Enter the sumptuous lobby of Hôtel Plaza Athénée on Paris’ tree-lined and indisputably posh Avenue Montaigne, approach the small, elegant reception desk and be greeted with such a smile, such genuine warmth, such careful concern about how your journey to the hotel has been, you’ll have the clear sense that the exceptional staffers, who are an object lesson in grace and charm, have been waiting all day – perhaps all week – for this very moment of your arrival.
Such was my own experience on a recent visit, where, in that loveliest of hotel lobbies, I happened to spy François Delahaye – chief operating officer of the prestigious Dorchester Collection, to which the Plaza Athénée belongs – a gentleman of my mild acquaintance. I found it telling – borderline amusing – to note he was present and correct, on the job so to speak, at a time on Friday afternoon when most of Paris is generally winding down for the weekend. There’s dedication for you.
In my fifth-floor guest room – which turned out to be one of the smaller, satellite suites to the Presidential Suite, although “smaller” is a relative term, since it was actually vast – I found hand-written notes from various staff members, welcoming me back, even though, I confess, I had never previously stayed at Hotel Plaza Athénée, which opened in 1913 and remains one of the top five hotels in Paris. But the message was clear – that I was already as valued here as any celebrity or returning regular guest.
And what of the room, or rather suite? An exercise in elegance, restrained good taste, it was also ergonomically and technologically up to the minute. Along with the staff notes, an exquisite arrangement of hydrangeas and perfumed white roses was waiting for me on the marbled-topped coffee table, the scent of the roses filling the air, and on the leather-topped bureau, sat a gold-rimmed porcelain ashtray so beautiful it almost made me want to take up smoking. I also found a screen-duster for my laptop, just what it needed, what it always needs, and – tied at each end with a red ribbon – a Christian Dior exercise mat – just what I needed, or always need.
The slender terrace brimmed over with geraniums and what was that in the distance as I turned my head gently to the right? Oh yes, the Eiffel Tower. Silly of me to have thought, even for an instant, that the Plaza wouldn’t have placed it right there.
Back inside, in the bathroom, there were two kinds of small trash cans, one uncovered because that’s easier to use, and one small pedal-bin with a lid, for those things you’re discarding in the bathroom that are best left unseen. Had this hotel thought of everything? It had. In the walk-in closet, among many other closet-y appurtenances, I found solid-oak shoe trees for my dress shoes, not that I had a pair with me. But then, that could have been easily put right, with famous men’s shoemaker J M Weston diagonally across the Champs-Elysées, just moments away.
And yet another treat – a pillow spray that really worked, because I fell asleep fast and slept for nine hours like a baby, which I never do, even in the fanciest hotels on the finest linen sheets – or even at home. (When I later called the hotel to inquire if the spray might be for sale, I was told it was not, and when I pressed the hotel to learn more about the scent I was informed only, but oh so politely, that “one could not say more” but “amber was the top note.”)
In the hotel’s Michelin-starred Jean Imbert au Plaza Athénée restaurant, one of the three most beautiful dining rooms in Paris I’d venture, you sup on langoustines, brioche with Marie-Antoinette caviar, and Montmorency pigeon. Or, for a more modest lunch or dinner, “modest” again being a relative term, you head to the hotel’s more relaxed Le Relais Plaza. (Fun fact: The Relais was a canteen for American soldiers during the liberation of Paris in 1944.) Or in warmer weather, go to the courtyard restaurant, La Cour Jardin. Or you just say to hell with eating and head to Le Bar for some fizz or a couple of martinis.
For me, what lingered in the mind after a dinner of sheer and utter perfection in the courtyard, was the perfect white peach, the first of the season, an object of such exquisite form and sweetness it should perhaps have been preserved under glass in at the Musée du Louvre or the d’Orsay for its short shelf life, rather than eaten. And dear old Marcel Proust would have surely fainted with joy when smelling and then putting his lips to one of those morning madeleines at breakfast, not to mention the Plaza’s matchless croissants.
Have a few too many baked goods as you doubtless will, and you can dreamily detox at the hotel’s very own Christian Dior spa, one of just five in the world, whose philosophy is to “reactivate youthfulness,” with both “instant and long-lasting results.” (The hotel has a long and special relationship with the House of Dior. In 1947, Christian Dior established his first salon de couture next door. Today the salon is across the street.)
Back in the grand public spaces, you never see a faded brocade, a pillow that isn’t plumped, a rose or geranium in the window-boxes on the Plaza’s very chic street terrace that needs “deadheading,” because everything, from the Aubusson carpets to the embroidered screens to the zingy Limoges china is always, but always, at the peak of perfection.
And with its refined sense of noblesse oblige, while all the first-name greats – Wallis, Jackie, Marlene, Roger (the tennis guy, in case you were in any doubt) – have stayed here over the years, believe me the plain old average Joe is going to be just as fussed over.
Was there ever a place as lovely as the Plaza Athénée? And – just a passing thought – was there ever a grand hotel where Wallis didn’t stay?
Jeremy Wayne is a luxury travel adviswer with Superior Travel of New York. Contact him at jeremy@superiortravel.com.
