Okay, so after the last post you’re all hanging out for a wine review. You’ll have to wait a bit while I talk about old-fashioned 5-star service.
Chateau Yering is described as ‘Australia’s only Relais and Chateaux property’, whatever that may mean. We were in one of the three
Stable Suites, which were one up from the plain old River Suites, but not as good as the Yarra suites, or, indeed, the top-shelf Yering Suite. Each of the Stable Suites is named (as, I presume, the other suites are). We were in “Lantern” (winner of the Melbourne Cup in 1864, other suites were previous winners Archer and Banker).
The luxury in the better suites must be ridiculous, as the Stable Suite we were in had:
- full air-conditioning/climate control (important when it’s 34oC outside).
- spa
- open fireplace
- a lounge suite in front of the open fireplace
- the usual TV, DVD, and well stocked mini-bar
- private balcony
- a most comfortable antique four (count them, four) poster bed
while the rest of the place offered us:
- in-suite massages
- valet parking
- friendly and efficient 24-hour room service
- swimming pool, tennis court, boules
- English style gardens in which to play tennis or boules, or just stroll
- private lounge for residents only
- private drawing room for residents only
- private library for residents only
(yes, that’s basically three separate lounges, and each of them had first rate bar service – “why yes, I would like another brandy, thank you, my good man”).
- Eleanore’s Restaurant.
Special mention must be made of the restaurant. We’d decided to have a bit of fun and get ultra dressed up for dinner. I pulled out the suit that I haven’t worn since Granddad’s funeral, and my
Lady Friend tricked herself out in a natty dress that was very swish (despite her protestations of “What? This old thing?”). The plan was to be able to look down our noses at those interlopers who hadn’t dressed up for the occasion. As it happened, just about everyone else had done the same thing. There was no denim to be seen, every shirt had a collar, if we hadn’t dressed up we would have looked positively shabby. The maitre d’ took our jacket, helped us into our chairs, and allowed us to peruse the menu. Now I get a bit miffed when restaurants try to charge more than about twenty to twenty-five dollars for a main course. Since a full three course dinner was included in the package, though, I had no problems when it turned out that the
entrees were that expensive. Although, it must be said, it was the best cooking I can remember ever having. They started with a complimentary soup. Served in a shot glass, ultra-thick, creamy and mushroomy, and topped with a spoonful of truffle oil. I then had the salmon, which was three bites of salmon served with ‘pate bric’, something-or-other ‘jus’ and ‘blackberry and apple glaze’. Which was awesome (the whole dish, not just the glaze). My
Lady Friend had the artichokes, with more ‘jus’ and more truffles and more awesome-ness. The mains were equally melt-in-the-mouth. I had the squab (which was described in ridiculously hyped-up language, until you ate it and realised that it lived up to the hype). My
Lady Friend had the trout (with a pesto topping and scallops and miniature calamari) which, well, you get the idea by now. We were so astounded by the quality and richness of these two courses that we couldn’t fit another thing in. We sent the remaining half-bottle of wine to our suite, asked the maitre d’ for my jacket, left a generous tip, returned to the suite, pulled the curtains around our four-poster, and slept the sleep of the bloated.
Some further notes, as examples of the decadence:
- Checking-in, we kept verbally tripping over the hostess on the front desk, as we weren’t used to having everything done for us, nor do we actually need everything done for us. It was only later that I realised that they were genuine when they suggested that we just point to the bits of luggage we wanted in our room, and then we should forget the luggage and the car and the porters and the outside world in general and would you perhaps like a drink in the bar, sir?
- The Age was outside our suite on Sunday morning – freshly ironed. We didn’t ask for any paper, let alone The Age in particular. I like to think that they only deal in the better of the two Melbourne dailies (no Herald-Suns here, how terribly
common).
- When we first got to the suite, our hostess gave us the tour, showing us the mini-bar, how to use the spa, how to call for help if the bed wasn’t turned down just so (or whatever). As she left, the door stuck for a micro-second as she left. We noticed as we left to tour the lounges that it did indeed stick a fraction, and required an extra push to open. We returned later that day, and it was fixed. Just like that. Our life at Chateau Yering was made just that little bit better in the blink of an eye.
- The beds were folded down perfectly. As you’d expect. Towels were pressed and folded for us. As you’d also expect. After we’d had a shower, wandered around for a bit, and returned to prepare for dinner, they’d been pressed and folded again. Even the toilet paper had been folded so the loose end was a demure point instead of just a vulgar loose end. Which I think is going a bit far, but it did look good.
- A bidet. I’ve never actually seen one in real life before. I didn’t even try to use it.
- A cat. A fluffy, stuffed, teddy-bear-esque, imported-from-England cat. Drop it outside your door when you don’t wish to be disturbed. Classy.
Naturally, all of this would normally come at a cost, and I feel lucky to have enjoyed it. It was also a chance to reflect on old-fashioned aristocracy, to whom this must have been the most normal thing in the world. But that's another post.
