Like a Pair of Gay Oligarchs on Charade

I have simple tastes. I prefer routine over surprise; water over wine; the train over the plane; the potato over the steak. I’d make a good monk, if I believed in a Supreme Being deserving of worship. Fortunately, those around me like their creature comforts, and sometimes they draw me into their thrall.

The Author at Raffles Long Bar for Afternoon Tea

Last December my housemate mentioned—in all innocence—that he’d like to have afternoon tea at Raffles. For all I knew Raffles was a new MassLottery game. Turns out it’s a chain of uber high-end hotels, the original dating to Singapore 1887 and named for Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles, founder of that modern nation-state. A much more recent addition to the Raffles line is a glass tower in Boston’s Back Ba

Always in search of the right holiday gift for a housemate who has pretty much everything, a reservation for afternoon tea at Raffles Boston seemed just the thing. On a freezing cold February day of crystalline clear sky we ventured into the mid-afternoon city. We entered the boutique-scaled lobby with its Chihuly-esque ceiling, mentioned our reservation for tea, and the hostess smiled, “Yes, Mr. Fallon. We are expecting you.” I’m always a little creeped out by people knowing my name without mention.

Up the spacious elevator to the 17th floor sky lobby. (Architecture nerds can learn why the lobby is on the 17th floor. Everyone else can just read on.) More elegantly coiffed people. All of whom seem to know my name.

Long Bar at Raffles Boston is not very long, though the marble slab is plenty opulent. The room has very tall ceilings, full windows to the south, and serpentine banquettes that I sank right into. The place was mostly empty (after all, it is three p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon) but no so empty as to be resonantly awkward. Twenty-foot-high sheer curtains kept the sun’s glare at bay, while preserving the distant outline of the Blue Hills.

Our table was preset. Our waiter appropriately hospitable and unintrusive. None of this, “My name is Jason and I’ll be your server today.” The distinction between customer and staff at Raffles is clear.

The tea menu was extensive. We ordered our first pots. Chai for me; a floral mix for my housemate. Each steeped for the recommended time, then infused our bellies with winter warmth. Thereupon our delectables arrived. Eleven pair of delicacies, spread among three dishes encased in an open cage. A top plate of breadstuffs, a bottom plate of savories, a middle plate of sweets.

The Savories

We enjoyed our selections in order of breads, then savories, and finally sweets. Between each delight we sipped our tea, in no hurry whatsoever. Every item was delicious; some were extraordinary. The scone, perfectly rough, came to life smothered with coddled cream and pear jelly. The deviled egg, marinated to a purple was filled with scrumptious lobster. The caramelized cream puff lined with dark chocolate and topped with tangerine: incredible.

More than an hour passed in genteel sips and idle bites. We were, by far, the oldest and best dressed gents in the place, evidence that we took our afternoon tea seriously. Languishing in such opulence in the middle of the day made it seem all the more extravagant. I likened ourselves to Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson spinning time Lost in Translation. Also to a pair of gay oligarchs charading as winners atop the Trumpian world order.

Sometime after 4:30 the sun was far enough past. The immense drapes opened mechanically to reveal a splendid afterglow. The immense chandeliers came to soft life. The bar started drawing post-work patrons; exuberant in their business conquests. Tea gave over to bourbon. It was time to go.

The Sweets

If my housemate had never planted the seed, I might never have gone to afternoon tea at Raffles. I may never go again. It is as ridiculous as it is wonderful. An experience I’d never want to make routine, yet totally memorable. Not as remarkable as holding your ten-minute old daughter, or attending your son’s doctoral defense. More akin to seeing Picasso’s “Guernica” at MoMA, cycling the base of the Tetons, watching the sun drop into Bay of Gonave, or witnessing Bette Midler channel Dolly Levi. A one-time, illuminating immersion.

Also, a pretty neat way to spend a cold winter afternoon.