London in the thick of it

"When we are young, we travel to see the world, afterwards to make sure it is still there." –Cyril Connolly

As in the United States, where so much has polarized along political and - to speak the words we strain to use back home - class lines, Britain is going through its own moment of societal bifurcation.

Whether that was hurried on by leaving the European Union or is a natural consequence of the times has been much debated, and I meditated on that after arriving on a Saturday morning - while sipping tea at a seat in Hideaway, a stylish restaurant on Mount Street.

As finely dressed men stood sentinel at elegant shops that were about to open, a casually dressed young fellow pulled up to the restaurant in an open-topped Ferrari painted in arrest-me red. He insouciantly strode inside, apparently leaving his car illegally parked, while another young man took nonstop mobile phone pictures of the vehicle. The driver returned a few minutes later, coffee in hand, and ignoring the photographer, who was still at work, then drove off with an engine growl worthy of a Formula 1 contender escaping from a pit stop.

When the shops opened minutes later, I went to the London branch of Rubinacci, a leading Neapolitan maker of menswear, to add to my collection of the brand's vibrant pocket squares. I selected one with a rich blue border framing a fanciful depiction of Carnival in 18th-century Naples. I recalled that, on a plane headed to an anniversary party two weeks before, an otherwise clever female family member had chastised me with the odd declaration that, "No one wears a pocket square on a Delta flight." Very well. I would return this time on Virgin Atlantic.

News reports were coming down from the north of Britain of people struggling to pay higher prices for fuel and food, sometimes having to choose between them and having to forgo or delay other necessities. Indeed, even in Central London, where money seemed to flow like the waters of the Thames, there was an edge, a communal unease suggesting a nation in the thick of a cultural and political dilemma. It felt so different from the "swinging London" of my first visit, when I was a schoolboy, in 1971 - or was it that I had changed? It can be hard to be sure about that in these situations.

I was back in London for a legal conference that, in an act of prescience, had been moved from the UAE, which at that moment was now under intermittent drone and missile attack from Iran. The venue was an imposing conference center, Excel London, which was located mercilessly far to the east. I had avoided the usual conference hotels as if they were quarantined cruise ships and taken a comfortable suite in a private club on Berkeley Square, in refined Mayfair. I encouraged fellow conference attendees to come my way if possible - my treat. That was why it was easy to have my first dinner at the Foyer & Reading Room restaurant of Claridge's, the grand hotel being a short walk from my club. They served a jetlag-friendly starter of warm pea-and-mint soup and let me drop a snack of hard candies into a paper cone on exiting.

The next day, I held productive back-to-back meetings over Sunday roast in the "City" (the financial district) branch of Blacklock, which is justifiably known for being good at that traditional British weekend meal. Several of us ordered roast lamb, pork and beef, accompanied by potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. Then I co-led a brace of meetings at Excel and gratefully never needed to travel that far again.

Keeping up the theme of going native, the next day, I co-hosted, along with representatives from a prominent London law firm, a full-on afternoon tea for twenty-four in the Boardroom at Fortnum & Mason, the city's famous luxury provisioner. Secluded above the sales floors, the Boardroom is a quiet, refined setting where, as I insist for any event that I am hosting, all were seated and quietly served - while lawyers, including myself, offered presentations on professional topics covering this and that.

It was on my introductory visit, in 1971, that I had first met my British cousins, including Anthony. He and his companion, Karyn, and their Hungarian Pulis, Oskar and Luna, next greeted me under the Diana Fountain in Green Park. Anthony, who was not fully grown when I first came to London, is a dentist now, with adult sons of his own. My own son is in prep school, is already a published author and is actively touring college campuses. In my mind, he was in a stroller only last week. You do not notice the passage of time as keenly as when you have children.

I try to leave most of the final day of a business trip for myself, and in London, I have a fixed route. I first headed back to the Curzon Street branch of the famous barber Geo. F. Trumper, where Basil Khdeir restored temporary order to such gray hairs as nature has permitted me to retain atop my otherwise barren head.

Next, at Turnbull & Asser, my shirtmaker, I was greeted by the bespoke manager, James Cook, who had replaced Steven Quin, the latter having retired. The appointment was easy enough: I picked two blue cloths to be made into shirts with different cuffs. But I so liked the shirt in vigorous blue-and-white stripes that Mr. Cook was wearing, I ordered one in that shirting too. I am pleased to report that quick remeasurements proved my pattern did not need to be altered; my hair may not have stood the test of time, but the rest of me appeared to be managing well enough.

The same happily proved true at my next appointment, at my London tailor, Henry Poole. Here, my cutter of long standing, Philip Parker, had himself stepped back and been replaced by the affable and skilled Joe Holyoke. (Are you catching a theme here?) I was in to collect two jackets (which, on Savile Row, are called coats) that I had sent in for repairs. Henry Poole tailored clothing lasts forever, and when I showed Joe the label of one of the jackets, it revealed that the piece had been made for me in 1998. "I was three years old," he said, to which I quickly replied, "And I was seven."

Finally, an improvisation: the aforementioned opinionated family member had never liked the cherished green moleskin vest (which the British call a waistcoat) that I had long ago bought at Favourbrook, a formalwear specialist. I returned now to the company's branch in the Piccadilly Arcade to purchase two more vests, these being double-breasted, with shawl collars and mother-of-pearl buttons. Which is, as you prefer, either a celebration of personal style or going rather a long way to make a point.

My last evening proved a bit of a self-made bollix. Along with a colleague, I got tickets to the theater, which is always a pleasurable final-night activity in London. For our pre-theater meal, we were nudged into trying Gymkhana, an au courant Indian restaurant that is a favorite of David Beckham and the holder of two Michelin stars. The staff could not have been sweeter as they served me a fiery chicken dish that tasted like dried wood shavings. Then they politely reminded us that there was a £100 (c. $136) minimum per head, which, at the modest menu prices, meant we were each obligated to order dinner for three. To sort that out would have meant missing the curtain, but they seemed quite prepared. The sommelier was hastily dispatched to help me select an Alsatian Gewurztraminer to take along to make up the difference. At the theater, I had to check the wine bottle as if it were a firearm; I next managed to pack it into a suitcase in a way that minimized the chance it would break over two freshly repaired Henry Poole jackets.

As I was leaving London the next morning, I had to think that, for all the current upheavals and uncertainties, it was still the vigorous and charming world capital that had so enchanted me when on my first visit. I hope to return soon, of course, even older, and, let us hope, all the wiser.

If you go ...

Favored London venues:

Blacklock City, restaurant, 13 Philpot Lane, tel. (0) 20 7998 7676, www.theblacklock.com.

Favourbrook Waistcoats & Accessories, 18 Piccadilly Arcade, tel. (0) 20 7499 1921, www.favourbrook.com.

Fortnum & Mason, provisioners and restaurants, 181 Piccadilly; tel. (0) 20 7734 8040, www.fortnumandmason.com.

Foyer & Reading Room, restaurant, Claridge's, Brook Street, tel. (0) 20 7629 8860, www.maybourne.com.

Geo. F. Trumper, barbers, 9 Curzon Street, tel. (0) 20 7499 1850, www.trumpers.com.

Henry Poole & Co., bespoke tailors, 15 Savile Row; tel. (0) 20 7734 5975, www.henrypoole.com.

Hideaway, restaurant, 100 Mount Street; tel. (0) 20 3146 8666, https://hideawaylondon.co.uk.

Rubinacci London, Neapolitan menswear, 96 Mount Street; tel. (0) 20 7499 2299; www.marianorubinacci.com.

Turnbull & Asser, shirtmakers, bespoke department, 23 Bury Street, tel. (0) 20 2808 3000, www.turnbullandasser.co.uk.

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This story was originally published June 1, 2026 at 1:18 AM.