Fortnum & Mason

Fortnum is not an old Englishman in tweeds, but it may well be.

A lovely grandfather figure who would talk to you about the weather, the good old days, his grandchildren called Arthur and Poppy, and those far-flung destinations he’s traveled to while he was your age. All while you wolfed down your omelette Arnold Bennett at the Wolseley on a Thursday morning.

Fortnum has never made someone pay for the things that they had accidentally broken in the shop. And there’s no dress code.

There is no dress code in Fortnum.

Housed in grand premises, Fortnum is a 300-year-old business owned and run like an English institution. It’s gift-wrapped in red carpet and smells like fresh flowers. And there are indeed an abundance of them downstairs. You can find honey from the garden of the Duchess of Cornwall and strawberry jam infused with Champagne.

Fortnum is not a place like this. Fortnum is nice. And nicety is so hard to come by these days, especially in the height of Brexit. I am not going to talk about Brexit.

The focus here should really not be luxury; it should be English—the rare, rigid, raspy, slightly rakish, respectful yet rhetorical breed. Constantly repulsed by and repulsing people and behaviors which are not the same as the ones they practice. Glowering and grumpy when observed from afar, yet genial when prodded, and very genuine.

Fortnum is the rare breed, rigid but not unopen. Radiating with languages from all over the world and not the slightest bit raspy. In fact, it’s very much welcomed by all walks of life in Blighty and has been welcoming to all since 1707.

Fortnum has been around for ages. It was there before the Ritz got there. It was there before the Devonshire House, what we would now know as the building on top of Green Park Underground Station, was destroyed by fire, rebuilt, and demolished. It was there when the Green Park ticket office was a wine cellar. It was there long before Piccadilly became a block we all fight to have on the London Monopoly. It has hosted the Whigs as well as the curious tourists who want a crumb, a jar, or a pot of Englishness back in the comfort of their own place across the sea and a thousand miles away.

Fortnum has seen the comings and goings. The illegal drug trades once rampant in the area. The Piccadilly drug scene in the 20th century, where people would line up outside the Piccadilly branch of Boots today to get a dose of heroin.

Fortnum has seen a lot, and Fortnum is unfazed.

Fortnum is an institution. It’s the butcher that genuinely cares about meat. The salt wall they use to dry the meat. The £5,000 teapot. The African lady behind the ham counter who remembers your name.

I realise that people go to Fortnum for themselves. The items in their basket, they are not for the husbands, not for the wives, certainly not for the children nor bosses.

The gifts they buy – they want their friends to know they go to Fortnum. The food they put on their table, they want the validation that they are able to provide. Fortnum is where you go for lunch midday to remind yourself whatever you’re doing, it’s worth it and it’s got you there. Fortnum is where you go after a long day to take in the beauty, to walk down the red-carpeted stairs into the beautiful food hall, to give yourself some time to breathe in some quality air because you deserve it.

What Fortnum has been providing has transcended physical goods.

Fortnum is history as much as self-empowerment. The enterprising footman William Fortnum who created a 300-year strong and standing home brand of England is a source of pride and the reason of pride which still has his influence on everyone today. The tourists come to Fortnum to marvel and to take a piece home to show their friends. The tea room is frequented by ladies in their dresses and as they sip their tea and nibble on delicate cakes, they remember how beautiful they are.

Fortnum is as relevant 300 years ago as it is today. When one’s self-esteem is regularly challenged and life becomes more stressful. Fortnum is there. It promises to deliver the best of quality and holds on to its promise. It never goes away. For 300 years it hasn’t been.

This November, it’s going to Hong Kong. Do not be afraid; it is not losing its shine. It’s expanding because as a 300-year-old docile, and somewhat homespun child of England, it needs to grow too. It needs to go and let the world see him. For he’s been there seeing the world.

It’s not just about the man whose dog only eats kangaroo meat and requires a seat at dinner, but also a clueless tourist who stepped in because she’s attracted by the whimsical dressings in the windows.

Fortnum is an institution. A member’s club open to the public.
All you need to do is to step in, and you will feel exclusive.