forgotten what my friend ordered – a cocktail of some sort, may be. To accompany our drinks we were served wheat-based snacks which my food allergies prevented me from eating, therefore, I kindly requested nuts. The linguistic barrier, my only guess, made my request slightly difficult to process: “peanuts, walnuts, cashew nuts?” I further elaborated. Finally, I was told very irreverently that they had run out. "AT THE RITZ!!!", I nearly screamed. 

An Emirates Palace moment in Abu Dhabi flashed in my mind, when I was told at a seven-star hotel that I could not order an omelet because it wasn’t on the menu as it was outside breakfast hours.

Back to the Ritz-Carlton in Moscow though, so as to be on task here. I expressed my disbelief to the waiter and he just apologized again, in as much politeness as his attitude allowed him. I reiterated my request which I felt I was entitled to in such a place, and for what I’d pay for a drink. Our waiter then offered to find out if another bar on some other floor would have it, but made sure beforehand that I was aware of the fact that it would be very unlikely. It all seemed very unprofessional, this lack of will to be as accommodating as is required in a high end hotel. It is the first bar I have ever been to in my life where they had run out of nuts – running the spectrum from the hole in the wall to the Ritz-Carlton. My conclusion was that nuts were probably too cheap to be offered at a place like the Ritz. 

Another funny incident flashed through my mind. I remembered a comment one of my students made in Abu Dhabi when I was working there. In response to my Emirates Palace experience, he said, “Miss, you should have ordered something more expensive and more special, more exclusive. An omelet is too cheap and too common.” However, I'm sure if I’d ordered an omelet made of South African ostrich eggs of a specific date, at a particular temperature with fresh Iranian caviar, the response would have been the same; just as if I’d ordered a gluten-free version of what we'd been served.

I was still optimistic that my experience would improve to make the evening slightly more pleasant and memorable. I missed the rooftop bar and restaurant at the Swiss Hotel dearly, where nuts of all kinds as well as snacks were available, not to mention as many times as I asked for a refill and chose and picked what I wanted, sending back what I didn’t. The affable waiters kindly honored my request with a smile and I happily showed my gratitude after we footed the bill.

But let’s get back to the Ritz in Moscow. If my mind is wandering more than I am enjoying this place, it clearly implies that I wished I were somewhere else. And so it happened that I sipped my red wine, which I must say I had no complaints about, albeit sans snacks. It got a bit chilly and I was glad we had the canopy and a blanket under which I retreated warmly while we chatted, and later went for a walk around to look at the view. The alcohol, the chat, not to mention the complaints, had opened up an appetite, so we asked for a meal menu after our tour. When it finally arrived, we took one strained look at it in the dim lights and both burst out laughing. Suffice to say that we were not in the least interested in paying those prices for that kind of service, and as much as I understand that the Ritz has a name to live up to and prices to charge accordingly, I thought it would make more sense for me to have that culinary experience somewhere else.

After our last sip, we took a last tour around the rooftop, managed to see the view again, and I totally concur with the guide book writer – it is spectacular. As we did so, we walked past the remnants of a dinner party. The drinks glasses and bottles for a party of 12 or so still lingered; several bottles of Moet still chilling on ice, different brands of beer, vodka, numerous bottles of other kinds of spirits heavily weighing down a wheel-around tray and more. I wondered what they were waiting for to clear it all up, and once again I saw myself questioning the service at that place. 

We took pictures to commemorate the moment and finally walked past a popcorn stand on our way out, which I assumed would be the most expensive popcorn in Moscow. We walked through the indoor bar with egg-shaped, swivel seats, beautifully embroidered in red and gold, arranged in twos around low, round coffee tables, lined up against the glass wall overlooking the terrace we'd just left. They were set out for more romantic, intimate meetings. We sat in them and took turns taking pictures. 

The final stop before the heading back down in the elevator was the rest room which I gave, 9 out of 10 just because they didn't have the likes of Molten Brown or Jo Malone hand lotion. Everything else was pleasantly in place, unlike the refreshment experience. Back out on the warm street through the door opened once more by the valet, we felt our experience warranted a metro ride back home than in one of the three limos waiting outside.  

I’m glad I had the experience and feel fortunate that to have seen enough to make comparisons, but my favorite is still the Sky Bar at the Swiss Hotel in Moscow, until I go somewhere else than can top it.