Claridges Hotel (London England) - Claridges: the cookbook

I grew up between a 60-square-metre apartment in Copenhagen and a farmhouse in Macedonia where we slept door-to-door with our cows, sheep and chickens. Several generations lived together, crammed and hot. The number of times I woke up with somebodys foot in my face are countless. Growing up and moving out of my family home, I thought to myself that would never happen again. Until, of course, I started having children and then you realize it all comes full circle. Those were my formative years, where I grew up with very little in terms of fancy dcor or the comfort of space, but surrounded by people and feeling the safety of having family and friends around me.

Being asked to write a foreword for this book made me revisit some of these childhood memories. I tried to distil what it is that I like so much about Claridges and why it feels like home to me, because it is very much the opposite of what I grew up with: luxury in its fullest, an extra-sized king bed and people everywhere to help carry your luggage.

There is even the tiniest of sofas in the tiniest of elevators just in case you feel the burden of travelling two floors up to be so overwhelming that you need to sit down.

It really boils down to the culture of Claridges that thing that only happens when a group of people work together every day in a profound way. The more I think of it, the more it becomes clear that what makes Claridges special is the people there. So many places have the latest designer, or a bed that is an inch bigger than that of the guys next door, but at Claridges it is the staff who make the difference.

They are simply the most professional people I have witnessed working, and we saw that during our two-week Noma pop-up at Claridges in the Olympic summer of 2012, with the dedication and that extra level of confidence that makes everything seem so effortless. I learned such a great deal about hospitality, team spirit and working together, especially witnessing the way that chef Martyn Nail approaches leadership: he is a very fair chef and calm leader. The success of this approach is clear inside the kitchen, where everything runs efficiently and smoothly despite the fact that they cater to every request and serve anything under the sun. Im absolutely baffled by something as simple as the eggs; how can they serve as many eggs as they do and make them taste so delicious? I began every morning with fried eggs (with crispy edges) and a little bowl of cooked vegetables.

In working with Martyn and the rest of the team, I realized the ways I could improve my own leadership back home. It was the seed of how we began to plan our human resources and innovational training for Noma. The experience fuelled our confidence to travel to Japan, Australia and Mexico. It opened us up to taking risks and it sparked a strong desire for adventure in our team and in me, showing us how much we have to gain by exploring beyond the comforts of our everyday routine in Copenhagen. Most importantly, our time with Claridges totally clarified that at the end of the day it is not about who has the softest or biggest bed, the poshest lobby or dining room, its the people you put within these frames. Simply put, it is the people at Claridges and for us that started with those in the kitchen who elevate the restaurant and the hotel itself. Without them, these are just soulless luxury experiences of which the world has way too many already.

Thank you so much Claridges, congratulations on this amazing book and, for sure, see you next time in London!

It has been said that ones stay at Claridges begins in the taxi, when seated and looking ahead, and the words take me to Claridges are uttered. This is when that feeling strikes: the anticipation that something extraordinary is about to happen.

This was the case for me, driving past Hyde Park and into Mayfair on a rainy, cold November night. Upon arriving at the red brick building on Brook Street, where doormen in handsome grey flannel await, I was whisked through the revolving door towards the chequered-floor Lobby gliding past a porter tending the fireplace and into the Foyer.

Oh, how I wish I was staying for longer than just dinner.

Soon a large white menu with violet illustrations was placed in my hand, along with an oh-so-welcome glass of Champagne from what may be the most desirable oak Champagne trolley. My waiter talked me through the du jour menu, but my eyes had already fixated on the Claridges Chicken Pie. I ordered, relaxed into my chair and breathed a sigh of relief, the rain and the day fading away. In a corner of the room sat one of my favourite British novelists. In another, a great fashion designer from New York. Drinking it all in, I came down to earth as a gentleman at the table beside me struck up conversation. He told me his age, 82, and that he had first come to Claridges when he was 5. There is something magical in the air here, he said. I joked that Yes indeed, and it smells delicious. No, it is something you cannot recreate anywhere else. For 77 years, Ive been coming here and the energy is still as intoxicating.

The waiter arrived with a large silver tray, carrying mashed potatoes, tied French green beans and a pie topped with a golden cloud of puff pastry. What happened next was a bit of a blur, but I can say that the chicken was succulent, the sauce was velvety suprme, there were bacon lardons and a singular quail egg that felt like a treasure, la Galette des Rois. At some point, I may have been deliriously dipping the mashed potatoes in the pie.

Upon leaving, I asked my waiter for the Claridges cookbook and he responded that at the time they did not have one. I enquired when the next order would be arriving. No maam, it does not exist at all.

As I walked to the Davies Street exit, I noticed a tall, ornate glass door leading to an alluringly confessional enclave with royal purple velvet banquettes. A small bar complete with shelves of rare Lalique decanters twinkled below mirrored signage that read The Fumoir. I sat, ordered a nightcap and struck up conversation with a man I later came to know well: the artist in residence of Claridges, David Downton. I don't think anyone comes up the three steps to Claridge's without a little lift to their heart, he told me after hearing it was my first time here. But of all the places in the hotel, its in here at my table (No. 4) in the Fumoir that I love to meet, interview and draw. Its the best bar in London; timeless both design-wise and literally the low-lit intimacy of the space means that noon can feel like midnight and midnight can stretch until noon. He was right. I looked around, noticing no windows, only tables of martinis and guests engaging with George, my new favourite waiter impeccably dressed in a crushed velvet jacket and bow-tie. David continued