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Casa Tua, Miami: full review
0598 days
by L.K.
in North America
Think Miami. Is that a cocktailed combination of sun and sea? The forensic gore of CSI: Miami? Or do you recall the rolled-up sleeves of Miami Vice? From its ‘snowbirds’ (retirees who flock for the winter sun) to the Art Deco district and back to Scarface, one thing’s for sure: Miami ain’t just one thing.
No one has yet, however, accused Miami’s South Beach of being Italian – Northern Italian, to be precise – which is exactly what this five-room Miami boutique hotel and destination restaurant is all about. After browsing Casa Tua’s confounding website (what’s that racehorse and dog doing there?), we were sent a lengthy questionnaire documenting our requirements (anti-allergenic or goose down pillows?) before arrival. Chuckling as we listed Fellini and Adam Sandler films as our in-room DVD selection, we couldn’t help feeling a tad VIP; Casa Tua seemed to be tailoring itself to us.
The test of any great hotel is its response when plans unravel though. After the hotel-ordered airport cab was evidently a no-show, Casa Tua quickly proved its worth. As we pulled up outside the hotel’s wrought iron gates, Manuel, the maitre d’, met us with a smile, paid cash for our taxi and later fed us on the house to make amends. (He was also incredibly handsome and smelled nice, but that is perhaps beside the point.)
Mr Smith thinks Casa Tua owes its homely calmness to the fact it was a private house, back in 1925. He’s right. Its typical Mediterranean Revival style is relaxed, friendly – and utterly inviting. Walking through the hotel’s stunning tropical gardens, alfresco lunch was too irresistible to defer. So we put our room on hold – and put lunchtime champagne on ice instead. Settling down to an Italian feast of succulent ravioli and linguine – and a Bahamian beer called Kalik for Mr Smith – the effect of the botanical restaurant was one of pure seclusion and serenity. With candle-lit lamps hanging from the trees, it’s a kind of Garden of Eden, without the snake. But it was over proper Italian espresso that we discovered Casa Tua’s real secret weapon: the world’s best tiramisu.
Well-fed and palates tingling, we grabbed the key to our hotel room. With the beach only a few blocks away, we figured we’d pop our heads round, have a look and nip out again. But like a warm, welcoming Italian, Casa Tua draws you near and holds you close. Our room was that perfect combination of snugly and spacious; a lazily-extravagant mix of heavy cream woollen curtains and cashmere throws – alongside 1950s lamps and a canopied four-poster. Apparently you can purchase many of the items you see at Casa Tua, a detail Mr Smith tried long and hard to conceal from me. But resisting the urge to buy up half the hotel, we polished off a glass of something sparkling and bounced on the mattress instead (firm, with obligatory super-crisp linen sheets) before discovering the bathroom. A seductively Italian expanse of white/grey veined marble wrapped itself around a treasure trove of Santa Maria Novello products, chosen personally for our hair and skin types – though thankfully without our initials etched onto them. That would have been too much.
Relaxed to the point of ecstasy, we were loathe to leave the room the next morning. Hell, we didn’t even want to get dressed. But breakfast in this Miami hotel – a truly delicious affair of white omelettes and croissants – was worth crawling out of bed for. Falling into a languid heap of coffee, sunshine and newspapers afterwards, it was tempting to slope back to our room. But Miami’s playground beckoned.
Ten minutes later, in the lively environ of South Beach we ventured to the Delano, a billowy-curtained Philip Starck hotel – that we would return to for a pitstop martini – before heading to the beachfront on Ocean Drive. Azure waves lapped at pristine white sand while families, young couples and older folk dipped in and out of the sea. Yet somehow Mr Smith and I found ourselves buried four tourists deep in the most crowded Starbucks on the planet. Coming to our senses, we abandoned the skinny-caps and dipped our toes into the sea before skipping off for burritos at the 11th Street Diner – an old silver train car and retro throwback. The renovated Art Deco hotels along Collins Avenue tempted us at cocktail hour, but there were Bellini glasses with our names on back at Casa Tua, so tired and starving, we headed back for supper.
Despite revving up for a big corporate party and working to full capacity, Casa Tua’s service did not falter, nor did the food. Kumamoto oysters surrounded by white grapes blew Mr Smith’s mind, whilst the Petrossian Imperial Transmontanous Caviar was so delicious it disappeared before either of us could even pronounce it.
Like all the best holidays, we left the next day, reluctant but with memories of extraordinary food and service – and the feeling that for a little slice of Italy in Miami, Casa Tua would give even Tony Soprano a run for his money.
Calistoga Ranch: Review
0599 days
by L.K.
in North America
How, goes the famous Napa Valley joke, do you make a small fortune in wine? Start with a large one. Winemaking is an expensive business, and you have to have serious financial clout if you want to start mucking about with the merlot. Still, if you can’t afford your own vineyard, then at least you can experience the Napa Valley lifestyle by staying at Calistoga Ranch. From the moment we arrived, when the cheery valet took the keys of our car to park it on our behalf, to the morning we left, when gorgeous Gloria on reception handed us two bottles of water for our journey home, Mrs Smith and I were made to feel like the most important oenologists in town.
The ranch nestles in a secluded gorge at the north end of Napa Valley, near the spa town of Calistoga. The 157-acre, 46-room resort is understated Cal-luxe, all low-rise buildings in cedar and stone, punctuated with modern accents such as giant cube lampshades in all the public spaces. There’s a luxurious spa, the Bathhouse, an outdoor yoga deck with soothing views over the valley’s aged oaks, and a dramatic pool overlooked by both a bar and gym. There’s also a cosy wine cave for tastings. So, whichever cornerstone of Californian culture you’re after – wine or workout – Calistoga caters for you. And it feels more like a hamlet than a hotel. Perhaps because, in addition to the guests, it’s occupied by plenty of fractional owners, who’ve purchased their own generous glug of this fine vintage. As a result, there’s a very real sense of being welcomed into a community.
Mrs Smith and I are driven to our accommodation in a dinky electric golf buggy. We’ve been given a one-bedroom lodge by the creek, which comes with a separate lounge area and bedroom suite connected by a deck. The living room even has its own bar, with a complimentary bottle of the ranch’s private-label merlot and a coffeemaker shaped like a rocket. While I’m admiring this, Mrs Smith is making cooing noises in front of the indoor-outdoor fireplace, which promises the enticing option of either snuggling up on a comfy sofa in the lounge or out on the patio next to our personal hot tub. It’s a hard life, this wine-making lark.
Our bedroom has glass walls on two sides, allowing us to look at tall pines wafting their branches over the water from the comfort of our bed. But don’t worry – there are blinds for those who want a little time to themselves and don’t want to be watched, no matter how much fun they’re having.
We poke around the bathroom, unwrapping the mudbath soap, and Calistoga Ranch’s custom-made eucalyptus and bay laurel toiletries, then lathering them all over our hands. Interest piqued, we head into the discreetly fenced outdoor rainbath shower. Despite the slightly cool temperature of the December air, it’s wonderful – like standing beneath a waterfall. What with warm water cascading over our heads, the birds of northern California tweeting away in our ears and the breeze deliciously tickling our wet skin, Mrs Smith and I feel quite the frontiersman and woman – more Lewis and Clark than Ernst and Julio Gallo.
That evening, we eat at the Lakehouse restaurant. As its name suggests, it sits on the shores of Calistoga Ranch’s private lake, offering the sort of romantic setting that the filmmakers downstate in Hollywood dream about for backdropping their denouements. We knew the restaurant was exclusive – it’s only open to guests and those residents who’ve bought into this paradise – but it’s only when we find ourselves seated next to cult singer-songwriter Tom Waits that we realise just how much so.
The food certainly lives up to its environment. Mrs Smith, who has been assured by our waiter that none of the dishes contain her culinary bête noire of cucumber, tucks into scallops with salsify purée and short ribs. My John Dory with leeks and salt cod brandade is exquisite. Every dish on the Modern American menu – zealously seasonal and constructed only from local ingredients – is chosen to complement Calistoga’s reassuringly wonderful wine list, and our sommelier makes sure that each mouthful we eat is matched by either a 2003 Chalone Estate Chardonnay or 2002 Provenance Merlot. We retire to our lodge feeling as fat and drunk as Friar Tuck.
The next morning, keen to experience the area’s famed natural beauty (as well as burn off all those calories accrued the night before), we set out on a ramble. The ranch has plenty of its own hiking trails – this is California, after all – and Tiffany, our guide, leads us through woods to a watermill, where local villagers are hosting a ‘Pioneer Christmas’. Dressed in historical costume – though, in quaint Calistoga, it’s sometimes hard to tell the participants from the onlookers – they buzz about the food and craft stalls, indulging in all manner of 150-year-old activities. Mrs Smith is particularly amused when I am collared by a lace-making lady, and has to rescue me after several uncomfortable minutes of stitching and bobbin-shuffling. We head back to our room, dragging an impulsively bought two-pound bag of stone-ground polenta behind us.
In the afternoon, we do as any good Napa Valley visitors should, and go wine-tasting. Both Sterling and Clos Pegas wineries are within walking distance of the ranch – well, a short drive, but don’t tell anyone – and we spend a pleasant couple of hours running through their delicious range of chardonnays and cabernet sauvignons. That night, after dining at sleek local steak restaurant Press, we return to our lodge, where we sit out on the deck in front of a blazing fire, sipping merlot and gazing up at stars glowing in a grape-black sky. It’s beautiful beyond words. Napa Valley is sometimes referred to as the American Eden, and I completely understand why. I’m certainly tempted to stay forever.
The Angler’s Boutique Resort: Review
0604 days
by L.K.
in North America
The Angler’s Boutique Resort in Miami Beach invites you to experience sophisticated island living that is the new definition of hospitality in South Beach.
By way of the historical Miami Beach architectural hotel design of Henry Maloney, and now the creative union of Interior Designer Wallace Tutt and Architects Allan Shulman, and Ralph Choeff we welcome you to The Angler’s. A fresh approach to the luxury boutique resort experience reminiscent of old Florida yet embraced by the savvy South Beach traveler.
This exceptional hotel is brought to you by a young group of professionals led by Gregg Covin Real Estate Development, supported by Brian Gaines, Kevin Venger, LBL Group – Eric and Marc Lawrence and Boutique Hospitality Management. Truly unique capturing an urban tropical feel from a sophisticated viewpoint – this is your island getaway, right in the middle of the playground that is South Beach.
Traveling to South Beach either for business or pleasure, you will find the service at The Angler’s sincere and attentive. Our rooms are designed for comfort and convenience. Our intimate pool is perfect for a refreshing dip, social gathering or indulgence of afternoon libations in the cabana. Feel free to contact the hotel for reservations or use our website to peruse the various room types and amenities we have to offer, each with its own perspective.
Whether you are planning your vacation, a celebration, quick getaway, business stay or stopover, The Angler’s is ideally located minutes from the Port of Miami and Miami International Airport. The Atlantic Ocean is just two blocks away and a short walk will take you to great area restaurants starting in our lobby with our own 660 at The Angler’s. Your intimate hotel experience will start the moment you step on property. Come stay with us to live Miami Beach as it once was and again aspires to be. This is a place to visit, to entertain, to escape and to rejuvenate. Island living in an urban paradise. Everything you need and nothing that you don’t.
The atmosphere is home, elegant and casual; a lifestyle that enhances not defines. This is The Angler’s Boutique Resort South Beach, a unique hotel experience in Miami Beach, Florida.
Crosby Street Hotel
0606 days
by L.K.
in North America
Mr & Mrs Smith have got a trip to this New York boutique hotel in the diary, and just as soon as they’ve unpacked their bags, a full account of their stay in the US will be with you. In the meantime, let us whet your wanderlust…
It’s hard to believe that where a large American flag now billows above a distinguished glass-fronted entrance to a brand-new 11-storey red-brick building, an open-air car park once stood – now replaced by a traffic-stopping British boutique bolthole. Welcome, ladies and gents, to Firmdale Hotels long-awaited first outpost overseas.
The launch of the Crosby Street Hotel sees Tim and Kit Kemp’s signature kitsch-but-classy English style has been exported from London for the first time. And what more suitably design-conscious a scene to burst onto than Manhattan’s? Celebrated for their stylish classic-meets-contemporary boutique hotels across the pond such as the Haymarket Hotel and Covent Garden Hotel, Firmdale’s elegant blend of inspired fabrics, eccentric textures and original art is an exciting dash of colour to this discreet SoHo sidestreet.
Additional entertainment awaits bon viveurs in the form of a fantastic ground-level restaurant, or as the hotel would prefer you think of it as, ‘a great bar that serves great food’. (Our tip is to order the magnificent afternoon tea. Well, you can take the hoteliers out of London…) The socialising spills out of this chic space onto a patio on Lafayette Street as well as a central foliage-filled residents-only courtyard.
There’s even a zingy orange-leather Poltrona Frau-seated screening room in the basement event space. After all, they do need to keep the city that never sleeps entertained. (Mind you, just try fighting some shut-eye with a spell on those couldn’t-be-comfier beds.)
The Bryant Park Hotel Review
0606 days
by L.K.
in North America
Anyone with a flagging libido should book into the Bryant Park Hotel for a few nights. It oozes sex appeal. But first, let’s talk about the hotel’s location – so important in New York City, where your neighborhood can define your trip. This designer hotel is smack bang in the middle of midtown, with the theatres of Broadway a ten-minute stroll away, the Empire State Building six blocks round the corner, and Central Park a brisk 20-minute walk. Fifth Avenue’s credit-card-swiping opportunities are five minutes uptown. The gibbering madness of Times Square lies three blocks up.
North-facing rooms of this Manhattan boutque hotel overlook Bryant Park and the New York Library. Built around 1900, the grand library is one of the city’s less obvious highlights; and if you think you recognise its imposing Gothical-Revival-style facade, you probably have seen it before – in Ghostbusters. The Bryant Park Grill over the street in the park itself is the fun outdoor venue where we decided to start our dirty weekend – with an afternoon cocktail, obviously.
The park itself is a lawn about the size of two tennis courts, surrounded by pretty stonework and green metal chairs and tables. We’re in good company, sitting among youngsters flirting over beer and an Eighties pop soundtrack we’re already feeling like we’re on holiday, even if recently it became my hometown.
After a noisy day in the city that never shuts up, let alone sleeps, my girlfriend and I are on the weary side. But the hotel’s aphrodisiac qualities seem pretty potent. The lobby is paved with sexy, shiny black marble; everything is rouge and noir and polished. The staff are clad in black. The lifts are lined with padded leather, and barely lit but for two red spotlights that give us a faint impression of being on stage at a burlesque club. God, even the buttons in the lift are suggestive.
We’re lucky to be staying in a Bryant Park Suite on the 21st floor, which houses only three suites. From a lounge with sofa and desk and plasma-screen TV, double doors lead to a bedroom and big bathroom with tub and shower. It’s actually huge for Manhattan. The dark brown and lilac colours feed us with instant calm, and the hardwood floors are pleasingly contemporary. There’s plenty more modern stuff we like: another plasma TV in the bedroom, Bose stereo and Bose SoundDock for our iPods (perfect to rev up with if you plan on hitting their DJ bar).
Leaning against the wall in the corner is a massive purple sausage for leaning on in bed. Or, of course, whacking one another, gladiator-style, which is what we did. After a relaxing soak in our Olympic-sized tub, we shuffle round the room going ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’, dressed in cashmere robes so snuggly we want to wear them to dinner that night. I’m sure in this city if we put our minds to it we could find somewhere that it’s de rigeur, but until then we head for the nearest hotspot.
We have a table booked at Koi, the sushi restaurant adjoining the hotel. The long, black marble pathways between the tables feel like a sort of catwalk, and you just know everyone is checking out everyone else. That’s part of the fun. It’s an elegant place, with lots of mahogany, twinkly lights and artworks. During New York Fashion Week (which holds shows in the park itself) the place is jammed with models and their tanned European boyfriends in blazers, jeans and loafers – no socks, of course. The night we eat here (we’re glad we decided against those cashmere robes in the end), Kelly Osbourne is dining with Nicole Richie while Rachel Hunter gossips with pals at a nearby table. As I point it out to my Mrs Smith of the moment, she remarks something along the lines of ‘You can take the man out of his OK! magazine office, but you can’t take the celeb-obsessed magazine out of the man,’ etc. Although unlike most of the A-list guests or fashionista who visit here, we eat enough sushi to feed a family of killer whales for a week.
For after-dinner drinks, the logical path is down to this boutique hotel’s Cellar Bar. After being barked at for not having the correct hand stamp (us Brits can never quite get used to that New Yoika brusqueness; mind you, we’re the folk who usually apologise to the person who just stepped on our foot) and eventually after having been directed back outside the hotel to the bouncer on the main door, we get in. At least it lends the air that we’ve gone to a club for the night rather than merely strolled down to the bottom of the building we’re staying in. At the risk of sounding a little like an old fogey though, the first thing that hits us is the loud music – great if you’ve had nine vodka martinis but not, we decide, completely in keeping with the rest of the hotel – or at least our experience of it so far. My ladyfriend doesn’t complain, but there’s a glint in her eye. We hitch a ride in the first elevator outta there.
We’re such fans of our room, we’re eager to stay in it as late as we can, so it’s breakfast in bed, naturally. The sausages and cheesy, potatoey hash-browny things are a suitably tasty start to a day in the Big Apple. Mrs Smith orders summer fruits, which come with an absurdly huge bowl of yoghurt. ‘Bright lights, big portions’ would be an appropriate slogan for this city. The food manager calls up to ask if we’ve enjoyed breakfast, and I can’t help but slip a complaint about the tea – well, to this stickler of a connoisseur it is rather more like watered-down cocoa than I’d like. Noticing my English accent, the charming woman starts telling me all about the time she was on holiday in Durham. I forget about the tea – just another flirty morning at the Bryant Park. It’s not only the sleek design that makes this hotel super-sexy, it’s that breezy ‘ain’t life great?’ positivity the buzzing American metropolis does so well.