Lighter, not larger
Guests who ask for a dinner date at VIP level sometimes expect more of everything: a louder room, a longer menu, a rarer bottle. The Society reads the phrase differently. The VIP version of a familiar evening is the one in which every small decision has been made before you dress, so that from the first glass to the last goodnight nothing needs arranging, signing, telephoning or explaining.
The effort does not vanish. It moves to the afternoon, into Cressida's thread and a short conversation with the restaurant, which is exactly where it belongs. What is left for the evening is the part worth having: the table, the talk and the walk home.
The table, settled by teatime
Reserve in your own name and say, when you book, that the dinner is for two and that you would welcome a quiet table; the note on the corner table explains what to request and why it matters more than the menu. In the dining rooms around Berkeley Square a word about the occasion goes a long way, and so does booking at a slightly unfashionable hour.
For more seclusion still, several Mayfair restaurants keep a private room for small parties, and one or two will lay it for two on a quiet weeknight if asked well ahead. A chef's table or a counter seat is the other VIP option: the kitchen becomes the entertainment, and conversation runs sideways rather than across. It suits a second or third dinner better than a first.
A brief she reads on the way
The largest single difference between an ordinary evening and an effortless one is what your companion knows as she walks in. Tell Cressida where you are dining and at what hour, how formally the room dresses, whether anyone else might stop by and how they should be addressed, and any subject better left alone. She passes it on before the car leaves, so your companion arrives already holding the shape of the evening.
A good brief is short. Three lines usually do it. The point is that you never spend the first course explaining yourself, and she never spends it guessing.
The bill that never reaches the table
The moment an evening most often loses its ease is when the bill appears. At this level it does not appear at all. When you book, or quietly on arrival, ask the restaurant to settle everything out of sight once the evening is over, including the discretionary service charge that most London dining rooms add. The maître d' will understand at once; it is one of the oldest requests in the trade.
The same principle governs your companion's fee. It passes from you to her privately, within the first minutes of her arrival, and is not referred to again by either of you. Money has no place at a dinner table, and at a well run dinner it never comes near one.
The car, and the minutes between rooms
A car waiting outside is the quiet luxury of a Mayfair evening, and the old mews behind the grand streets were built to hold carriages; ask the restaurant where a driver may wait without blocking the lane. When the distances are short, walk instead. From Berkeley Square to Mount Street is under ten minutes, and the stroll between a first drink and dinner often produces the best conversation of the night.
Your companion's own journey to meet you is the Society's affair, and inside Zones 1 and 2 it costs you nothing.
Four hours, and why they suffice
Four hours at £1,800 is the dinner date: a drink beforehand, dinner at its natural pace and a nightcap wherever you are staying. It is the length the Society knows best, set out in full on the dinner date page. A table at eight fits it with room to spare. A tasting menu begun at half past seven may call for the overnight instead, and Cressida will say so plainly before you confirm rather than after. Every other length is listed on the rates page.
If three hours of dinner and nothing more suits you better, the three hour dinner describes how to pace the courses so that the talk keeps up with the kitchen.
If the evening changes course
An evening at this level also absorbs changes without fuss. If dinner runs long, a short message to Cressida from the table is enough; she checks that your companion is free, and any extra time is agreed in the thread rather than discussed over dessert. If a client or an old friend joins you unexpectedly, your companion adjusts at once, keeps the conversation general and lets you lead the introductions.
If the evening ends early, it simply ends. Nobody lingers, nothing further is owed beyond the length you agreed, and a single line to Cressida the next day, should you wish to see the same companion again, is all the follow up required.
Three names for an evening without effort
Luna likes to be trusted with the wine, and sommeliers across Mayfair greet her by name; handing her the list is a luxury in itself. Danielle has a way of making a busy room fall quiet around her table, and she will choose the seat from which the whole dining room is visible. Candlelight flatters them both: Luna's dark red hair places her among the auburn companions, while Danielle's is a straight fall of black.
Milena brings the opposite energy, high shine and quick opinions, and suits a lively room on a Friday. Describe to Cressida the evening you are imagining as well as any name you like, and she will propose whoever fits it best through booking.
Asked at the table
Choose it if you have a favourite, and ask if you do not. Cressida often passes on a suggestion from the companion herself, with a line explaining why she likes the room.
No. The dinner date is £1,800 for four hours whoever is booked and wherever you dine. What changes at this level is the preparation, never the figure.
Yes, and it often works better. A glass at your hotel, then the short walk or the car to dinner together, gives the evening a proper overture.
Written by Cressida, Membership secretary at Berkeley Square Society. To turn any of this into an evening, write to the desk.
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