Hotel Design: Who Took The Soap?

Our recent overnight stay at a three year old boutique hotel in New York City reminded us of a few things we've been meaning to note:

* How do you tell the European tourists from their American counterparts, aside from the from their being much thinner? The Euros are the ones in colored sneakers or trainers, while the Americans are wearing the new white athletic shoes, which look as though they've never been used. They haven't.

* The exception to that rule are German tourists, who are the worst-dressed of the Europeans. When you see a couple wearing sandals, with socks, those are the Germans. Do we know why the wealthiest Europeans dress so poorly that they are easily mistaken for Americans? Nein.



* Apparently, all contemporary hotel room-designers share a strange trait; they wear glasses while taking a shower. How else could we explain the tiny print on the small containers of shampoo, conditioner, and something called bath gel in the showers? We are getting a little tired of washing our hair with conditioner and covering ourselves in oily shampoo instead of soap! Bath gel? Whose idea was that! What was wrong with having a bar of soap in the shower? Worked for hundreds of years; get it back, please

Water Hazard

* Speaking of hotel showers. Remember when hotel showers had one water source, hanging from above? Now many hotel showers come equipped with six spigots or more! Depending on your height, this could be dangerous to your bodily health, not to mention that we need a manual to figure out how to turn on that single source. Figuring out how to use the shower, however, does give us time to read the small containers while still wearing our glasses.

* Can we talk about hotel Heat/AC units without using four letter words, and we don't mean w-o-r-k  w-e-l-l? Those thick quilts on the beds are there for use in July, when the AC insists on a room temperature of around 57'F. And those windows that actually open a crack? Those are for use in January, when the Heat unit has gone on intimate-dry cycle. Our most recent room used a point and click system, in which we  ( well, one of us, anyway) pointed a remote at the ceiling-hung unit in each of three rooms. You've heard of Four Seasons Hotels? Well, we had Three Seasons going in our living room, bedroom and bath. The bath had the only temperate zone.

* Having so many European tourists benefits New York City's economy and we're glad to have them. But, it's high time that we taught them how to walk in the city. A stroll is not a walk. Come to think of it, we need to train the American tourists as well, who are breaking in those new white sneakers at snails' pace.

Several years ago, while advising a hotel group about their room design, we suggested a solution for this problem: place sidewalk walking instructions on every hotel room door, just like the required fire safety and hotel rate notices: 1) Keep to the right. Always walk on the right side of sidewalks. 2) "Strolling" is not allowed on sidewalks; stroll in parks and museums only.  3) Walk at a "brisk" pace on sidewalks at all times, just as the locals do. 3) If you have not exercised in many years, and you know who you are, we strongly suggest use of an all-day pass on the subway system.

* What will all of these Manhattan boutique hotels with contemporary European design and style do, when the wave of actual European tourists subsides? Sadly, this day must come, and soon, due to EU economic difficulties and the weakening of the Euro itself? Will China provide the next tourist wave? Will they want  their hotel rooms to reflect their own familiar style? How do you say "renovation costs" in Mandarin?

* How do you spot a European tourist in a NYC restaurant? They are the only ones paying for bottled water.

Upgrade

The idea came to me while I was walking past the landmark hotel in the upper eastside neighborhood near the private library where I sometimes do my work. Why not celebrate our thirtieth-anniversary night at the very hotel where we stayed on our wedding night?

Why not indeed.

At home that evening, it occurred to me that I had kept the original checkout statement from our night's stay. A quick look in the vault revealed the old statement and the GM's letter of December '81 (left) confirming the room and my deposit.

Our room rate way back when? $195, which may sound like a bargain today, but may have represented a half week's pay at the time! I wondered what a room might cost today. Kayak/Etc Answer: $540, and that was for the least expensive room.

So, I wrote a very clever message to the current GM and Sales Staff, saying I'd found my original bill, how wonderful the old place was, wouldn't it be nice to wander down Memory Lane there, but could we do it for less than $540, please, mainly because I'm writing this really clever letter?

The answer came back promptly: sorry, no. But, they would be happy to upgrade us in honor of the event, at the published rate. Who knows, maybe they just get these cute requests all the time and finally created a strict no-go policy. Whatever.

The MAve

I was underwhelmed by their apparent lack romance and a sense of whimsy or humor about the matter.
They've grown a bit snooty with all of their recent success after a renovation, I thought.

I set out to find another, better, much more fun place for less. I found it, luckily, at the other end of Madison, at 27th Street just up from the real Madison Square. The MAve Hotel is one of many new small (72 rooms) hotels which have popped up in Manhattan over the last decade or so, catering to the waves of European tourists and their once maxi-strength Euro.

The MAve's lobby is all glass and white and bright red. It's front desk is tiny, with room for one very efficient check-in host/concierge/parking attendant/tour guide. While I was there I saw people coming/going who were French, Dutch, German, Spanish (from the real Spain), all of whom had very spiffy heavy-duty brightly colored plastic luggage. European governments must give this luggage out for free like education and healthcare.

Are Europeans cowering with fear about their economic woes? Take a walk around Manhattan and you'll find a quick answer: non, nein.

69th Regiment Armory

Years of hotel observation have trained me that a) all people checking in look happy just to have arrived someplace, and b) the faces and body language of those checking out is a better way to gage one's potential experience.  Those checking out seemed happy in several languages.

I was duly informed that our room was not yet ready, but not to worry, the GM had upgraded us, at no cost, to the penthouse suite. Score one for the New Hotel! Why had they done this? I had simply noted our anniversary in the remarks field while making a reservation on the hotel's own online site. Simple as that.

I decided to take a short walk in the neighborhood, which was not new to me, although I'd not been there much lately. I was curious to see if the old armory was still there, where, as a student in a military high school I'd had to drill every dreary Tuesday afternoon for four years. I used to hop on the subway at Union Square and alight one express stop later at 23rd Street, then walk along Madison or Park Avenue and across 26th Street to the side entrance.

PH Suite LR

In those days, Madison was lined with tall stately stone buildings, mostly housing insurance companies. I can still remember walking back down Madison at rush hour, happy to be free from drill drudgery, jostling and being jostled on the wintry streets in yellowish streetlight by people in a hurry to get home (at 5PM!) to have dinner with their families.

Sure enough, there was the armory, nearly fifty years later, and it looked exactly the same, the old  69th. Funny how the years make somewhat brittle memories into fond reminiscences. Life's rough patches have a habit of returning as The Good Old Days.

The Madison Square area has acquired a restaurant pedigree. Some of my favorites are nearby, like Gramercy Tavern and Eleven Madison Park. But, we had been eager to try one of David Chang's Momufuku-Family places, Ma Peche at 15 W. 56th, next to another contemporary hotel, Chambers. We were the only ones in the place over the age of thirty-five, which pleased us. Highly recommended: small plate soft shell crabs, lobster steam bun and large plate duck, but, actually, it's all really, really good. As with other Chang emporia, prepare for loud music from nearby speakers, but do not let it prevent you from going as often as you can afford to go.

Taking a stroll down Memory Lane in places we fondly remember is a nice concept, but those  memories are sometimes best left alone. Exploring new/updated neighborhoods, surrounding ourselves with young people in hip places has a way of energizing us. It also has the added benefit of creating new memories.

You can't get more upgraded than that.

Ed Note: Everyone we met at The Mave was wonderful and they took really good care of us. They clearly love working there. The regular rooms are small, 21-0220 sq.ft, but the PH is over 500 Sq. ft. There is valet parking and room service. 

http://www.momofuku.com/restaurants/ma-peche/
http://www.themavehotel.com/
http://www.sixtyninth.net/armory.html

Dining At The Lounge? First, Grab A Snack At Home

The Lounge

     Word has just come that our beloved Harbour Lounge at the foot of the long dock on Saint James to which we come and from which we go each year has been sold and will become a private house. After nearly fourteen years-worth of visits, I'm beginning to know how the real old timers feel, when they speak to me about the "old" island's life and its passing.

     Truth is that The Lounge had a few extra years beyond the owner's desire to sell it; and that, on many nights, we were nearly by ourselves there, waiting as patiently as visitors can wait for our food, or drinks, or perhaps just a passing glimpse of our waitress. On too many other nights, while riding home in our cart from another island dining place, maybe Valentine's or, only occasionally due to its prices and own patented brand of waiting The Landing, The Lounge had already been closed for an hour, the girls gone back to Eleuthera by water taxi, Ritchie, Spooner and the guys gone from evening vespers at the bar.

     The Lounge was our place of choice for our first island night and our last, from the first visit to the one we made last year. One did not seek out The Lounge for its fine cuisine, although I never tired of its grilled or baked grouper, the mahi-mahi, the conch fritters or the grouper fingers. On two occasions, we had Bill bake our own wahoo, caught on Jeff Fox's boat or that of another ocean-rig guide.

Sip-Sip

     It was never fashionable, nor did its chefs have the talent and training of those at The Landing, Rock House, or out at the beach at Coral or Pink Sands, where the expectations of global luxury ran high, and where service would never, ever quite rise to the occasion. It did not have the casual island homey feel as Sip Sip does; and, besides, Sip-Sip, on the whole, is the best restaurant on the island (and the smartest, being open for lunch only).

     The Lounge did not have a single dish to win a prize, as Queen Conch's fresh salads might very well do in competition; that is, if the Queen went in of that sort of thing, which she does not, could not, will not. Hers is more of a spiritual quest for perfection, filled with the grace of the conch itself and in every small movement as she chops her peppers, tomatoes, onions; squeezes the juice of many limes and, not least, performs a wristy-shake of her own hot sauce.

     None of The Lounge's desserts, including its key lime pie, could measure up to the delicate donuts at Mr. Arthur's Bakery, or, indeed, of his own key lime pie, best frozen for a day and served that way.  I say this even if the Lounge, unbeknownst to me all these years has been serving Arthur's pie, which I doubt.

     And yet, The Lounge retained a kind of allure for us, much like Les Deux Magots has done for legions of Hemingway fans. I do not exaggerate in this, I assure you. We were there for something that probably had not been there for many, many years, but made us feel pretty good that it had, at least, once been there.

Bay Str

     We are already negotiating where we will go on arrival night and on departure eve this year. Opinions vary.

Maybe Valentine's and sit out by the bar (for some strange reason, even by island standards, service is faster out there than inside near to the kitchen). Or, perhaps the new place that replaced Hammerhead's over at the Marina that many people like. Not Angela's Starfish; I love her, although not so much her cats or her unruly grandchildren, and even, on occasion, am amused by the loud preaching emanating from nearby speakers. We'll savor Angela's chicken and slaw another night.

     Brian's barbecue? No, we need to stop by his house and order in advance for that. On other nights we may cook Chico's lobsters or grouper at home, but not first or last nights; while I admire many fine qualities in Chico's possession, promptness is not one of them; casual more closely describes his scheduling technique.

In The Flats/Low Tide

     This cuisine crisis is, as they say, a good problem to have, and, by the time we deplane on the Big Island, find Captain Ed and his six-seat (a generous description) Comanche, land on the other island, alight from the taxi at a dock, descend the stairs to the water taxi with all of our baggage and foodstuffs, and receive a welcome hug from Reggie on the dock on the island, near The Lounge itself, it and other things will no longer be crises.

     That is how islands transcend these relatively minor changes and why we are drawn to them. It is also why we will not actually tell anyone precisely where they are or their real names.






   

   

The Road To....Wherever

I have been reading Robert Byron's The Road To Oxiana about his 1933 journey through Persia (Iran) and beyond by way of Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, and Palestine/Jerusalem. 

One need not look any further than the map on page 18 following the Introduction for the first interesting discovery: that Persia and its northern neighbor Afghanistan both shared a border with "India."

We are reminded that Pakistan, which was /is largely a British creation, and which has been much in the news this week, did not exist until 1947. 

Byron's saga, like Patrick Leigh-Fermor's later two-volume story of his own 1933 walk from Holland to Constantinople, A Time Of Gifts and Between The  Woods & Water  set a very high standard for travel writing. Both men took the genre well outside the borders of tourist guides and deep into the realms of history, culture, literature, and just pure fun.

Why is it that the British produced so many great travellers and travel writers at the same time they were pretty much mucking up the world in so many other ways? Odd.

Upon his arrival in Baghdad with his companion, Byron had this to say about that city:

    "...For only one thing is it now justly famous: a kind of boil which takes nine months to heal,       and leaves a scar."

Mount Battenberg

That still sounds about right, if we just change nine "months" to nine "years," no matter what jubilant news has come out of Pakistan this week.

...Speaking of which, you may have noticed that there was a royal wedding last week, at which one of the many hired-hand experts was one "India" Hicks. She was one of Lady Di's bridesmaids way back when, and is the granddaughter of Lord Louis Mountbatten (ne' Battenberg, a German). He was killed by terrorists in 1979.

Earl Mountbatten was Prince Philip's ( a Greek) uncle, and Prince Charles's ( a Nit) great-uncle/godfather and mentor. As the last Viceroy of India, he was the very one who was instrumental in creating, some might say cursing, the separation of Hindu India from Islamic India, aka Pakistan. Perhaps he felt that changing the name of a country would help in the same way it had helped his own family. Apparently, it didn't.

It makes one wonder if Ms. Hicks, who is herself 521st in line for the throne, had been born a boy, if she would have been called Stan? Well, it makes me wonder anyway, and I suppose I must make a disclosure: it is this same lady who occasionally shares an island with me, and who seldom misses an opportunity to mention its wonders so that every Euro aristo and pseudo-aristo will visit. 

As many of you know from my own travel writing, this has caused me to hide my island under the fictitious name Saint James, in order to protect it from the same folks. As my great Saint James-ian friend and island laureate, Dunmore Townes, has written in his poem, The Duchess Of Dunmore Don't:

"...You can lead  the royal pains

to a watering hole,

The Hills of India

But you don't

have to drink with dem..."

But, I have digressed, and I apologize. But that is how history goes. It has a nasty habit of digressing from expected paths, sometimes for years and years at a time. This allows us, of course, to severely alter our views about what actually happened when history was being made, often, as Robert Byron says, by small accidents, and not by heroic acts. 

As time passes, we are able to paint history with a coat of whitewash mixed with various expedient political needs.

An incident that occurred to me this week might be a case in point. I overheard my coffee-cubicle neighbor at Starbuck's exclaiming, predictably enough I suppose, "I guess W doesn't look so stupid now..."

...which brings us full circle to that boil and that scar Byron mentioned.

When all the hoopla, however well-deserved, dies down, I recommend reading The RoadTo Oxiana. It will not erase any scar, celebrate any royals, bring back any lives, or  turn back the clocks, but it will bring us closer to something called the truth, which is a very precious commodity these days.

Or any days.

Ed Note: We also recommend reading Patrick Leigh-Fermor's books, many of which have been reprinted in the past few years:

Walking Around: Uruguay II

Punta del Este, Uruguay

little pumpkins

Zapallitos are small pumpkin squashes that grow on the farms of Uruguay and migrate to places like Punta del Este, where residents and visitors can admire them at produce stands and imagine what good things might happen to them in the hands of a superior cook.

These drew my attention when I saw them, because their cousins had played a starring role in our lunch on the previous day. It just so happens that our hosts' own cocinera fantastica sliced off the tops, cleaned out the centers and made a heavenly mix of ground beef and both sweet and savory spices. She crowned each one with slightly-browned melted cheese.

We ate them all and felt much better for having done so, for we liked to see the smile on Susana's face, which foretold of more good things to come our way, if only we could keep up with her remarkable talents.

Neither pumpkins nor other squashes will ever seem the same to me....Please pass the filetto.

                                                                               *

Elizabeth's View

Many travelers feel that they are having a true vacation, a period of genuine renewal, when they momentarily forget all the things that have been ailing their minds, bodies, and souls; however,  I think that the truest test of a real vacation is if you make some effort to conjure up whatever spell nature, love, financial accounting, or a silly boss has cast upon you...and you cannot do it at all, even for a momentito. 

This state is remarkably similar to the one experienced when you wake from a dream, even a very good dream, and, try as you may, you cannot remember what seemed so real just a minute ago.

If you cannot reach this point, you cannot claim to really be on vacation, at least as I define it; you are merely on a trip. You may measure this trip by thousands of miles, if you like, but in a very real sense, you have not gone away.

Susanna's Palette

                                                *

I was very far away by every measure while in Uruguay; yet, my senses felt very much at home in what might seem like a contradictory way. Trying to explain this kind of thing only ends in confusion: better to say mucho gracias and take your seat at the table.

                                                 *      

At lunch, Susana always made a freshly baked tartas, or a pie, or both. I think that tarta ajoporro (leek) was my favorite. Or, was it the tomates y cebollas (onion)? Actually, I think that the pastell pollo, made with the large free range chicken we grilled over eucalyptus the night before may have taken gold.

Whatever. This is a contest in which you will always emerge a winner, surrounded by fresh green ensalada, olive oil and lemon or balsamic, fresh mild radishes, and cold beet-root in need of no garnish at all.

Before

Have we mentioned postre, dessert? Perhaps it's best if it remains a secret from my physician, who may never have been to Uruguay, but will see its bounty as soon as he examines me. I don't care. The limon cake with soft meringue-like top was worth any kind of lecture about the hideously evil nature of sugar. Hah!

And I have already spoken of Freddo, local helado emporium. Guide books will translate that word as "ice cream," but do not be fooled by this imprecision. To understand the language of helado Freddo, you must experience it yourself, kilo by sweet kilo.


                                                                                   *

After

When we travel, we tend to rely too much on metaphor: "This coast is just like...," or " These trees remind me of..." We like the familiar and like sounding like we're experienced travelers. These are natural reflexes, but it's best to try and avoid them, if you can. It is better to just look at what you see where you are. It is actually much harder to do than it sounds.

But, if you can do this, you increase your ability to be absorbed by a place, experience the fulness of its native qualities, and reach that state of awayness, which will renew and refresh.

You may still turn on your BlackBerry while away, but it will seem much more like an object, rather than your life as you knew it before you arrived where you are.

Uruguay I: Home Of Free-Range, Land Of La Brava

Punta del Este, Uruguay

There is a Spanish word for cloud, nube, but I had to look it up, because nobody in this part of Uruguay, which is a very good part indeed, ever uses the term. Uruguayans, being very straightforward people, have tried to depict their country as it really is on their flag: deep blue sky, bright sun shining, and white for clouds.

I cannot say that I have not not seen a single cloud in Punta, it is just that the slight white wisp of a thing I saw floating by out of the corner of my eye resembled a tiny feather lying on a large blue couch, which is still a feather, but of so little consequence, it is not worth mentioning.

But, why beat around the bush; the weather's great.

All Punta is divided into two sides, as some Roman might have said: La Mansa and La Brava, or the calm and the windy. Such are our lives these days that, of course,  we visited La Brava, where many Argentines tend to congregate. Generally speaking Uruguayans favor La Mansa.

You do not need to know much more than that to begin to understand the main difference between Uruguayans and Argentines ( Note: my dinner companion one night, herself an extremely attractive Argentine, with a beautiful La Brava casa, politely but firmly explained to me, Senor Hayseed, that there is no such thing as an "Argentinian").

                                             *

My new friend Miguel is a beef broker, which is an excellent thing to be in Uruguay, because all of the beef here is grass-fed, making the quality extremely high. In fact, those Argentine rib-eyes you picked up recently at home, that genuine Argentine grass-fed filetto you're grilling in the States? Uruguayan, amigos. They may have passed through Argentina on their way to your grill, and even picked up a passing affection for the tango, but Argentina has not sent any beef directly to the US in many years. It all comes from Uruguay.

You don't think so? Try telling my friend Miguel, or, even better, get yourself over to the TI Inglesa store in Punta and see for yourself. I took this photo (above, right) one night there at about 9pm and the place was packed with people aching to get their daily average of about a pound of beef each. 9PM in the grocery store? Well, calling TI a grocery is like calling Gisele a model (Note: Brazilians love Punta too). They sell just about everything, but their food products are packaged as if they were curated and not merely displayed.

                                            *

Just in case someone in the TI is not eating their fair share of beef while I am in town visiting my friends, I make up for them at lunch and at dinner. Rump steak? Check. Filetto? Milanessa? Salchichas (Sausages)?Check, check, and check.

Later in the trip, while Driving the 130 or so kms to the aeroporto in Montivideo to return home, I actually let out a moo. Ask my companions.

One of the reasons people eat so much beef, aside from the high quality is that they cook it more often than not on a parillo or iron grate in an asado, an indoor or outdoor wood-burning grill using the shoveled coals from local hardwoods. We cook meat, sausage, and chicken over what are mainly eucalyptus wood sticks. Yes, that is as good as it sounds. Not recommended for people thinking about becoming a vegetarian.

There is, of course, no equivalent to the term "full" meal in Uruguayan Spanish. The concept of a meal which might be anything less or more than full, simply does not exist in this culture, and for very good reasons, which you should go and experience for yourselves very soon.

                                                                               *

Not far from my friends' beautiful home in Punta is the wavy bridge. This is the way to a town called La Barra, but, much more importantly, it is the way to an ice cream shop called Freddo. It is a testament to Freddo's ability to attract communicants that they are willing to cross and double-cross the wavy bridge after lunch and/or dinner in a state that would, as we've already explained, normally be called full.

This is an especially good idea (ice cream, not the bridge) after having spread chimichurri (olive oil garlic, parsley, oregano, etc) on your meat. Banana? Very good. Strawberry? Yes. Mango? Decidedly. Dulce de Leche? A sign in La Barra itself said it all:

                                                                      

Ed Note: Aside from my Punta friends Jim and Jenny, and their wonderful cook Susanna, the best available source for learning about Argentine and Uruguayan cooking with wood is Francis Mallmann. His book, Seven Fires, is not only the best book about this subject, it is among a handful of great cooking books that one might read as one reds a novel or other great work of literature.

http://www.amazon.com/Seven-Fires-Grilling-Argentine-Way/dp/1579653545

Continental-United: How To Alienate The Female Customer

A few comments on the United-Continental Airlines deal, based on reporting in The New York Times:

• Continental's Mr. Smisek will become the new airline's leader in a couple of years, after United's Mr. Tilton steps down. Stockholders, employees and customers certainly want to have a self-confident leader; however, they also want one who is thoughtful and wise. Regarding Continental's old alliance with Delta, Smisek said it was "a lot like being married to a woman who wants to poison you." Later, when commenting about the choice of United as a partner over US Airways, Smisek said, " ....I didn't want to marry the ugly girl; I wanted to marry the pretty one." Message to Mr. Smisek: your female stockholders, employees and customers may be offended by these comparisons; that is not smart or respectful. In fact, you would be very well advised to surround yourself with women who are smarter, more creative, faster, and generally more capable than the average guys on your current teams. A leader understands that it is not all about her.... or him. 
• The newer, bigger United will become a huge player in the New York market. The Times notes that a big piece of that battle is for the business traveler: "Too woo them, airlines are introducing sommelier-chosen wines and fancy lie-flat beds to their business cabins on international flights from New York." Well, fine for some. There will always be the well-heeled hedge fund baroness or media personality, who require aristocratic treatment in  first and business classes. But businesses, like big banks, that dominated these markets prior to the recent financial "troubles" are hardly going to be worried about which wine their employees drink or how flat their beds become. We might ask of those seeking sommelier advice, "What planet have you been visiting?" As we suggested in our previous post regarding this merger, United We Stand In Coach, just below, customer service for coach flyers is certain to get worse, not better. What business travelers, whose companies no longer permit business class use, really want is a comfortable coach seat that reclines just enough to allow some shut-eye. In other words, they really want seats like JetBlue has in coach. They are happy just to have a job and don't see a flight as a wine-tasting event. Advice: speak to some real, live customers about this before paying the sommelier or acquiring the Frette sheets.