AN INSPECTOR CALLS
His mission: To test hotel hospitality to the limit
THE LASLETT is a hip new hotel in Notting Hill, West London, that looks superb — but scratch the surface and it falls apart.
It occupies five stucco-fronted townhouses and has many of the trappings of a self-consciously trendy hang-out: a pile of Monocle mags here, wacky art there (a framed pair of shoes), dining room tables that move up and down on a giant screw, scribbled signage — except that no one seems to be hanging out much when we arrive on a Wednesday evening.
There are 51 rooms. Ours looks out the back at a grotty no-man’sland where bags of rubble, broken drainpipes and even discarded air conditioning units compete for space.
So we draw the curtains and concentrate on the inside, which is slick, with high ceilings, sumptuous duvet and pillows, and a walk-in mini bar.
The bathroom is masculine chic, with Neal’s Yard smellies. We expect all this and more for a room costing £285 a night, without breakfast.
What we do not expect is only one bedside table and an almost complete absence of natural light.
We hurry to the Henderson Bar (named after the founder of the Notting Hill carnival) and take a seat at one of the screw-top tables.
Dreadful electronic rap music does its best to ruin the evening, but we’re sure the staff like it.
I order a margarita, which takes an age to arrive and when it does something is badly wrong: it tastes like an orange energy drink. That’s because the hapless barman-cumwaiter has used Grand Marnier rather than Cointreau and hasn’t given it half enough lime.
What horrifies us most is the use of the renowned chef Sally Clarke’s name to prop up the lamentable menu.
There is clearly no proper kitchen, but some dishes have been bought in from Sally’s nearby deli and heated up or plonked on a plate.
We start with potted Cornish crab, which comprises a tiny cone of thick butter with precious little crab inside. A man at a nearby table has to ask repeatedly for his glass of wine to arrive, while we get charged for a glass we never had.
But all that was nothing compared with the shambles at breakfast.
A distinguishedlooking Frenchman wants some porridge and a cup of tea. There’s no porridge and no tea, either, until he has asked for it three times. Who’s in charge here?
I order the breakfast pastries and what turns up is one stale croissant, for which I am charged £4.
The Laslett is over-priced, over-hyped and under-achieving.
The Laslett 8 Pembridge Gardens, Notting Hill, London W2 4DU Tel: 020 3474 4140, living-rooms.co.uk
thelaslett.co.uk Doubles from £199, room-only