Partridges, purveyor of ‘nice things for the larder’ to the well-heeled, will close the doors of its Chelsea shop for the last time next month. After 53 years of serving SW3 delights such as ox tongue, macadamia nuts and glace cherries, the shop, run by the Shepherd family and in possession of a royal warrant, will soon carve its last slice of wafer-thin mortadella. Its landlord, the Cadogan Estate, has thanked Partridges for helping to ‘make Chelsea so special’. What Cadogan Estates omits to say of course, is that a branch of Whole Foods, that artisan behemoth beloved of American bankers and vegan, coeliac Gen Z-ers, is soon to take its place down the road.
Rather like Knightsbridge, which has gone the way of Dubai, Chelsea today is simply for tourists and the uber-rich
How very sad I thought as I read the news, remembering childhood trips to Partridges with my grandmother and the peculiar smell of marzipan and salami that greeted us as we entered its cavernous interior in the old Sloane Street shop. Other Partridges memories flooded in like salted almonds hitting a silver dish: the Chelsea bun competition judged by Princess Michael of Kent, or the time in my twenties when, in a bizarre incarnation as a personal assistant to an ageing Russo-Polish count, I was dispatched to Partridges daily to buy jugged hare at vast expense.
But as is so often the case, unchecked nostalgia proves an unreliable guide. My last visit to Partridges was decidedly average. Instead of an Aladdin’s cave of comestible treasures, the place was more like an expensive, ‘gift shop’ Waitrose: all the same things – Patum Peperium and Tracklements mustard – but at a 30 per cent mark-up. In among the throngs of tourists, I was jostled aside by an Italian woman photographing a scone, presumably for her Instagram. A quick peruse of Tripadvisor – used almost exclusively by tourists – confirms my findings: complaints of mouldy bread on sale, bland vegetables in truffle oil and average houmous. The heart bleeds.
The demise of the high street and the artisan grocer is well documented across the country and Partridges is just another unfortunate victim of the homogeneity of public tastes, flattened out for ease of consumption. Nothing particularly new there, even if its produce is reputedly shoddy and overpriced. But the closure of Partridges feels emblematic of the end of Chelsea as the Sloane Ranger nirvana. Once, Partridges stood as an institution a bit like Peter Jones, all royal warrants and suede loafers, stuffed with the sort of people you might have been at school with, or your parents’ friends. In short, reassuringly familiar and just the right measure of aspirational expense. Now, the Sloane Ranger can no longer afford to shop in Chelsea and probably doesn’t want to since the King’s Road resembles any other ‘premium’ shopping destination: just Zara and the faceless chain Ivy brasserie without the thrill of bumping into someone you might know.
These days, the Sloane Ranger regards Chelsea with suspicion and some sadness. Rather like Knightsbridge, which has gone the way of Dubai with more Botox, athleisure and veils than you can shake a stick at, Chelsea today is simply for tourists and the uber-rich. Caroline and Henry, Ann Barr’s Sloane ciphers in the inimitable Sloane Ranger Handbook published in 1982, wouldn’t be able to live or shop in Chelsea because they wouldn’t have the dosh, particularly since beastly Labour put the school fees up. The demographic of old grandees that have clung on to their Chelsea pads among fierce pressure from Qatari property billionaires is dying out and with them, the demand for jugged hare for lunch.
Partridges’s success was borne from a vision of Queen Elizabeth shopping there, of lapsang souchong tea and Huntley and Palmers biscuits elegantly served at Windsor. King Charles keeps these ideas alive by apocryphally refusing to eat lunch but insisting on afternoon tea. The royal warrant, at least for food, is harder to define for the young royals. Does the Prince of Wales eat a sandwich or crab tagliolini for lunch? I just can’t say. But I do suspect he gets his aides to pop into Whole Foods for a salad. In this era of salad royals and the demise of Chelsea as a Sloane hangout, Partridges never stood a chance. Farewell, old friends. See you in Waitrose soon.
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