Blakes, the world's first boutique hotel, is as crazily bohemian 40 years on

A long time ago – 40 years to be precise – in the once-fashionable London SW7, an interior designer opened a hotel and changed the world. When Anouska Hempel’s overblown, opium-den aesthetic at Blakes debuted in 1978, it was like nothing anyone had seen before in hotels. Before the façade of 33 Roland Gardens was painted black by the aforementioned Japanophile magpie and one-time Bond girl, London’s hotel scene was defined by staid Mayfair luxury and three-star Formica-filled Russell Square tourist blocks. Here, suddenly, was a hotel that was perfect for the time – small and exclusive, an insider’s style parallel to Sunday-night suppers at Mr Chow, and the crushed velvet and roiling-smoke-filled universe of The Stud and The B----. 

Hempel may have wanted to create a clubhouse with bedrooms that offered Asian-fusion everything, from the walls to the basement restaurant menu, but she accidentally invented the boutique hotel. Fast forward to today, and we’ve lived through the Ian Schrager and Philippe Starck-fuelled design hotel revolution, the acid greens and nouveau chintz of Kit Kemp, and the big-budget Victoriana of Russell Sage. Going back to Blakes is to do The Time Warp. 

I was too young to be a part of the Knightsbridge and Chelsea set that made Blakes fabulous the first time around, but I’ve had some great nights there in my time. Before it was taken over by hotelier Navid Mirtorabi in 2010, the most theatrical element of the hotel was nothing to do with Hempel’s upholstery, and everything to do with the director of sales, celebrity liaison and general gatekeeper and frontwoman Cheryl Howard. I can’t do justice to just how fabulous Cheryl was – one part Siouxsie Sioux, one part Welsh cabaret queen; when she was in residence, she was a confidante to allcomers. Dining with her at Blakes, feasting on chef Neville Campbell’s Dover sole with nam jim and yuzu sauces, was one of the best nights out that you could have in London. Sadly, she disappeared in one of the post-buyout reshuffles and, along with her, much of the magic of the original Blakes.

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When I visited recently, I was told the hotel had undergone 18 months of major investment and refreshment. It was difficult to see where. Hempel has remained on-call to maintain the aesthetic, but there have been moves to take Blakes overground. One of the biggest changes I did notice around the well-worn carpeted hallways was that the slightly shambolic basement boîte of a dining room and bar has been moved to the ground floor, taking over space previously occupied by two premium suites. Tellingly, Mirtorabi is planning to expand the brand with an offshoot in Shoreditch. 

I wonder if Blakes still has enough pull to franchise. When my mother-in-law was visiting London a couple of years ago, I mentioned the hotel to her. “I’m not glamorous enough to stay there,” she exclaimed. I told her the reality differed from her imagination. While the Matthew Williamson-designed backyard was (and still is) a lovely place to spend an afternoon, the rooms struck me as themed and low budget, albeit with good bathrooms and anything but cost-conscious rack rates. When I stayed recently my impression was the same.

Hempel is, by all accounts, a control freak. Previous employees have told me of her demand that they only be seen drinking Ruinart Rosé while on her premises, and my interview with her a few years ago was cancelled with two days’ notice when she refused to be photographed for the story. Her Absolutely Fabulous reputation aside, she is renowned for being able to create visual flourishes out of not much at all. One evening, at the now-closed neighbouring Hempel hotel, she put together a spontaneous installation of lipsticks in the fireplace, each turned out to be a different exposed length of red, to suggest roaring flame. Such genius – and no, I’m not being sarcastic. 

At Blakes, that carefree exuberance is evident with varying degrees of success. The restaurant has amber grosgrain ribbon glued around its perimeter, while the numbers of the rooms are painted on each door in gold. The room I stayed in had no handles on the white wardrobe doors, which had led to grubby handprints on them – evidence of each previous guest clawing their way into the closet. 

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There were voluminous black curtains that looked like an inebriated seamstress had sewn them together, and more, more, more black textiles: bedspread, sofa and cushions. It felt like a hastily produced episode of Changing Rooms, with all the soft furnishings assembled from one of those weird furniture stores in Dalston where headboards are a fantasia of flying swans and pouffes are covered in sequins. The space, complete with a B&O audio device that would only have been useful if I owned a vintage Apple product, was consistent at least: Nothing says “I saw 9½ Weeks at the Streatham Odeon in 1986 and it totally changed my life” more than lacquered black venetian blinds.

The old basement has been turned into a lounge bar – Blakes Below – and still has resonance. The Chinese-style private dining room is somewhere I’d love to have a party. And while new chefs Peter Del Campo and Mariano Russo don’t quite demonstrate the flair of their mentor, the food above ground – most notably the soft-shell crab and tagliolini with black truffle – is just what you’d like to eat in a dark room with gold painted accents (Hempel’s brief was “cruise ship on the Bosphorus”, apparently).

I may not be a fan of Blakes as a place to stay for any length of time, but I like the idea of it, and what it stands for. It reminds me of The Witchery in Edinburgh – theatrical romance, but seemingly held together with Mod Podge, ready to be rolled up and packed away into one of Hempel’s Louis Vuitton trunks. It has a shabby, bohemian romance. 

It’s the sort of place you might come to if you were having an affair, if you had the means – start out with cocktails at the bar, and end up tangled in the sheets of the all-white Corfu Suite or the deep red and gold milieu of the Cardinal Suite, both with much-photographed four-poster beds. It feels simultaneously cheap but expensive; the sort of place you’d come to for a night of champagne, caviar and debauched sex. Which is, I guess, at least one of the goals of a great hotel.

Double rooms start at £340; suites from £600. Blakes Hotel, 33 Roland Gardens, Kensington, London SW7 3PF (020 7370 6701; blakeshotels.com)

• Read the full review: Blakes, Kensington