We’ll get straight to the point – the room was delectable. Our favorite hotels are ones where you can open the door and slip into a different life. And the life on offer at The NoMad? We felt like we had walked into a fin de siecle Parisian pied-a-terre with contemporary plumbing and a hint of time travel. (more…)
Desk and lamp in our room.
Shortly after I spent the night at the Crosby Street Hotel, I came across the April issue of Elle Décor. Inside I spotted the London townhouse of Kit and Tim Kemp, owners of the Crosby. Gazing at their fancifully sophisticated, color-drenched house awash in bold florals and even bolder stripes it seemed I’d never left the hotel. In fact, a shiny lamp base comprised of stacked silver balls looked like the one in my room.
I love hotels that flaunt the owner’s style. To my eyes, Kit Kemp boasts the most singular vision of any British hotelier this side of Anouska Hempel, creator of Blakes, the original boutique hotel. But what different styles. (more…)
Invasion of the Body Snatchers aside, Pod is a cool name for a budget hotel. To our ears, it sounds upbeat and hip, because what could be more upbeat, or hip, than a place that proudly admits its rooms are small and cheap? (more…)
The Surrey.
It was just a matter of time. The Surrey, a small 1920s hotel, occupies a prime spot steps from Madison Avenue’s high-end boutiques, art galleries and the Whitney Museum of Art. For years it was a dependable if frowsy place where East Siders put up visiting relatives or moved in after a divorce if the nearby Carlyle proved too pricey.
But let’s face it, it was too well located to continue on that path.
And it didn’t. The hotel closed for renovations as a shabby dowager and reopened in 2009 — as what? We recently checked in for a night to find out.
The lobby, an elegant mix of black, white and gray with an exquisite mosaic tile floor, all but screams that the Surrey is dowager no more. It’s a beauty, a mix of Art Deco, Woman of the Year glamour and East Side chic. Irving Penn could have posed his glamorous subjects here, sprawled on the small velvet sofa next to the fresh white roses. (more…)
The Madison Avenue entry
The uniformed attendants posted behind a discrete desk in the grand black-and-white lobby were impeccably polite. But check-in wasn’t unspooling quite as we expected. The man next to is, owner of a blue blazer and a belligerent British accent, waved a sheet of paper and demanded to know what the devil these bloody charges were.
We, meanwhile, stood and waited – and waited – and waited. We’d supplied a credit card, cell phone number and e-mail address. We’d learned in detail about the hotel’s various services – yes, we’d be sure to have a drink in Bemelmans Bar, and the spa sounded divine. But we still didn’t have our room key. (more…)