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Some information will be out of date.  Some of this writing goes back to 1995.
See Tiki Road Trip (2007 edition) for the most up-to-date information.

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Trader Vic's
London, UK

Full review and history of Trader Vic's
is available in Tiki Road Trip

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March, 2001

The first thing I thought of when I got on the British Airways flight to London was not “So this is it, we're going to die”, but it was in fact something far worse. As the plane lifted off for a 4000 mile journey over the freezing North Atlantic, the same ocean that sank the Titanic, I realized that I was going to a Tiki Bar in a far-off foreign country, a Tiki bar I might never be able to visit again, and I forgot my camera! Nevertheless, after six grueling days working in a friend's recording studio (and drinking Guinness at noon for lunch), I finally made it over to Vic’s.  I wasn't sure whether or not to get excited about this; after all the Vic’s in Chicago has never been very freindly to the Aloha crowd (update: this has changed dramatically in recent years), and the one in Beverly Hills is marginally better, but the staff there are so uppity that you'll never catch me in the place ever again.  Now, the Vic’s in Emeryville, on the other hand, rocks my world.  I wondered to myself: would the Vic’s in England, not exactly a country known for having a strong Tiki scene - now or in the past - tip the balance in the favor of Vic’s, or would it reinforce some of the less than Tikiliscious adventures I have had in Vic's the past? I’m pleased to let you know, without holding you in further suspense, that the Trader Vic’s in London rocks. Like many of the Trader Vic's locations, it is located in the basement of a Hilton hotel.  Several five foot tall Tikis greet you at the door to the hotel, and make sure you know that Vic’s is right down the incredible spiral staircase, just to the left as you enter the lobby.  As you move down into the darkened restaurant, you might notice a great quantity of very beautiful (and very rare these days) vintage tapa cloth covering every square inch of the walls and ceiling. At the bottom is a reception area, with the lounge to the right and the main dining room to the left. The lounge is very cozy, and is two rooms deep.  It is rather subfusc, the way we like it, and is filled with a fairly dense array of the usual accouterments: a big outrigger, lamps, blowfish, and a bunch o’ Tikis.  Good TiPSY Factor® here.* The drinks are from a standard Trader Vic’s menu, the same as you get anywhere else, but of course the prices are in pounds, not dollars.  The waitresses are, for the most part, exotic beauties, all dressed in floor-length floral dresses slit right up to next Thursday along one leg.  Made it a bit hard to focus on my Mai Tai, but I managed.

Moving into the dining room, I was reminded a bit more of the Chicago Vic’s, in that the decor is largely nautical in theme, but in the case of the London Vic’s this is far less so than in Chicago.  There is a lower ceiling, far more bamboo and more Tikis in the dining room than in Chicago, but the towering giants seen in the Emeryville Vic’s just won’t fit in the low roof of the hotel basement.

The menu is, again, almost identical to the fare in US Vic’s, complete with the antique ovens.  However, as is typical in London, there is an array of curry and other Indian dishes available. The prices are even more expensive than the very expensive prices in US Vic’s locations, but one finds that almost everything in London is far more pricey than in the US.  New CD’s, for example, run about 20 pounds (about $30 right now!).

It was a bit confusing that every member of the staff spoke a different language.  Granted, I was in one of the most diverse cities on the planet, a city in which practically everybody you see on the street is from somewhere else.  It is also true that Trader Vic’s tends to hire a diverse range of staff in order to enhance the exotic atmosphere.  Fine.  But the waiter's English was so bad I couldn't even ask him the most rudimentary questions about my order, and the same was true of the waitress in the lounge.  I felt like I was in Mongolia or something. Now, I firmly believe that when someone travels to a foreign country, they should respect the local population by making every effort to learn the local language.  When I was in Montreal I tried to speak French as best I could, and it was appreciated by the natives.  In South America I struggled with as much Spanish as I could muster, and on Easter Island, I even tried learning some Rapa Nui.  But in ENGLAND, where they speak ENGLISH, one would think I would have no problems! This is especially true if you are going to get a job  in a foreign country.  I don’t care where you're from, if you are employed in any given country, you should learn the damn language, no matter how exotic the management might want to make their joint seem.  There is no reason why I should go into a restaurant with an English menu in an English speaking country and not be able to communicate with any member of the staff.  I’m not talking about going into one of those Indian  places that are all over the place in parts of London, I’m talking about a place that is part of a chain based in California, USA. Anyway, enough of that.  I got a Tiki Bowl which came in that big triangular Moai bowl.  I still don’t have one of these - they're just too danged expensive whenever you see them.  I made the bus boys leave it on the table through the duration of my meal, even as I quaffed down the requisite Scorpions and Zombies.  They kept trying to take it way, and I kept insisting they leave it there.  The reason was that I wanted to enjoy this artifact on my table as long as possible.  I asked the receptionist if they'd sell me one, and she tried to give me a chipped one for 40 pounds (about $60 when I was there).  No way! So when I left, the bus boy asked me (in a heavily accented French) if I wanted to keep it.  “Can I?”, I asked him? He told me: “I don’t care!”. So I picked it up and made for the door, looking around for somewhere to dump the ice out of it. My waiter came back - suddenly his English was almost understandable - and told me I had to leave it behind. “But the busboy said I could have it!” I protested.... but to no avail.  Curses! I was reluctant to leave, but since the tube stops running - inexplicably - at about 11 PM, I had to get back to Wapping and my pal's studio, where I was crashing out.  I was bummed to leave after only having spent an hour and a half or so there, especially since I didn't get to take any pictures, or even explore the mysterious second room of the lounge, but I suppose that I was lucky to have made it there at all.

*TiPSY Factor = Tikis Per Square Yard

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