Travel Blog - Mr & Mrs Smith Boutique & Luxury Hotels

Usually when your job requires you spend the night in Soho, it’s the kind where someone leaves cash on a dressing table. So, when the offer arose of a sleepover at one the Capital’s hippest new hideaways, I couldn’t resist the temptation to honour the once red-light heritage of this bustling part of London. But forget beaded curtains and neon adults-only signs – while parts of this patch south of Oxford Street are still loveably louche, Kit and Tim Kemp’s transformation of a former NCP carpark at the end of a quiet cul de sac couldn’t be any more chic. A twinkly-lit porch, 10ft-tall porcelain Botero cat sculpture, oversized plant pots and a clash of wood, perspex and pebble-dashed furnishings are a fitting wonderland-like welcome for anyone aspiring to live out some fantasies.

The Kemps like to inject a few witticisms into the proceedings, and a collage version of the Botero piece comprised of monopoly board strips and tax discs, echo the hotel’s all-but-airbrushed motoring past, as does a spectacular mural in Refuel, the bar and restaurant already buzzing with life. The temptation is to settle on a bar stool and wait for my boyfriend, instead of having the friendly porter escort me to my room. But I have other plans. (En route from work in the West End, I popped into one of the more upmarket adult entertainment establishments to stock up on some saucy stimulants. Until now, the closest I’ve been to purchasing anything that could inspire any karma sutra is a ‘Learn yoga’ DVD. The sales girl suggests a Brit-made movie from a female director, set in East London. I broach the subject of dressing up and she reveals the PVC nurse outfits are most popular, ignoring my remark that their wipe-clean nature must come in handy in A&E on a busy night.)

Soho Hotel is much bigger than you’d imagine, and I’m grateful for the chaperone. Our spacious retreat for the night reveals itself as sunny and cheery – even though outside, the weather is anything but. The fresh country-manor kiss to the decor of faded painted rustic furniture, and pastel- and bright-coloured prints, bedspread and curtains are, rather uniquely, the stuff that both Country Living> and Elle Deco dreams are made of. I spread my new purchases on a bed fit for the princess and her fabled pea, and they seem a little incongruous. The doorbell rings. I lunge into the respectable roomy marble bathroom and grab one of the luxe Henry VIII-dimensioned robes. Room service delivered, I squeeze into my new threads just in time for the next buzz. I open the door resplendent in tight white mini dress and matching nurses’ cap. My other half blanches. Having broken his hand a month ago, his twice-weekly hospital visits have meant that anything with a whiff of medic about is as much an aphrodisiac as a chloroform-soaked balaclava. Oops. Settling down with our Tanqueray and tonics, I pop on my Britflick with a difference. The opening shot is Brick Lane on a cold grey day, and it’s feeling more EastEnders than Debbie Does E1. Cockney accents and all-too-real intimacies are having us feeling as hot under the collar as a trip to the Post Office on benefits day; my beau is more impressed by the size of the enormous olives that they’ve brought with our drinks, licking his lips solely in appreciation of his perfectly mixed G&T. I realise it’s time to abandon my plans for a tribute of Soho of yesterday and toast an altogether more sophisticated sojourn. Happily returned to a plain black top and trousers, we head down to dinner.

This is an establishment where the bar and restaurant have independent allure, and local folk flee editing suites and photography studios for after-work tipples, to discuss projects considerably more high budget than what we’ve just been viewing. With a quirky screening room whose pony-skin upholstered seats regularly hold the derrieres of media’s most high-fallutin’, and a bar and boldly decorated function room that endlessly hosts star-studded launches, it’s no wonder its ground-floor eatery is also such a mover/shaker hotspot. And those less keen to see and be seen can escape the melée to an elegant all white, pink-lit library, and lime- and fuchsia-accented lounge.)

It is when my beau glimpses the wine list when I finally get that boggle-eyed, raised eyebrows response I’d hoped my earlier purchases might have achieved. ‘They do each one by the glass,’ he puffs. So excited that he can have a Chablis with his foie gras parfait, a Mendoza with his Aberdeen Angus beef fillet, and a muscat with tarte tatin, he’s oblivious to my less-than-subtle grunts trying to alert him to the American sitcom star who has just sashayed past. As we linger over dinner, plans to visit one of the many cocktail bars within stumbling distance fade, usurped by the desire to spend as much of our stay in situ. Instead we return to a room fresh from a magic turn-down service. Rather wonderfully, mineral water and ‘Sleep Well’ aromatherapy spray have appeared on the bedside tables, and the sheets have been folded back invitingly. More embarrassingly, the nurse’s outfit is folded neatly over the chair and the less-than-prudish DVD case neatly positioned on the magazine stack. That’s when I realise that for the sexiest sojourn, I didn’t need to resort to any blue-hued distractions. Superstylish, with an emphasis on quality; Soho Hotel has already got what it takes for the most memorable stopover. As for what you get up to while you’re there, while it’s as classy as hotels get, it’s also a master of discretion.

This entry was posted on Thursday, July 28th, 2005 at 9:10 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any comments on this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site.