The restaurant at Gstaad Palace Hotel has an unsavory Fawlty Towers quality.
Waiters pour red wine in a glass still filled with a few drops of white wine. They don’t apologize, they say in a heavy Italian accent: “Oh, well, it’s a good mix. It’s all wine.” Another waiter is drinking all the time, as far as I could see even leftovers from guests.
The food, which is quite good, is often served at two or three different tables before it ends up at the right table.
And then there is the band.
This is my definition of melancholy: a hotel bar with a synthesizer and a man playing the synthesizer, preferably singing as well.
Needless to say: I love this hotel.