WHEN I FIRST heard Mark’s Club had been refurbished, I was pleased—but also a little alarmed. Mark’s Club is so discreet you might miss it. It occupies a handsome townhouse on Charles Street at the bottom of London’s Berkeley Square, but there is nothing to indicate that this is anything other than a rather smart private residence.
I have a particular fondness for the place, since I was introduced to it by its creator, the late Mark Birley. A perfect blend of luxury and comfort, there was none of the off-putting air of newness about it. Perhaps that was why it was such a favorite of the queen mother—the last time I saw her was at Mark’s Club, having lunch. When she left, the whole dining room rose to its feet.
That room was a sumptuous assault on the senses: rich, carmine walls decorated with an almost Victorian density of paintings. But my favorite perch was on the first floor, where, sandwiched between a bay window and the bar, there stood a little leather armchair with more craquelure than W.H. Auden’s face. It was the perfect seat in which to sit and observe the charming world of London’s Mayfair neighborhood.