The Mandrake, London.
“Can I just get you to sign this disclaimer before I give you the key (a real key with a tassel) to your room,” says the lady behind the reception at what is probably the most mysterious hotel in London. Mysterious because you may not have heard of it, even though it’s going great guns and is already a firm favourite with the fashion crowd. Mysterious because you can walk right past it and not realise it’s a hotel (well, a stuffed ostrich with a crown on in the window doesn’t exactly scream ‘check in!’). And mysterious because... well, walk down that long, dark catwalk of an entrance towards the Andy Warhol and tell us that doesn’t feel mysterious.
Back to the disclaimer and we’re intrigued. We’ve handed over a credit card for incidentals (or in case you incidentally smash the place up), and we’ve signed the regular check-in papers, so why the disclaimer?
“In your shower you will find a red button,” says the receptionist, almost under her breath like she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. So far, so James Bond. “If you press the red button and the person in the shower in the neighbouring suite presses their red button at the same time, the glass between you will go clear and you will be able to watch each other showering.” Totally in keeping for a hotel that has ‘naughty’ written right into its DNA, in an area of London so central it actually touches Oxford Circus but which has managed, over the centuries, to maintain a bit of mystery and quite a lot of naughtiness. It’s called Fitzrovia, which, Latin scholars will tell you, means ‘son of the king’ as it was an area given to one of Charles II’s offspring to keep the wolf from the door.
The area – Oxford Street up to Euston Road and from Portland Place on the west to Tottenham Court Road on the east – has become the p lace to eat, not only because of Charlotte Street, an entire stretch of nothing but restaurants, but because of the never-ending openings from Riding House Café through Caravan to Yotam Ottolenghi’s Rovi and overblown Italian, Circolo Popolare. Even Gis’ chippie on Whitworth Street is worth a visit.
Add some great cocktail joints, pubs where all the people working in the
BBC up there on Portland Place go and you’ve got the ideal location for a hotel that is starry and showy, but not in an attention-seeking kind of way. There are real Dalís and Clementes, for instance, but you might not notice as they’re just right there on the staircase on your way down to that basement bathroom that has a unisex powder room so big and sexy, impromptu parties have been known to be held here.
Up in the suite, the vibe is sexy and opulent and decadent, with velvets and fringes and gold leafs. And there’s a big roll-top bath looking out onto a wide terrace, that might have people walking past so be careful with the shutters. The rooms are individual, so that’s just one vibe. Take the twin penthouses: one is modern and white and decked out with marble and contemporary furniture, the other seems almost like a boudoir from Moulin Rouge!; sexy and dark and dangerous.
Downstairs is the bar, Waeska, serving cocktails and which sneaks outside into a courtyard and, up above you, there’s the seriously impressive and impressively huge Jurema Terrace – winner of Best Outdoor Space at a recent hotel design awards, and even a plant-packed greenhouse affair for meditation (they have a Spiritual Concierge who can figure out alternative therapies for you!)
Huge tropical plants that were airlifted in block out the glare of the sun in the courtyard, while jasmine climbs three storeys high. YOPO, the groundfloor restaurant (modern Euro with South American leanings) is part industrial part extravagant with ceiling paintings and velvety furniture paired with rusted panels and a parquet floor so distressed it should seek counseling.
And did we press the red button? Of course!.