The doorman at the hotel is the first sign that I will be well taken care of during this trip. From the minute I arrive in London, a sharp, jovial 30-something, who doesn’t wish to be named, becomes my gatekeeper and planner, helping me with my luggage and a side of local gossip. In the morning, he lets me in on a secret: “The keys to the Cadogan Garden, across the road, are at the reception, and it beats a walk at Hyde Park”. If you know London, you’ll probably know how prized its private gardens are to its residents. So to be living in a posh, residential street, where locals can only flit between stores like Chanel and Hermès (Sloane Street is densely populated with designer boutiques), and get a peek into that? Try and stop me.
In the evening, I tell him about my dinner plans at Harry’s, the kind of place you visit for comforting Italian food. “Order the Toadstool, it’s all over Instagram,” shares the doorman as he conjures a black cab out of thin air. He’s right; I’m so smitten by this mushroom-shaped raspberry dessert, I take 50 unnecessary photos of it, which I haven’t gone back to until today.
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