Claridge’s is a rare hotel. Not just because its storied or famous, but because it has remained effortlessly relevant while being stuck in its own perpetual time warp. Its success is galactic—lightyears in size—that stretches from its inception in 1812 to its present-day glory chiseled, to the ends of days, into the corners of Davies and Brook streets in London’s Mayfair. Every time I’ve stepped through its doors for the last eight years, I feel an air of mysticism oozing from its walls: the ambient lighting; the grand snaking staircase; the glistening Chihuly chandelier crowning the foyers; and, of course; those legendary white and black chequered floor tiles…it’s a mood, and one that’s impossible to bottle up and replicate elsewhere. Unique is a hideously overused word, but Claridge’s is, and genuinely so.
While Claridge’s is all very grand, it’s also surprisingly very demure. This is a hotel, especially for weary first-timers, that doesn’t rest on any stuffy laurels. Yes, the art deco décor is stylish; yes, the list of legendary visitors is grand; and yes, no other hotel in the neighbourhood can compete with its stately, Hollywood-esque grandeur; but this is a grand dame pad that, like the pages of Vogue, sticks with the times and always looks to the future. Think of it as a clever paradox where time stays still and yet still manages to move through the ages thanks to endless and excellent modern greats and collaborators always in the know, and in the loop. There’s simply no other hotel equation quite like it, anywhere. As for who stays here, the roster of “names, names, and names” is infinite. Think monarchs, Hollywood celebs, presidents, prime ministers, the glitzy, the glamorous, the well-styled, the well-heeled…you get the point, darling.
What’s the vibe like, you ask? Think jazz-age chic packaged up in a dollhouse of curiosities and stately marvels. It began life as a terraced house hotel way before it was bought by Mr. and Mrs. Claridge and later sold to the founder of the Savoy Hotel in 1894. It’s more English home with a buzz, than a hotel, and that’s very much part of its enduring appeal. Nothing here is corporate, strained, or salesy. It’s genuine old-school hospitality, and in this day and age, something in big cities like London is scarce. Service is gloriously faultless and flirty. Waves of smiles (some cheeky, some charming) greet you on every gilded corner, and if you are staying, everyone from the bell boys to the concierge remembers your name with ease. Claridge’s is glorified theatre served with a side of razzmatazz, and the Tony award-winning kind, too.
It’s all singing, all dancing in the rooms, too. There are 269 boudoirs, including the mammoth £60,000 per night penthouse, to check yourself into. The mantra at Claridge’s is that you can virtually have whatever you want. If you request it, you’ll get it no matter the task or the ask. Hec, rumour has it you can even use your dollars to redecorate the rooms to your own taste. Wherever your head falls, you’ll get designer details to the tee: André Fu, Viscount Linley, Bryan O’Sullivan, John Pawson and Michelle Wu have all left their marks. The art of fashion illustrator David Downton is omnipresent, as are the works of Damien Hirst. If you want trippy and illuminated, Bryan O’Sullivan is your man; for supreme modernity and class, hit up Mr Fu; and for all things polka dot motifs, The Viscount Linley. The beauty of staying at Claridge’s is that it’s all designed to be bespoke, so call them before booking and they’ll pop you in a suite where you will feel most at home.
As for food and booze, the options are endless. The Fumoir reeks sexy midnight bar gossip fest; the Foyer is London’s billboard for afternoon tea pizzazz; The Painter’s Room is a pink-tastic hole-in-the-wall for champagne fests’, and the sedate Claridge’s Bar is where to chug Chablis on tap, day and night on the terrace. Culinary Director Simon Attridge oversees all the grub in Claridge’s Restaurant. There’s quite literally something for everyone on the menu: oysters, grilled meats and the black truffle is a triumph. Sunday roasts are epic, as are the martinis.
Zen time comes courtesy of the glorious subterranean spa designed by regular Maybourne collaborator André Fu. Asian in feel and incredibly chic, the treatments are well worth an extra dive in the wallet (all bespoke naturally), and there’s a rather lovely pool to spend an hour or two lazing by. If wellness is not your thing, get fat in Claridge’s Art Space café. The pastries by Thibault Hauchard are wildly good pre a gawp of all the rotating art the hotel houses in the basement. Simply glorious.
Claridge’s, in short, is one of the best hotels in London, on earth, and the stuff of legends. It’s a poetic symphony, beautifully times and expertly orchestrated in such a way that no new opening across the globe could compete.
Top Takeaways
Location: Mayfair, London, United Kingdom
Rating: Five-star
The vibe: Old school luxe, yet modern, trendy, and supremely sexy. There’s nothing pretentious here, despite the price tag.
Amenities: Restaurants; Bars; Spa; Hair salon; Wine shop; Boutique; Flower shop; Art gallery
Our Favourite Thing About the Hotel: It’s like a big dolls house full of curios, personalities and grand marvels. It’s good old British fun, and that’s the whole point.
What’s nearby? The grand old hood of Mayfair. You are literally in the middle of all the action that takes place in the West End. The boutiques of New and Old Bond Street are on your door step, as are the tailors of Savile Row, the stylish boutiques of Mount Street and virtually every good Member’s Club London has to offer.
Any Personal Neighbourhood Recs? Just stay put. You have everything you need here, and in all honesty, there’s no reason to leave until check-out time forces you to.
Rooms: 269
Pricing: Rooms from about 1,600 USD per night.
Closest Airport: London Heathrow or London Gatwick
