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Queen of Kitsch
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/destinations/northamerica/usa/losangeles/720928/The-Queen-Mary-Queen-of-kitsch.html
On 'the world's most unique hotel', James Bedding is overwhelmed by America's notion of class.
Am I the only one who thinks the Queen Mother would make a cracking stab at a walk-on part in a Quentin Tarantino movie? I am sure that if the king of smart-talking, blood-spattered, West Coast low life could sign up everybody's favourite and cuddliest royal he would not only make a clean sweep at the Oscars but forever bury the theory that there ain't no irony in America.
Until he does, I shall have to be content with the next best thing in culture clashes. The Queen Mother's mother-in-law, at least in name, is moored in a harbour at the end of freeway 710, half an hour's drive from downtown Los Angeles. The greatest luxury liner of them all has been here since 1967, tied up beside a giant parking lot in the land where the automobile is the undisputed ruler, like a monarch dressed for a state banquet who didn't know what she was in for when she accepted an invitation from a Burger King.
The Queen Mary is now a 365-room hotel or, as the PR people put it, "perhaps the world's most unique hotel", and every weekend it serves "the most spectacular Sunday brunch in southern California".
They certainly weren't doing things by halves the day I turned up. Brunch is normally served in one room, the lofty, wood- panelled Grand Salon, all pillars, wood marquetry and art deco lighting. But this was Mother's Day, so more tables were set in the smaller but equally impressive Queen's Salon.
In the centre stood a dozen chefs, each presiding over a mountain of food - Italian and Mexican, roasts and stir-fries, pancakes and sweets - all grouped around a harpist absent-mindedly strumming amid a forest of chrysanthemums. Waiters glided smoothly over the parquet floor and all seemed to have name tags identifying them as Luis. "We're all Mexican," said my waiter, who was indeed called Luis, before pouring me a Champagne and orange juice.
There were big and plump Latino families, the men rich in moustache and gut, their belts hung with keys as if they were playing jailers in a Western. There were all-plastic southern Californian babes with orthodontically enhanced flashing grins. There were Asians, the women in smart silk dresses. And there were big black families, immaculately turned out, down to the smallest child. It was the easiest ethnic mix I had seen anywhere in otherwise racially tense California.
All through brunch the guests glided up to the food displays and back. Queues formed as people spelt out their orders, but no one seemed to mind.
At the omelette counter, when the chef asked, "What would you like in your omelette?", people invariably answered, "I'll have the cheese, ham, tomato, shrimp, mushroom, onion and pepper." They could just as well have said "everything", but detailing one's order with great precision seemed to be part of the fun - perhaps an essential expression of American freedom. Amazingly, there were no collisions, even between the more majestically proportioned eaters. The whole display, down to the fetching of the last chocolate-coated strawberries, could have been choreographed by some naval traffic-control system.
I had arrived at the ship late on the Saturday night. After checking in at reception on a lower deck, I padded down carpeted stairs and along a lengthy curved corridor to my cabin. I loved the wood panelling, the marble-topped furniture, the ancient fan (although it didn't work), the art deco lamps, and even the gushing bath, the fastest filler I had seen, with four taps to choose from - hot or cold, fresh or salt water, although the latter set no longer worked.
I could imagine George V's elegant wife wincing at the sight of the retractable clothes-line in the bathroom or baffled by the modem port on the telephone. What would she have made of the 17-channel cable TV, including three religious channels with preachers - one Korean, one with a freephone number permamently displayed for credit-card donations, and a third with a blue-eyed Sinatra lookalike, who was saying: "I've asked God today for a sizeable increase in income and a bonus above our budget." And what on earth would she have made of the pay-per-view in-house movies - The Big Bang starring Danyel Cheeks, or Unleashed Sexual Addiction with Christy Canyon?
Neither of these attractions was mentioned when I took a post-brunch tour to see more of the ship. Two dozen of us followed a young guide, who delivered the story of the "pree-mere vessel of her day" in a kind of LA street-rap style, spinning round now and again on his flashy trainers.
He told us how the 12-deck liner had been launched in 1934 and how, after 31 years at sea and 1,001 Atlantic crossings travelling at 13ft to the gallon, she had carried more than two million passengers more than three million miles.
We heard about the 20 miles of handrails, installed after the unexpectedly rough maiden voyage; the peach-tinted mirrors, which guaranteed everyone a fresh complexion whatever the weather; the 50 or so rare woods used to panel the ship throughout. Awestruck gasps all round.
The ship was indeed huge. Requisitioned for wartime service, she carried more than 16,000 servicemen and crew on one transatlantic crossing, a record. Into the first-class swimming pool were squeezed 110 bunks, the lowest just inches from the floor. The GIs had hacked the mother-of-pearl off the ceiling to use as poker chips.
The American mouths opened widest at the stories of class segregation. They tut-tutted when the guide told how third-class passengers were not admitted to the swimming pool until the Fifties. Even then they were allowed in only from 2pm to 4pm, and the pool was emptied and scrubbed afterwards.
At the other end of the scale, the record for the number of suites booked by one party was 22; and the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, regular passengers, once travelled not-so-light with 72 trunks.
For some, the tales of the glamorous made up for any inequalities suffered by the rest. I asked one visitor what he thought of it. "I love it," he said. "It's just like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous."
Later I explored on my own. At the bow of the ship were glass-walled cabins showing the accommodation of the different classes. "Are those children's beds?" many of the larger visitors asked each other. Er, no, they weren't. I looked round the restaurants, which if no longer segregated by class are divided by price: fast-food outlets; then a choice of the Chelsea restaurant or the Promenade Cafe; and then, classiest of all, plush Sir Winston's, whose walls were hung with dozens of pictures of the great man looking splendidly well fed.
History was all around - pictures of famous passengers, from Hollywood stars to the Windsors, hung on every bulkhead - but here it seemed ancient rather than recent. In the Royal Coffee & Candy Co, a shop selling at least 150 varieties of scoop-up sweets, from jolly rancher kisses to peanut-butter-filled pretzels, I asked the assistant what she knew about Edward and Mrs Simpson. "You'll have to ask at reception," she said, chomping on gum. "We don't have the room lists here."
Early afternoon was check-out time. As I stepped off the gantry, I paused to chat to a spiky-haired porter wearing shades. "Sure, I love this place," he said. "It's got class." What, all those different cabins and prices and eating arrangements? His face clouded over. "Naw . . . ya know, we don't really like that crap . . . but we have great guests," he said, brightening up. "You should see some of the tips we get. Except the Brits, that is - they often forget." I took the hint and swiftly remembered.
Then I was out again in the sunlight, striding away past the half-timber and wonky brickwork of the Queen's Barbeque, the Royal Pub and the Londontowne Deli & Bakery. If the Queen Mary seems out of place in this company, she will look even more uncomfortable come June. Then she will have a new berth-mate - Povodnaya Lodka B-427, code-name Scorpion, a Soviet sub that saw service during the Cold War. Its 78 crew members spent up to three months at sea - with only 27 bunks and two bathrooms between them.
Factfile
James Bedding travelled with Kuoni (01306 742888). A seven-night package in Los Angeles in April costs from 511 per person, including return scheduled flights from Heathrow and room-only accommodation at the three-star Furama Hotel. Kuoni can organise tailor-made multi-centre and fly-drive holidays to the US.
The Queen Mary Hotel (00 1 562 435 3511) has double rooms from 40.30 for an inside cabin to 226 for a parlour suite, plus tax. Sunday brunch for non-guests costs 16 for adults and 5.60 for children aged four to 11.
Admission to the Queen Mary costs 7.40 for adults and 4.30 for children under 11, or 9.90/6.20 including a tour. A special exhibition called Titanic: the Expedition, featuring artefacts salvaged from two-and-a-half miles beneath the Atlantic, including legible letters, has been extended until late April. Admission: 3.70.
On 'the world's most unique hotel', James Bedding is overwhelmed by America's notion of class.
Am I the only one who thinks the Queen Mother would make a cracking stab at a walk-on part in a Quentin Tarantino movie? I am sure that if the king of smart-talking, blood-spattered, West Coast low life could sign up everybody's favourite and cuddliest royal he would not only make a clean sweep at the Oscars but forever bury the theory that there ain't no irony in America.
Until he does, I shall have to be content with the next best thing in culture clashes. The Queen Mother's mother-in-law, at least in name, is moored in a harbour at the end of freeway 710, half an hour's drive from downtown Los Angeles. The greatest luxury liner of them all has been here since 1967, tied up beside a giant parking lot in the land where the automobile is the undisputed ruler, like a monarch dressed for a state banquet who didn't know what she was in for when she accepted an invitation from a Burger King.
The Queen Mary is now a 365-room hotel or, as the PR people put it, "perhaps the world's most unique hotel", and every weekend it serves "the most spectacular Sunday brunch in southern California".
They certainly weren't doing things by halves the day I turned up. Brunch is normally served in one room, the lofty, wood- panelled Grand Salon, all pillars, wood marquetry and art deco lighting. But this was Mother's Day, so more tables were set in the smaller but equally impressive Queen's Salon.
In the centre stood a dozen chefs, each presiding over a mountain of food - Italian and Mexican, roasts and stir-fries, pancakes and sweets - all grouped around a harpist absent-mindedly strumming amid a forest of chrysanthemums. Waiters glided smoothly over the parquet floor and all seemed to have name tags identifying them as Luis. "We're all Mexican," said my waiter, who was indeed called Luis, before pouring me a Champagne and orange juice.
There were big and plump Latino families, the men rich in moustache and gut, their belts hung with keys as if they were playing jailers in a Western. There were all-plastic southern Californian babes with orthodontically enhanced flashing grins. There were Asians, the women in smart silk dresses. And there were big black families, immaculately turned out, down to the smallest child. It was the easiest ethnic mix I had seen anywhere in otherwise racially tense California.
All through brunch the guests glided up to the food displays and back. Queues formed as people spelt out their orders, but no one seemed to mind.
At the omelette counter, when the chef asked, "What would you like in your omelette?", people invariably answered, "I'll have the cheese, ham, tomato, shrimp, mushroom, onion and pepper." They could just as well have said "everything", but detailing one's order with great precision seemed to be part of the fun - perhaps an essential expression of American freedom. Amazingly, there were no collisions, even between the more majestically proportioned eaters. The whole display, down to the fetching of the last chocolate-coated strawberries, could have been choreographed by some naval traffic-control system.
I had arrived at the ship late on the Saturday night. After checking in at reception on a lower deck, I padded down carpeted stairs and along a lengthy curved corridor to my cabin. I loved the wood panelling, the marble-topped furniture, the ancient fan (although it didn't work), the art deco lamps, and even the gushing bath, the fastest filler I had seen, with four taps to choose from - hot or cold, fresh or salt water, although the latter set no longer worked.
I could imagine George V's elegant wife wincing at the sight of the retractable clothes-line in the bathroom or baffled by the modem port on the telephone. What would she have made of the 17-channel cable TV, including three religious channels with preachers - one Korean, one with a freephone number permamently displayed for credit-card donations, and a third with a blue-eyed Sinatra lookalike, who was saying: "I've asked God today for a sizeable increase in income and a bonus above our budget." And what on earth would she have made of the pay-per-view in-house movies - The Big Bang starring Danyel Cheeks, or Unleashed Sexual Addiction with Christy Canyon?
Neither of these attractions was mentioned when I took a post-brunch tour to see more of the ship. Two dozen of us followed a young guide, who delivered the story of the "pree-mere vessel of her day" in a kind of LA street-rap style, spinning round now and again on his flashy trainers.
He told us how the 12-deck liner had been launched in 1934 and how, after 31 years at sea and 1,001 Atlantic crossings travelling at 13ft to the gallon, she had carried more than two million passengers more than three million miles.
We heard about the 20 miles of handrails, installed after the unexpectedly rough maiden voyage; the peach-tinted mirrors, which guaranteed everyone a fresh complexion whatever the weather; the 50 or so rare woods used to panel the ship throughout. Awestruck gasps all round.
The ship was indeed huge. Requisitioned for wartime service, she carried more than 16,000 servicemen and crew on one transatlantic crossing, a record. Into the first-class swimming pool were squeezed 110 bunks, the lowest just inches from the floor. The GIs had hacked the mother-of-pearl off the ceiling to use as poker chips.
The American mouths opened widest at the stories of class segregation. They tut-tutted when the guide told how third-class passengers were not admitted to the swimming pool until the Fifties. Even then they were allowed in only from 2pm to 4pm, and the pool was emptied and scrubbed afterwards.
At the other end of the scale, the record for the number of suites booked by one party was 22; and the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, regular passengers, once travelled not-so-light with 72 trunks.
For some, the tales of the glamorous made up for any inequalities suffered by the rest. I asked one visitor what he thought of it. "I love it," he said. "It's just like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous."
Later I explored on my own. At the bow of the ship were glass-walled cabins showing the accommodation of the different classes. "Are those children's beds?" many of the larger visitors asked each other. Er, no, they weren't. I looked round the restaurants, which if no longer segregated by class are divided by price: fast-food outlets; then a choice of the Chelsea restaurant or the Promenade Cafe; and then, classiest of all, plush Sir Winston's, whose walls were hung with dozens of pictures of the great man looking splendidly well fed.
History was all around - pictures of famous passengers, from Hollywood stars to the Windsors, hung on every bulkhead - but here it seemed ancient rather than recent. In the Royal Coffee & Candy Co, a shop selling at least 150 varieties of scoop-up sweets, from jolly rancher kisses to peanut-butter-filled pretzels, I asked the assistant what she knew about Edward and Mrs Simpson. "You'll have to ask at reception," she said, chomping on gum. "We don't have the room lists here."
Early afternoon was check-out time. As I stepped off the gantry, I paused to chat to a spiky-haired porter wearing shades. "Sure, I love this place," he said. "It's got class." What, all those different cabins and prices and eating arrangements? His face clouded over. "Naw . . . ya know, we don't really like that crap . . . but we have great guests," he said, brightening up. "You should see some of the tips we get. Except the Brits, that is - they often forget." I took the hint and swiftly remembered.
Then I was out again in the sunlight, striding away past the half-timber and wonky brickwork of the Queen's Barbeque, the Royal Pub and the Londontowne Deli & Bakery. If the Queen Mary seems out of place in this company, she will look even more uncomfortable come June. Then she will have a new berth-mate - Povodnaya Lodka B-427, code-name Scorpion, a Soviet sub that saw service during the Cold War. Its 78 crew members spent up to three months at sea - with only 27 bunks and two bathrooms between them.
Factfile
James Bedding travelled with Kuoni (01306 742888). A seven-night package in Los Angeles in April costs from 511 per person, including return scheduled flights from Heathrow and room-only accommodation at the three-star Furama Hotel. Kuoni can organise tailor-made multi-centre and fly-drive holidays to the US.
The Queen Mary Hotel (00 1 562 435 3511) has double rooms from 40.30 for an inside cabin to 226 for a parlour suite, plus tax. Sunday brunch for non-guests costs 16 for adults and 5.60 for children aged four to 11.
Admission to the Queen Mary costs 7.40 for adults and 4.30 for children under 11, or 9.90/6.20 including a tour. A special exhibition called Titanic: the Expedition, featuring artefacts salvaged from two-and-a-half miles beneath the Atlantic, including legible letters, has been extended until late April. Admission: 3.70.