Hotel 4/5
Restaurant 5/5
Sanctum Soho is a pious affair for rock gods and movie stars. Or it’s a rebel’s lair, or one of those half-remembered dreams, depending on your state of mind. Launched by Mark Fuller of Iron Maiden fame, they’ve kitted out the rooms with so much boho love that trashing them would be like taking a bat to a limited edition Doors 7 inch. But I haven’t got to room 307 yet, with its many-mirrored columns and glass beaded wallpaper, pale pinks and satiny embers on the walls…
7.00pm. There is a Catholic sanctuary next door, and they honoured it when they put up those large gold letters at 20 Warwick Street. The coupling of Sanctum and Soho does wonderful things to the mind before you really know what you’re getting. You think of one of those chirpy Vegas haunts where love-struck Romeo’s get married. I look over my shoulder, and the girl who’s coming in with me is neither love struck, nor in need of a shiny rock. But I’ve promised her good food, and I’ve already handed out one too many compliments.
Daliesque paintings on the walls make my eyes reel as I pull her right into Restaurant No.20. It’s a phantasmagoria of crocodile-skin and slivers of purple glass with the whole bar reflected against bronze-gold leather banquettes. Dinner will be a healthy dose of fine art; the plates of veal and duck, the treacle tart and rose champagne are laid out on veneer tables, and one laughing Blonde applies lipstick as a rather stiff, sulky rock-god swills his glass. But dinners at Eight, and it’s only 7.23.
We had just been to see Nolan’s new movie, Inception. Time was in my mind, and time seemed to slow as we accelerated up to the roof garden on the Fifth. ‘You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling’ I say after considering an aperitif at dusk with a cigar and a copy of Le Monde.
This is first and foremost London’s last sanctuary for smokers, looking out over Soho the way I looked out through the mists of the Neva from the Hotel De L’Europe in Petersburg. The smoke curls through the cigar lounge, and rises above the al fresco Jacuzzi where I didn’t see Al Pacino shouting at the Plasma TV. But I did see some surreal black and white footage of some Nuns, and we ordered something dark in a glass, and I realized that positive emotion trumps negative emotion every time. It’s better to breathe oxygen than carbon monoxide – but that’s why the plants are there.
8:22. We order our starters. Baby Spinach and Cashel Blue Cheese Salad, Charcuteri Balsamic Red Onions and Walnuts; mid price range. Seriously – five out of five, or Helen of Troy to Agamemnon’s Clytemnestra – such is how I compare the Redhead by my side with a girl I saw in the Roof Garden. The Redhead goes for Foie Gras Terrine and Grape Chutney. She is disappointed and leaves most of it. We don’t talk about it, but her glass of rose – Sancerre, La Croix 2008 – is empty, and our Sommelier/waitress looks upset when she fills it up. After trying the 30day Sirloin, my instincts heighten and I realize that the Redhead is smiling at the Barbary Duck Breast, and the Confit Duck Tortolloni has stuck itself between her teeth. High-five then, and a glowing review, especially after our stomachs are lined all pink and creamy with strawberry trifle. First one I ever tasted, and I’ll be damned if they didn’t put a bit of Rockafella JD in it, just to keep us neat.
9.40. Time ticking on and the night-manager Angelo shows us his best suite. It’s got a circular bed that Joss Stone slept in. Here’s the trick: iPod docks and soundproofed walls so you can leather the speakers. Wii consoles, rain showers, guitar amps, stand-alone baths with magic curtains; and he tells us that for no extra charge, a figure resembling a monk from next door will knock on your door at any hour you wish and shake up a Martini. It sounded absurd when he said it so nonchalantly-like, and then turned on his heels and we flew down the elevator shaft into a room full of bright blue armchairs and a monster cinema-screen on the wall. ‘They take private bookings… worked here a lot during the world cup’ he was saying, but Angelo suddenly reminded me of someone I met on holiday once. He had the same courteous smile, and the way he lifted his eyebrows and the way his eyes sparked like the bar cabinet behind him…
I waited for the dream to collapse; I always thought the Redhead was too good to be true…
I didn’t have that aperitif the next morning; the paper was in English; there was no swaggering out of the room of shimmering mirrors like Travolta (though I unconsciously quaffed my hair up). It was 11.38, and before I left, I spun a coin on the table, just to check I wasn’t still dreaming.
The Redhead wasn’t there anymore, and on the table, a silver box contained fragrant roses…
For reservations, please go to www.sanctumsoho.com.
20 Warwick Street, Soho, London W1B 5NF
