Usually when your job requires you spend the night in…
Ever since stumbling upon Reiss’ sexy promotional film for its new denim line, 1971, Mr & Mrs Smith have been practising an insouciant air, perfecting our pouts and channelling European-art-school cool. In our high-street crush’s mini movie, mind-bogglingly beautiful specimens are shown nonchalantly strutting around Paris in ravishing Reiss threads, sipping from a tiny tasse, emerging from blue wooden doors and generally looking fabulous – all to the sounds of some catchy Euro yodelling. Now it’s our turn to pose in this chic city’s bistros and boho café-bars for our own (imaginary) photo shoot – and where better to retreat, post-posing and posturing than the extrovert-magnet, L’Hôtel. If it’s good enough for Oscar Wilde…
Style Lavish Left Bank boudoir
Setting Arty St Germain
Why this week?
Make Sunday a fun day, with the hotel’s current members’ offer: stay Friday and Saturday and you can bed down the following night for free.
Our favourite bits?
We particularly love the art deco Mistinguette Room, which features the music-hall legend’s own bed and dressing table, and the Oscar Wilde Suite, where demands for payment of his hotel bill have been framed on the walls. Guests can book time in the lovely subterranean pool, and staff will light candles around its edge so you can bob about in the most peaceful environment imaginable. Then there’s Le Restaurant, which offers Michelin-starred seasonal French cuisine in a dark and romantic salon, and the bar – a decadent space of leopard-print carpets, Italian marble columns, black tables, and grey velvet chairs and banquettes. Le 13s (champagne cocktails made with violet liqueur and lime), served up throughout the evening to a laid-back jazz-lounge soundtrack, are dangerously moreish.
Mr & Mrs Smith say
‘You can see why Wilde chose L’Hôtel – it’s all very ‘Parisian’, in that gilded absinthe den, frou-frou dancing girls, under-the-counter ‘art’ books sense of the word. The lobby, with its leopard-print carpet, antique screens and original Jean Cocteau artwork, exudes fin de siècle glamour. And our room is just as decadent. The poet’s final words – ‘either that wallpaper goes or I do’ – may have been heeded (the beautiful and seemingly historic hand-painted mural of gold-leaf peacocks against a background of rich turquoise-green was actually finished at the turn of this century), but the combination of antique furnishings, gorgeous scalloped gold chandeliers and atmospherically faded, candy-striped wallpaper around the French doors to our private terrace is suitably 1890s.’