Au Revoir, Farewell to  Colin Field, The World’s Greatest Barman

By John Mariani

THE HEMINGWAY BAR, THE RITZ PARIS

         No, no, Colin Field hasn’t gone to heaven’s gate. At 62, he is alive, well and eager to get on with his life after 29 years as barman extraordinaire at The Hemingway Bar at the Ritz Hotel in Paris.
        I readily agree with my colleagues at Forbes that Field is the best barman in the world, as has Travel & Leisure, and the London Times dubbed him “legendary.” Why he has accrued such accolades is evident in his own words from his book The Ritz Paris: Mixing Drinks, A Simple Story (2010), which is as much history and lore as it is a guide to making perfect cocktails.
      “While cocktail bartenders of the past used to only speak when spoken to, today’s bartender must be both a showman and a host. He must create the moment and keep the show running, just like the host at the Oscars,” Field wrote. “He must be generous with himself and his own life and offer a divertissement to his clients through his personal experiences, stimulating conversation and interaction. They can thus voluntarily forget their own problems and jump inside a ‘second life’ for the time that they are with him.”
          All credit is due Warwickshire-born Field for being the prime mover (and shaker) behind the creation of The Hemingway Bar, which didn’t exist until August 25, 1994—coinciding with the 50th anniversary of the liberation of Paris, when war correspondent Ernest Hemingway and French Resistance fighters “liberated the Bar at the Ritz” from German soldiers. 
       After the war, the space was called Le Petit Bar, whose clientele included Marlene Dietrich, Ingrid Bergman, JFK, Noël Coward and Truman Capote. But the bar was closed in the 1970s, and an attempt by the hotel’s new owner, Mohamed Al Fayed (below), to re-launch it as the Hemingway Bar in 1979 foundered because it seemed gimmicky and needed an on-premises personality to give it a real vitality.
         Enter Colin Field, whose interest in bartending dated back to when he was a teenager in awe of the sophistication of Paris upon a schoolboy’s trip to the city.  He even then applied for a barman’s position at The Ritz, which cordially told him he’d need a good deal more experience in life and service. Field set out to gain all that, working at several bars in the city before applying again for a job at The Ritz. He was at the right place at the right time, when Al Fayed re-launched the bar, and it was Field’s experience as well as his knowledge of Hemingway and literary Paris that got him the job,
        Field, who soon became so popular that he was working until 2 a.m., also collected Hemingway memorabilia, like one of the author's typewriters, for the small room, and he began perfecting the kinds of classic cocktails, including the Hemingway daiquiri, that garnered hm a reputation for professional excellence. (He was the first bartender to be included in France’s Who’s Who in 2011. )
       After a while everyone who was anyone, and just about everyone else, made a bee-line to the little bar at the rear of The Ritz, and Field himself had become like a character in one of Hemingway’s novels. In the days before cell phones the bar operated as a place people could make and receive phone calls, and some left mail for friends, knowing that sooner or later they’d be in for a drink.
      Even though the hotel was closed from 2012 to 2016 for total refurbishment (Field traveled around the world as a bibulous ambassador of The Ritz) and during Covid, the Hemingway Bar re-opened and Field arrived at work in his white jacket and black bow tie, set out the tools of his trade, polished the bar and was as ready as ever to serve a regular clientele who appeared in droves. That clientele included several James Bond actors, and model Kate Moss donated vintage typewriters to the décor.
      I am one of those for whom a trip to Paris without heading for The Hemingway Bar is unthinkable, and on one occasion, when I found Colin was not working that night, I was crestfallen and turned on my heels to head over to nearby Harry’s New York Bar on the Rue Danou for its signature bloody Mary. (For years Colin and I have argued over the origins of the drink, which I insist originated at Harry’s during Prohibition). I always used to precede my entering the Hemingway Bar by having a friend go first to hand Colin my card, on which is printed my daiquiri recipe, as Palladin used to do on “Have Gun Will Travel.”
         I asked Colin this week about his plans, and he told me, “Actually, this was my way of getting out of the Ritz to start doing things that are creative and fun. I always dreamed of working at Maxim’s, so I did that ten days ago. Tomorrow, I have a fashion event at the Palais Galliera, and I am in talks for a week on a Monaco yacht week and then at Formula 1. So I’m really enjoying myself. Oh, and I’ll be working in November in the new boutique hotel in the Marais called Maison Proust.” Eventually, he plans to open a guesthouse outside of Paris.
         Now I’m not sure what I’ll do when next in town. I will, of course, be interested to see if the newly appointed bar woman, Anne-Sophie Prestail (right), Field’s deputy, can bring the special savoir-faire needed for the job, for one cannot overestimate the wry British wit that Colin brought so effortlessly to the job. It won’t be easy for Madame Prestail, for The Hemingway Bar was never about the drinks or even the memorabilia. Field was totemic, in the way that Harry’s Bar in Venice (unassociated with the Harry’s in Paris) is when Arrigo Cipriani is there. The Ritz without Field is like a Jason Bourne movie without Matt Damon. Fans may forever debate which actor was the best 007, but there’s no doubt that Colin Field embodied a place whose woodwork seems ingrained with his spirit. 
         So, his fans and I are not really saying goodbye to Colin Field. Indeed, I am reminded of the lyrics every Brit has taken to heart since World War II, when Vera Lynn sang, “We’ll meet again, Don’t know where, don’t know when, But I know we’ll meet again, Some sunny day.”

“I don't care a damn about men who are loyal to the people who pay them, to organizations ... I don't think even my country means all that much. There are many countries in our blood, aren't there, but only one person. Would the world be in the mess it is if we were loyal to love and not to countries?” ― Graham Greene, Our Man in Havana

    The Americans parted with Rufina Philby, thanking her for the tea and for helping to set up the meeting. She retained the same slightly sour look on her face as when they’d first met. She looked worn down and resigned, rather than overly concerned about what would happen to her when her husband died.
         “I wish you two luck finding your Harry Lime,” she said. “It is time to put to rest that ghost in my husband’s life before he himself goes to the grave.  My husband was many things, both good and not very good, but he was not the kind of man Harry Lime was. And, if this man Neame is anything like Lime, then I hope you can bring him to justice.”
         Katie and David exited the apartment building and began walking towards the Metro. The air was much colder now.
         At the end of the block they took a right and were confronted by the same two students they’d asked directions from two days before.
         Katie and David expressed wary surprise to see them again, and thanked them for their help.
         One of the students asked, “Did you see the person you came to see?”
         “As a matter of fact we did,” said Katie. “It went pretty well.”
         Both men nodded, then the one who spoke English said, “Yes, well, I am afraid you will have to come with us to answer some questions,” opening his coat and showing some kind of official’s badge.
         David braced himself and said, “And who the hell are you?”
         “We are with Moscow security. We have orders to bring you  to our office.”
         Katie looked at David, frightened; he put his hand on her arm.
         “You’re charging us with some crime?” he asked, eyeing the two men up and down to see if they might be carrying guns. He couldn’t tell under their heavy coats.
         “No, no,” said the young man. “We were just asked to bring you to our superiors for a few questions. It should not take very long.”
         David said to Katie that they should cooperate, then to the men, “I’d like to contact the American Embassy first.”
         “I’m sure that can be arranged when we get to our office,” using his gloved hand to show the way. “It is ten minutes from here.”
         Katie suddenly recalled how, two days before, the same man had said he was going to the “University of New York” rather than New York University and realized that mistake should have tipped her off that something was amiss.
         A black unmarked Mercedes was at the end of the block. Katie and David were put in the rear seats. There was no divider between the rear and the front and no driver.  David quietly tried to open the windows to no avail, locked from the driver’s side, and indicated to Katie she should not say anything. The doors were locked too.
         “I think you should know I am a retired New York City police detective,” said David, eliciting no response. The two Russians stayed silent, one in the driver’s seat, the other to his side. 
         A very light snow began falling and the sky was quickly turning dark, causing the street lights to come on.  The car turned out of the neighborhood’s quiet, narrow streets onto Tryveskaya Boulevard. They drove several blocks, past the Pushkin Theater before turning right, going past the Bolshoi Theater (right), then left to Lubyanska Square. The car stopped outside a large, block-long building five stories high on which the sign read “Федеральная служба безопасности Российской Федерации.” This was the headquarters of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation (below), which under the Soviets had been called the KGB.
         Two uniformed guards opened the car’s doors, helped Katie and David from the back seat and followed the party of four to a side door of the huge building.  Katie tried to look calm but was slightly shaking.  David had his arm around her shoulder and patted it, saying, “Don’t worry. We’re American citizens who haven’t broken any laws. Let me do the talking.”
         Katie whispered, “I thought the Cold War was over.”
         “That’s why we’re going to be all right,” said David. “These guys are not Soviets. They got rid of the thumbscrews a long time ago.”
         Katie looked at David, hoping he was joking, and he smiled and said, “Trust me. They just want to know what we were doing talking to a dead man.”
         They were led through a barren yellowish hallway with a high ceiling and buzzing fluorescent lighting. Their footsteps echoed. At about the sixth office on the left the men who brought them there opened the door to reveal a small outer room with two identical desks with two middle-aged women at computers. The Russians announced themselves and the Americans’ names.  One of the women stood up and asked Katie for her handbag, saying, “Is your passport in your bag, Madame?” Katie said yes and handed it over.  “I shall give it back to you when you are finished here.”
         A door to a larger room opened, wherein they were greeted by four other men, one of them standing behind a desk, dressed in an olive green military uniform with at least a dozen medals on his chest; the other three were in badly fitting dark suits and ties. The room had little else but four chairs, a file cabinet, some official documents hanging on the walls, and the white, blue and red flag of the Russian Federation in the corner.
         The man behind the desk was well over six feet, stocky and overweight, with wiry white hair. No one spoke until he did, then he dismissed the men who brought the Americans in. 
         “Welcome,” he said, without a hint of a smile. His accent was thick but his English wholly understandable. “Miss Cavuto? Mr. Greco? Please sit down.  I am Colonel Nikolai Kovalyov, director of internal security (right). I hope this will not be too unpleasant for you.  It should not take very long.”
         David wanted to show a strong front, saying, “I think I’d prefer to stand. I’d like to know why we were brought here against our will. And I’d like to speak with the American Embassy before we speak to you.”
         “Mr. Greco—or should I address you as Detective Greco, out of respect?”—clearly the Russian knew exactly who the two Americans were. “You have not been arrested, you are not being accused of a crime, so please let us just have a little talk and you can go home. Okay?”
         David said nothing, noting that Katie seemed a little calmer now.
         Kovalyov again asked the Americans to please sit down, which they now did, and proceeded to ask what they had been doing visiting an apartment in that particular neighborhood. Did they have friends who lived there?   
         David was well aware that Kovalyov knew very well why he and Katie had been there and said so straightaway. 
         “I’m pretty sure you know who we went to see, Colonel.”
         “Yes, of course we do. You were trying to see someone you believed was Kim Philby, the British double agent who betrayed his country.  And you did see him?”
         David nodded.
         “And what was the reason you were so interested in this man?”
         Katie glanced at David for permission to speak and said, “I’m a journalist for an American magazine named McLure’s”—Kovalyov nodded once, showing he knew that, too—“and I have been researching a story about the British author Graham Greene.”
         “Who wrote The Third Man,” said the Russian official matter-of-factly. “And you came to Moscow to find out if Kim Philby was the inspiration for the character of Harry Lime.”
         Katie said they did. Kovalyov seemed to sigh at the thought. He sounded almost bored by the idea.
         “It’s an interesting question,” he said. “I have seen the movie, but it takes place in Vienna after the war.  Why would you think Mr. Philby had anything to do with that character?”
         Realizing that Kovalyov was probably not interested in her research on the subject, Katie said that she was not the first person over the past fifty years to link Harry Lime with Kim Philby and that, as a journalist, she was simply following leads.
         “But, of course, you are aware that Kim Philby died several years ago and is buried here in Moscow.”
         Katie said she’d received information that that wasn’t true and that he was still living in the same apartment he had for many years. 
         “And who was your source for that information?” asked the Russian.
         Katie suddenly had a vision of those thumbscrews David had joked about. David interjected, “Two things, Colonel: First, you know that as an American journalist she cannot reveal secret sources, and, second, let me remind you again that we are American citizens and don’t have to speak to you at all.  You already said we are not under arrest.”
         Kovalyov breathed deeply and shook his head, then said, “What if I told you I am just trying to spare you time, money and embarrassment?  For you see, the man you spoke with at the flat is not Kim Philby.  And that woman who lives there is not his wife.”
         Katie and David’s minds were racing, with flashes of the Philbys’ faces, the look of the apartment, the books on the shelves.  How could it not have been the Philbys?  How could an imposter know all the things he’d told them? 
         “I’m afraid your information was incorrect,” said Kovalyov.  “And it was given to you on purpose.  And I believe the name Leonid Lentov may mean something to you?  Oh, I know, I know you cannot tell me that, but it is a good guess on my part, no?” Katie and David remained silent.
         The Russian went on to say that Leonid Lentov was well known to his office as a double agent who had worked for the British a very long time ago.
         “He is a pitiful man,” said Kovalyov, “and he is a man desperate to seem in some way—what is the word, aktual’nost’?”  His assistant answered: “Relevant.”
         “Yes, relevant. All these old spies and double agents want their story told—Philby told his, you know, before he died. To do so during the Cold War was very dangerous. But now we are all friends and no one cares about what happened so many years ago. Now everybody just believes in James Bond, who stopped spying on us Russians in his last few movies, eh?  And to think that an old cat like Lentov would try to in some way capitalize on a dead man’s famous name! It’s. . . zhalkly.”  The assistant said, “Pathetic.”
         David wanted to give nothing away and didn’t believe Kovalyov, trying to figure out why he would deny the existence of Philby as the man in the apartment.
         “Well, if that’s true, Colonel,” asked David, “then who is the couple in that apartment?”
         “Would it offend you if I told you that you were not the first journalists who have come to Moscow over the last five years after ‘finding’ Kim Philby?  The people who took over that flat when Philby died are actors who saw they could make a little money by fooling people like yourselves, and people like Lentov knows them and makes a little money, too.”
         “We didn’t offer them any money,” said Katie,
         “Many others do,” said the Russian, tapping a manila file on his desk. 
         “But we haven’t seen any stories published like that,” said David.
         Kovalyov put his hands to his cheeks and said, “No, and that is because we have persuaded them not to publish them.  We say they have been fooled, most of them leave, with a little less money in their pockets than when they came to Moscow.”
         Katie asked, “Then why don’t you arrest these people living in Philby’s apartment?”
         “Why bother? They are harmless, just actors doing a good job of acting.  The one who plays Philby is actually British, I believe.  He married the woman, who is Russian, and lived here ever since.”
         Kovalyov rose from his chair to his full, looming height, and said, “Well, then, I hope I have been of some service to you both, and I am glad you did not give any money to the fake Philbys.  And we have arranged for you to be driven to the airport tomorrow for your flight back to—I believe it is London on the ten o’clock flight?”
         Katie said, “Thank you, but we actually are not due to leave Moscow for another three days on our visa. We hoped to see more of the city, perhaps go to an opera or a ballet at the . . .”
         Still smiling, Kovalyov interrupted her and spoke slowly. “Yes, well, we have arranged for you to leave tomorrow. Your business visa is no longer valid now that you have finished your work here. If you were to stay three more days without a visa, then you would be committing a crime and you could be arrested. But, I thank you for coming in, and I wish you a good flight home.”
         Kovalyov did not extend his hand to say goodbye. The door opened and in came the two young men who had brought the Americans to the  office.  They were escorted back to the car and driven back to their hotel in silence.  The snow was coming down harder now. As Katie exited the car she snapped, “Hope you enjoy your studies at the University of New York.”  The man did not look at her but just drove away.
         Katie and David wanted to get back to their room before discussing anything, but when they asked for their keys, the man at the front desk said, “I see you will be checking out early tomorrow instead of staying for the next three days?  And that your transportation to the airport has been arranged already to leave our hotel at seven a.m. Is there anything else you will need this evening?”
         Katie and David said no and took their keys.