Ritz-Carlton Beijing review

Heathcliff and I had two options upon entering my executive suite on the sixth floor of the Ritz-Carlton Beijing, Central Place: left to a long narrow water closet with almost as much imported marble as the British Museum or straight ahead to a proper sitting room. Despite the WC's capacity to accommodate two, we opted for the parlour.

Having just returned from a day on the moors, Heathcliff reposed on the settee beneath the picture window that looked out upon Peking, while I ensconced myself at the writing table in front of the China cabinet to draft correspondence (a guilty delight of mine is sending post to friends on Ritz-Carlton stationary).

Alas, my quill had snapped in my trunk (which itself was late in arriving from the Raj) when I realized I must have checked my manners at the door along with my umbrella—I'd failed to offer Heathcliff tea!

So I beckoned Jeeves. No manservant appeared, however (although if you asked one of the ladies and gentlemen of the Ritz-Carlton for a butler, they probably could make that happen), so I retreated to steep some Earl Grey myself at the room's caffeinated beverage counter.

Five minutes later, and with a slight indisposition from such menial labour, I retired from the lounge to the bedroom for a good faint on its chaise lounge, the posh bed being much too large for a late-afternoon swoon. A bouquet of midnight oil emanating from Heathcliff's dream stick filled the air as I dozed off to dreams of Kubla Khan, Xanadu and a stately pleasure-dome.

A knock on the front door interrupted my vision before I could complete it, much less write it down. En route to the door, I realized Heathcliff's habit might not meet with approval by whoever was rapping.

  Tea service at the Ritz-Carlton Beijing

"Why Heathcliff, you know this is a non-smoking chamber, don't you?" I asked.

"We shan't be telling your mother this, shan't we?" the archetype shot back.

Alas, we shan't, but I didn't want to ruffle the feathers of Misters Ritz and Carlton, who'd hosted me in Beijing, with no talk of coinage (apparently discussing money with traveling scribes sometimes is considered gauche). [Attention FCC: that last line should qualify as the disclaimer that this trip was comp'd.]

It was our friends Col. Plum and Mr. Boody, paying a house call. I led them to the room's lounge, but as we were exchanging pleasantries, the Colonel's sinister look—to say nothing of the rope dangling from his pocket—had me feeling uneasy.

So Heathcliff and I absconded to the Ritz-Carlton Beijing's club lounge. At breakfast we'd been greeted on sight by name and asked if we wanted our usual morning drinks, a treatment we were eager to experience with bracers (for me, it'd be a gin and tonic; for Heathcliff, a gin and gin).

Afterwards, Heathcliff and I betook ourselves to Yu, the hotel's Chinese restaurant for a proper Eastern tea service and a meal of local delicacies, highlighted by succulent Beijing roasted duck, served on a lazy Susan that a renowned international expert in revolving trays later declared to be the largest one he'd ever seen.

Concerned about what awaited us in the room upon our return, Heathcliff and I downed a few glasses of baiju, a distilled grappa-like beverage indigenous to China, at Yu. Here's the process:

1. Ask server for baiju.

2. Sniff.

3. Wince.

4. Pound.

5. Wince.

6. See that the woman next to you had no problem downing her shot.

7. Suppress.

8. Repeat steps 1-7 as often as mandated.

In case the recipe didn't make the clear, here's video (of me anyway—Heathcliff was camera shy):