The height of hotel luxury at The Dorchester
Oct 23 2009 by Richard McComb, Birmingham Post
Richard McComb feels at home among the jet-set at The Dorchester
In the cold light of day, £4,000 a night for dinner, bed and breakfast may seems a trifle extravagant.
For that kind of money one could purchase a set of ceramic brakes for the Aston Martin, or a set of bespoke “his ’n’ hers” cashmere undies.
The normal rules of staying at a hotel dictate that £4,000 is on the steep side. But then the normal rules don’t apply at The Dorchester. You leave “normal” behind when you walk through the gleaming revolving doors just off Park Lane.
The first thing that strikes you inside the hotel is the intoxicating perfume of fresh flowers. The hotel has its own florists and they work wonders. The second thing is how genuinely pleasant everyone is. I’ve never stayed at The Dorchester before but I feel like I am being greeted by old friends.
Generations of celebrity A-listers, Russian oligarchs, sheiks and struggling hedge fund managers will attest to The Dorchester’s exacting high standards.
But run-of-the-mill luxury isn’t for me. I am discreetly shown up to the seventh floor. It is an appropriate setting, for I am soon in seventh heaven thanks to the extraordinary vision of the hotel’s management, half a century ago, to engage the services of a flamboyant stage designer.
“We’ve upgraded you to the Oliver Messel Suite,” says Justin Fuller, the guest liaison manager, as we go up in the lift.
I nod, knowingly, and smile, although I don’t know who Oliver Messel is/was. “Play it cool,” I tell myself. “Show some class. Just for once.”
“Excellent,” is all I say as Justin floats along the corridor on the 2ft deep carpet. He inserts a pass into the suite’s electronic lock, opens the door and we walk in. And we keep going ... and going ... and going ... Upgrade isn’t the word. I’ve been catapulted into another world.
I later learn, to my eternal shame, that I am staying in one of the world’s iconic hotel suites.
It was here that Liz Taylor and Richard Burton spent their honeymoon night. The opulent collection of extraordinarily private rooms was a favourite haunt of Noel Coward, Marlene Dietrich, Bob Hope and Rambo himself, Sly Stallone. Michael Jackson has moonwalked on the penthouse terrace.
The colour scheme is gorgeously over the top – sky blues, lush reds, pinks, golds. There are hand-painted silk-lined walls, doors decorated with sprays of flowers, stately furniture and gilded halls of mirrors, which combine to make this 1,320 sq ft of divine theatricality appear as if it extends to the horizon.
It is rococo, regal and so thoroughly me that I will find it a torment to stay anywhere else when I visit the capital.
The view’s not bad either. The suite is at the back of the hotel, well away from the ghastly limousine gridlock of Park Lane, and offers a panoramic sweep over Mayfair.
