New York is no stranger to a $1k-a-night hotel room. And, having covered the city and its top hotels for over a decade, I’m no stranger to snooping around them. We’re not talking about a night in the top-category suites, by the way — it’s common to pay a grand for an entry-level double at iconic hotels like The Plaza, The Carlyle, The Lowell and The Mark, especially at peak times of year, like the run-up to Christmas.
The latest in this super-luxe set is the November opening, The Fifth Avenue Hotel, which is channeling a grand dame spirit, with design by industry darling Martin Brudnizki. Set in a 1907 Gilded Age mansion that once contained a bank, its classic entrance canopy and elegant, renovated facade certainly have the wow factor. It's situated on a more southerly, quieter stretch of Fifth Avenue than most of the competition; at 28th Street, down by the Empire State Building and the trendy Nomad neighbourhood.
I enter a glossy lobby, illuminated by a Christmas tree and filled with the floral scent of a huge candle inscribed with the hotel’s name (not a new concept - The Plaza and Edition hotels each have signature scents â but a nice touch). The first thing that hits you are the lavish textures and intricate details: in the lobby, an ornate tapestry and lacquered cabinets of curios; in the wood-panelled bar, a cluster of gilded portraits, piles of books and expensive-looking objets d’art. It’s maximalist in the best sense; you feel like a guest in an eccentric millionaire’s home. Yet with just 153 rooms, there’s a boutique feel beneath the grandeur.
The team is warm and friendly, while dodging any overbearing American have-a-nice-day-ness. Manager Yagmur Gursoy tells me they recruited from non-hospitality backgrounds, moulding staff to the exact service style they wanted. He walks me through the warren of plush corridors, painted shell-pink (Barbie’s Dream House, but make it Art Deco), and decorated with framed vintage sheet music or sketches of flâneurs. The elaborate pink ruching around the lifts takes a week per panel, Yagmar tells me. “We flew in artisans from Paris to do it," he tells me.
There’s a slight 'Noah’s Ark on acid' feel to the place: jungle-themed wallpaper, menagerie murals and zoological knick-knacks are everywhere, from bird-shaped coat hooks to horse lamps, and what appears to be a taxidermied crow in the Portrait Bar.
If Brudnizki and co were playing music while mood-boarding this joint, I’d hazard a guess that the track was Luther Vandross’ Never Too Much.
The bedrooms are just as opulent — as long as you like colour, which Brudnizki certainly does. And it’s a nice change of pace from the inoffensive ice-whites and gold-beiges of the Big Apple’s business-luxe hotels. My Mansion Suite (from a cool £2,081 a night) is in jewel shades of jade and coral, with a striking glass room divider and a rather camp rainbow glass chandelier. If Brudnizki and co were playing music while mood-boarding this joint, I’d hazard a guess that the track was Luther Vandross’ Never Too Much.
There’s a pretty, green-muralled bathroom with a white-tiled, sunken bathtub — closer to the ones at The Plaza than the now-ubiquitous freestanding tubs. The robe (fleece, not towelling) is a 10 on the snuggly scale. I appreciate the sustainability nod of the paper-wrapped bathroom essentials — no disposable dental kits in sight. Complimentary water comes in Saratoga glass bottles and, aside from Nespresso pods, the hotel seems to be plastic-free. I grab a can from the minibar, which turns out to be not Fanta but 'collagen and adaptogen enriched sparkling water' flavoured with strawberry and rose (there are also Cokes, beers and apple juice).
My butler arrives to talk me through the features of my room (controlled by an iPad, which are always a Marmite move for hotels mostly affordable to the over-50s). He offers to unpack my suitcase, which, as a Brit, of course gives me the horrors. “The contents of your ‘maxi-bar’ are all complimentary, apart from the alcohol,” he purrs, gesturing to a huge, polished cabinet inlaid with a Chinoiserie dragon. I just about refrain from blurting out, “You’d bloody hope so!” Once you hit $1k a night, throwing in a few crisps and Cokes feels like the least a hotel could do. Typically for the US, breakfast is not included in the entry-level room rates; browsing the website, the B&B price for some suites is the same as the room-only price; for entry level rooms, $65 per room appears to be added for brekkie.
It’s a great brekkie, to be fair. Sauntering down to the squishy sofas of the Portrait Bar, where cable-knit Christmas stockings hang by the fireplace, I order the avocado tartlet. It’s a light, chi-chi spin on avo toast: delicate puff pastry topped with caramelised onion, scrambled eggs and avocado, and anointed with chilli salt.
There’s no swimming pool, spa or rooftop here — these are frills New York big-spenders will be accustomed to, and which new hotels often use to outdo each other. The Fifth seems confident that high design and an exclusive vibe alone will keep the tastemakers coming. Its ace card might be the much-hyped restaurant from top NY chef Andrew Carmellini. Café Carmellini is the first venue he’s stamped his name on (previous hits include Lafayette and Locanda Verde) and it’s genuinely spectacular: high ceilings, indoor trees and balcony tables protruding from an upper level, like boxes at the opera.
I have a blinder of a dinner there, from the oysters à la pomme, topped with miniature scoops of apple sorbet, to Scallops Cardoz, bathed in an aromatic curry foam. The latter is a tribute to late chef Floyd Cardoz; Carmellini plans to reference culinary heroes and mentors with certain dishes. There is a charming female sommelier talks me through the enormous wine list.
Yet $1k a night does not buy you immunity from teething problems. Spotting an intriguing Martini Ritual on my room service menu, I ask Yagmar if I can book it (essentially, your butler brings a bar set-up of premium spirits and accoutrements to your room to create your dream martini). Fun, right? Sadly I cannot confirm, because it never took place. My butler rang half an hour beforehand to ask if I’d prefer gin or vodka; I said vodka — and I can only assume they were out of the stuff because I was promptly ghosted. I was late for dinner waiting for the ritual that never was, and nobody on the team explained or apologised. There does seem to be a bit of what our US friends would call a disconnect when it comes to staff communication.
A phantom martini may sound like a minor problem, but that’s the only kind of problem the clientele here will have. At this price point, you start to pay attention to the little things: when the coffee at breakfast is tepid; or when the doorman fails to recognise you as a guest twice, asking when you return (keycard in hand) if you’re here to visit the bar.
The Fifth Avenue Hotel has real New York glamour in its DNA, and a classic restaurant and bar worth dressing up for. If they can deliver on paid extras, such as an in-room Martini, this property will be making fans for life. Or at least until I find a spare $1,000 down the back of the sofa.
