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The set lunch menu is modest: three starters, three main courses and a misleading section labelled ‘Pudding’. Indeed, it would be a good place to impose on someone who was fighting an addiction to long lunches. ‘It’s not the sort of place you’d want to linger in,’ he said, politely. My pal, a vicar, was there and we had lunch and catching up to do. But you’re there, so you might as well have a look round out of curiosity, a bit like the spectator-slowing you get when driving past a car crash. The place looks wrong, feels wrong, is wrong. A bright-pink blancmange of a banquette snakes around the room, while large ugly images conjured from Wonderland impose themselves from the walls.Īrriving in the room is a bit like the moment you turn up at a house for a viewing.
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The bar seems to have escaped too much of the swanky refurb, but I headed for The Alice, a restaurant with a cathedral-vast ceiling and large windows and quite the most revolting decor I have witnessed in a while. It’s something of a landmark, cemented by popping into view in so many episodes of Inspector Morse and, within which, in the bar, creator Colin Dexter is said to have penned some storylines. The Victorian-era hotel stands handsomely at the top of St Giles’ in the city, adjacent to many of the famous colleges.
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Now he’s dipping a toe in the UK, with one in Cambridge as well as The Randolph in Oxford. Real-estate investor Ben Weprin has some 35 hotels under his belt, 33 of which are in US university towns.
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Maybe this kind of twaddle sounds OK when spouted in Nashville, the motherland of Graduate Hotels, which now owns The Randolph. And the voice would be more at home as the overly aggrandised welcome to a provincial VW garage where ‘your call is very important to us’, or as a bumptious advert on local radio for skip hire. A male voice artist greeted me with a recorded message in which he explained that the hotel was ‘where your intellectual curiosity meets your favourite place to stay’.Īs I’ve never stayed there, this message was as presumptuous as it was nonsensical. I smelt a rat when I called The Randolph Hotel in Oxford to tweak a lunch booking in its new restaurant, The Alice.