Hotel Hit Squad: A night at L'oscar – where divine style gets a dose of disco flair
Hotels in London are like the people; the more hip, the more intolerable in all but the smallest dose. A couple of drinks in the bar can be a thrill, once you’ve made it past the Cerberus-like security guarding the gates to the hedonistic underworld. A celebratory dinner of deconstructed apple pie and gazpacho served in a crushed Coke can is perhaps an adventure. But “coolness” is ironically similar to sun: overexposure risks making you sick. Linger too long and the smiles of the supermodellish staff start to look like snooty snarls; the nude art on the walls starts to look attention-seeking; and you’d swear the “experimental” music suddenly has echoes of a cat being murdered with a tin opener.
That is why my enthusiasm was lukewarm when I heard the capital was welcoming L’oscar, a trendy new design hotel brainchilded by French interiors guru Jacques Garcia. Would this be just another tiresome up-itself establishment?
But the first thing that pleasantly surprised me was the staff, who ricochet around the hotel in shimmering copper outfits. They were friendly. Not “let-me-take-your-coat-using-my-fingertips-as-it-might-give-me-fleas” friendly. Just joyously friendly, like you’re an old school friend. Service is also personalised, with every bedroom allocated a butler. This makes one feel instantly more at ease in the kooky surroundings.
There is titillation at every turn. The lobby is like a lothario’s library: while The Letters of Horace Walpole adorns the shelves, aubergine velvet pouffes with more tassels than a ra-ra girl skim the floors. There is something of the time capsule about it: photographs of Victorian men in deckchairs are dotted on the sideboards; the windows are swaddled in the kind of scratchy purple taffeta curtains from which Scarlett O’Hara would style a dress in order to seduce her man.
The lounge on the other side of the corridor has a disco feel: the mirrored ceiling is speckled with orange LED lights. Guests sip whisky cocktails on plum-coloured stools that line a bar made of illuminated alabaster.
Despite all the crazy, quirky touches, the building, which was once a Baptist church, still carries an air of magnificence. Original stained-glass windows bathe the staircases in streaks of golden light. Polished alcoves display black stone statues of frolicking nymphs. Swooping stone ceilings echo with the staff’s purposeful footsteps.
Dinner is served in the original dome-shaped chapel, with its double-height wood-clad walls and white mouldings aflame with orange-hued ceiling lights. Champagne is served in Belle Époque crystal. Food is bought out on hand-painted peacock plates by waiters in glittering blazers à la Wakefield working men’s club host circa 1968. The choice of gentle swing music over scraping Shoreditchy tunes in the background gets full marks.
Baptist Grill has poached one of London’s most ambitious chefs – Tony Fleming from Michelin-starred Angler – and it shows. My Porthilly oyster and scallop tartare tasted not just of the sea, but also forensically balanced scrumptiousness, with its creamy and citrusy yuzu curd dressing. As a main, go for something from the grill section: I loved my Cornish rib-eye, which came confettied with small, succulent snail ravioli and an exuberant bordelaise sauce.
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“Boudoir” doesn’t do the bedrooms justice. Mine was a jazz-hands-waggling riot of tassels, parrot sconces, turquoise velvet screens and hummingbird lamps. Bed heads are decorated with gold-threaded peacock feathers. The sage-green walls are adorned with Thirties oil paintings of women with Vivien Leigh eyebrows and too much blusher. Velvet chaises longues stretch out across swirling mustard rugs. Some suites have items of furniture salvaged from the original baptist church building – you might find an upcycled prayer chair positioned next to your desk.
Best of all, though, are the bathrooms. They have his-and-hers sinks and toiletries laced with more perfume than the ground floor at Selfridges. The gender-neutral trend hasn’t reached the retro L’oscar; those in pink bottles are for ladies; those in black bottles for men. But excitingly, in some suites, the huge rain shower can also be transformed into a steam room at the flick of a switch, which is handy for flushing out the toxins if you’ve had one too many cocktails in the bar the night before.
The next morning, as I ate my poached eggs hash in the lounge served by a chirpy waiter, I felt none of the design-hotel-induced exhaustion I had feared. From the unapologetic explosions of purple in the era of teal to the ecclesiastical-meets-disco vibe, L’oscar is a place comfortable in its own skin. You can’t help but be too.
Rooms from £395, including breakfast. One room for guests with disabilities
