Mahiki Le Freaki
Comments(4) Commuting from home in West London all the way down to work in South London at prime rush hour is not exactly my first choice of how to spend an hour and a half of each one of my days. The London Underground is unpredictable, dirty, and crowded at the best of times, and catching three different lines en route means I pick up just about every delay on the system. However, there is one bright spot: I am practically forced to read the “news”papers that are distributed for free on the Tube. A guilt free hit of crack-media – bring it on! In the mornings I actually have enough energy to concentrate on the quality reading that I bring with me, so I usually skip the Metro. But by the evening, fake news and gossip seem just the thing, so I’ll pick up a copy of the London Lite, or TheLondonPaper, or sometimes both to compare their varied “reporting” of the important celebrity issues of the day. The Beckhams in Los Angeles, Lindsay out of rehab, the ups and downs of Kate and Pete… these paper-thin personas feel like old friends.
Whenever there is a bit on the young royals (are Kate and Wills on again?? I would be on the edge of my seat if I had one during rush hour), it always seems to take place at “Picadilly hot-spot Mahiki.” So when my friend B suggested that we get off our lazy butts and actually venture out of our neighborhood for a fancy drink, and go to Mahiki, how could I resist? Would we get in? Would it be too terribly chic if we did? Full of rich and handsome aristocrats??
Let me just cut to the punchline. B said it best when, after sailing in and finding ourselves in a completely unremarkable Polynesian-themed tiki-bar, she concluded, “Same idiots as everywhere.” There was a faint smell of off milk and/or fruit when we first walked in. That faded soon enough, but the bartenders in hawaiian shirts and the drinks in coconuts and ceramic cups with Polynesian mask-faces on them all created an enthusiastically kitsch, far from cool, environment. I couldn’t help comparing it unfavorably to the Tonga Room at the Fairmont in San Francisco, which has been around for years, but at least has a pool in the middle that starts to rain and thunder every half hour and a boat with music comes out and performs a bit. Here the only thing to watch were young Sloanies with too much of daddy’s money. Which I guess, on second thought, is a show of sorts.
The night was not a total bore. We met some nice enough French Moroccans. Bankers of course. One of them who lived in Dubai did a lively job of trying to convince me that the vapid life is where its at. He failed, but was quite entertaining along the way, and I now have an invitation to Dubai.
Here it is: rich people can never be cool. They are inherently conservative because they want to preserve their status, and since they can buy whatever they want, they never develop any creativity. Also, the higher up on the economic ladder you go, the better looking the women get (high maintenance budgets) and the worse looking the guys get (too much time spent in the office, eating expensively, and patting themselves on the back). Next time, B and I are going to pull some builders.
