The new champagne bar at St Pancras Station — sorry, St Pancras International — is said to be the longest in Europe, which is fine, although I pity the poor person — a workie, probably, they get all the duff jobs, if they get any jobs at all — who had to find this out. ‘Hello, this is England calling. Can you tell me how long your champagne bar is, please?’ Perhaps it even aimed to be the longest champagne bar in the world but the workie quit after Europe, saying, ‘Forget it. Don’t you realise work-experience kids are only meant to fool around on the internet while everyone in the office ignores them?’ But then, I suppose, if these young people didn’t have to work at the experience of being ignored, it wouldn’t be work experience, would it?
Anyway, although I am probably architecturally illiterate — a building is a building is a building to me, pretty much — I have always had quite a soft spot for St Pancras; all that Victorian, red-brick gothic splendour, parked up on the Euston Road looking so sad and faded and unloved. That, I used to think, is a building which looks as if it needed a good scrub-up and hug. Actually, I didn’t ever think that, because I try not to think a lot (it is so very tiring) but I do think it is what I would have thought, had I been more into thinking. Whatever, I am glad it has finally received that scrub-up and hug and what a scrub-up and hug it is. At a cost of £800 million, the station has been restored, reworked, boldly extended and all beneath the most glorious roof of soaring, single-span iron and glass. In fact, as even I can tell it’s magnificent, it must be.
However, as this is not an architecture column (thank God, or we’d all be stuffed) let us get to the champagne bar which, at 96 metres, runs almost the entire length of the station and can be found behind a glass partition on platform one. Naturally, to get to it, you must first walk though the retail bit, an area which works like the shops at the airport: you’re captive, you’ve got time to kill, and before you know it you are toying with the idea of a Mont Blanc pen and have entered a competition to win a Lamborghini. Although posh shops are promised here, they haven’t opened yet, so all you get for the minute are, alas, Accessorize, M&S Simply Food and W.H. Smith, which used to sell newspapers and stationery but now seems to specialise in offering half-price chocolate oranges at the till. (No, I do not want a half-price chocolate orange and no, I do not have a Nectar card. Tell me, do I look like the sort of person who collects points so that, after several years, I can get a free drink with a meal at my local Harvester?)
Eventually, but only after resisting a half-price chocolate orange yet again, I make it to the bar where I am due to meet an old friend, whom I shall cleverly disguise as ‘X’, even though her real name is Corinna. I know that the ‘X’ who would be Corinna if she were not so cleverly disguised is here already because she has texted me as much. Here, but where? The bar is not just long — possibly even the longest in Europe — but also jam-packed. There is even a velvet rope at the entrance, staggering the number of people allowed in at any one time. Even though it’s only been open for about ten minutes, this is such a cool destination already.
In the end, after trailing 96 metres one way and then 96 metres back again — talk about tiring! — I find the X that is Corinna seated on one of the leather-clad banquettes. I join her and a few moments later feel something weird happening: a kind of seeping warmth under my bottom. Oh my God, I think — and this I do think — I’ve somehow managed to wet myself! However, after a discreet (I hope) feel, and finding no evidence for such a happening, I eventually work out that the seats are heated. In fact, there are two buttons under every banquette, one for a fan heater and one for the seat heater. This is a good idea except the ultimate consequence is that your bum roasts while your top half freezes. I think the occasional headstand has to be the only answer.
Now, this is a champagne bar, so what it does, mostly, is champagne, which is excellent, as champagne is very, very nice and I like it a lot. Here, there are 70 bins on offer, with prices ranging from £39.50 for a bottle through to £2,700 (Krug Collection 1949, of course) and 11 labels are available by the glass, priced from £7.50 (Jean Paul Deville Carte Noire NV) to £25 (Dom Pérignon 1999). We both order a glass of the £7.50 one and then another and then another, as you do when you haven’t had the wit or foresight to order a bottle. We are happy here. The champagne is cold and crisp and adorable, the buzz is good and you can watch the bullet-nosed Eurostar trains rolling in and out.
After a while, though, we get peckish, and decide to order some food. Although not a restaurant, some food is offered. Breakfasts are offered (organic porridge and Manuka honey; scrambled eggs and smoked salmon) as are afternoon teas, but it’s evening so we are restricted to either open sandwiches (beef and horseradish) or one of the canapé platters. We opt for the Platform platter at £11 which, the menu says, comprises the following: Welsh rarebit; smoked salmon blini; spinach and feta pastry; Hereford salt brisket brioche; smoked haddock fishcake; chicken and pearl barley cup. Our waiter — a lovely Algerian chap — tries to dissuade us. He thinks we should have a sandwich instead. I do not understand why he is unenthusiastic about the canapés until the platter arrives, and then I do.
I know, I know, with canapés you are talking doll’s-house food, but even so, the Welsh rarebit is smaller than a postage stamp (seriously) while the chicken and pearl barley broth is served in an espresso-sized cup and yet still barely covers the bottom of it. This is obviously meant for business people on expenses. What can I say? Only that the Welsh rarebit tastes like the tiny corner of crust a child might leave after eating cheese on toast and, although the smoked haddock fishcake was nice, none of it was worth it. It’s probably not even meant to be worth it.
You don’t come here for the food. Why would you? You come for the champagne, for the busy buzz of it, for the crack of sitting in this magnificently restored building and maybe even, ultimately, to catch a train. You also come to see other people do that discreet feel — always worth a few quid of anyone’s money.
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