More familiar with green fields than Green Park, I was feeling something akin to Babe: Pig in the City as I approached the London Hilton on Park Lane. (My friends have been known to call me this – not because I am a glamorously tailored city-break-weekender-type, but because I am a provincial porcine and often get lost in London.)
Anyway, we (Eoin and I) didn’t get lost and were there to do a review of the hotel and its Michelin-starred restaurant, Galvin at Windows (tough gig, I know). But bear with, it’s not all bling and blinis.
The lavish lobby area bought to mind the hotel’s 1960s heritage, but appazers this look is now coming back into fashion (obviously I knew that and didn’t have to be told by someone at the reception).
So the room, which was on the 19th floor, was amazing (that is the actual room, and the one above it is the actual view). Like, totally bonkers amazing, and so glam it was reminiscent of something off-of Pretty Woman (without the prostitution element, I would like to swiftly add, just for clarity).
It had its own walk-in wardrobe, lounge area, balcony, huge bathroom etc etc… But the thing that first caught my eye, was when I went for a wee upon arrival, (because the whole thing was so mega exciting and I had to hold it all the way from Sussex because I didn’t want to go on the train). As you take your seat upon the royal throne amidst the unnervingly spacious marble and gold bathroom, you have within your grasp the loo roll (good, essential), the bidet (slightly less essential but some people like that sort of thing), the phone and a drinks holder.
Who makes calls on the loo? Is it in case you get into a degree of difficulty? Or is it for those who need to be in constant contact with their friends-and-relations, like Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh? (Unintentional stool reference.)
And also… if you’re going in for a brief visit, perhaps leave your drink elsewhere? Or if you’re really settling in and familiarising yourself with the loo area (ahem), possibly you don’t want your drink to be so near to…proceedings? I may well be overthinking this.
Anyway like the grown-ups we are we jumped on all the furniture and it was all pleasingly squidgy.
I won’t bore through all the courses at the restaurant (which was on the 28th floor and had insane views over London.) But rest assured that not only was the food and wine out of this world, but the service was what could accurately be described as totes amaze. (They probs didn’t write that in the Michelin Guide, but maybe they shoulda.)
It then transpired the hotel has its own club – Drama at Mayfair. This wasn’t strictly part of the review or in fact the freebie deal. But like the well-seasoned blagger I am I got us in (I think entry was £20 each and porcines aren’t that well paid).
It was just like something in a film, whereby all the girls hadn’t eaten in at least a month and had more protruding cheekbone and bum cheek on show than I feel is strictly necessary. And all the men were wearing bling and drinking champagne out of buckets with what looked like dry ice inside them. Also everything was very dark. I think I’m starting to sound a bit Saga Holiday/Stannah Stairlift here.
Anyway I imagine I was supposed to think it was super cool and swanky and exclusive, but in true Pig in the City style I got almost instantly lost whilst trying to find the loo, (which ironically took the shine off it, even though every surface was very shiny).
I had to retrace my steps at least twice before I managed to get myself out. (It was a bit like when Winnie the Pooh and Piglet go looking for woozles – if that reference means nothing to you, you’ve clearly never tried to re-enact it in a wood with your sisters and two Labradors.)
My review reads a little less loo and Winnie the Pooh than this, but the crux is the same: hotel amaze, restaurant amaze, club – probs ideal for someone a bit cooler than me, who likes shiny things, cheekbones and bum cheeks.