Back in the summer of 2005, I was dispatched to Southern California to assess the newest of the new on the region’s booming resort scene.
From the St. Regis in (but not on) Monarch Beach to the Parker in Palm Springs, to the plastic-fantastic Bacara just outside of Santa Barbara, it was a brave new world out there, a world of super-sized luxury. Of complimentary Evian spritzers and hunky towel sommeliers, of rooms with nightly rates as high as the GDP of some small island nations. (Well, almost.)
It was certainly a good time, driving around with the top down in the sunshine, dipping my toes into one gorgeous pool after another, being massaged into oblivion in too many spas to count. Along the way, however, I stopped in Los Angeles for a peek at one of the West Coast’s most classic hotels, just to see how it was keeping up with the times.
THAT WAS THEN
The Hotel Bel-Air, tucked away among the trees just north of Sunset Boulevard in one of the most exclusive sections of Los Angeles, had been sequestering Hollywood’s brightest stars since the 1940s.
Steeped in history and offering warm and familiar service, its shabbiness had long ago begun outweighing its chic. It had all the right elements: a cloistered location on Stone Canyon Road. It had expertly hosted everyone from the British Royal Family to Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev to Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly and Cary Grant.
It also had a staff that had upgraded me to a garden room and fussed over my unregistered guest sister and her baby with sticky buns and teddy bears. Still, our room in the original wing had, as I noted in a Post review back in 2005, “faulty plumbing and a tub-to-shower switch that wouldn’t flip, until it popped out and slimed our hand.”
We also felt that “their reluctance to part with the time-honored, slightly worn Tavern on the Green-like décor” was charming, but should have meant no nickel-and-diming, such as the $20 fee to self-park, and a $13 Internet fee.
It turns out that the hotel wasn’t as reluctant to part with its shabby bits as I’d assumed. It was just waiting patiently for its facelift. In 2009, the hotel, owned by the Sultan of Brunei’s Dorchester Collection, underwent a comprehensive multi-million dollar renovation in which nearly every aspect of the hotel was refreshed, at the added massive opportunity cost of being closed for approximately two years. The design services of The Rockwell Group were retained; Wolfgang Puck agreed to rethink the food.
While it was out, everything changed. At this point, who even remembers Bacara, or the St. Regis? It finally opened, but who cares about the Terranea Resort in Palos Verdes? Nobody mourns the gone-and-forgotten Four Seasons Aviara, now a deadly-dull Park Hyatt in a remote North San Diego location. And what of the plans for world domination laid out by the folks behind the Montage Laguna Beach? A subsequent hotel in Beverly Hills is more than fine, but it has never garnered much buzz. (Locals refer to it as The Monstrosity.) The Irvine Company’s Resort at Pelican Hill, which came in on the tail end of the boom, is a perfectly nice resort, but its sterility is almost oppressive.
The Bel-Air may have gone under the knife to compete with the crowd, but somewhere along the line, it seems as if the crowd became just that — the crowd.
I checked into the hotel two weeks ago with a keen sense of anticipation, excited to see how the old had been made new; how this bit of nostalgia was going to once again make everyone sit up and pay attention. I couldn’t quite fathom how they were going to accomplish this balancing act of updating while not turning away a faithful clientele; what, after all, is the point of retreating to the dining room for salads and iced tea, if Nancy Reagan is not there to whisper about? And, incidentally, where had she been lunching these last two years?
THIS IS NOW
I arrived at night to find an exterior not so much changed as refreshed, walking over the bridge past the same bucolic swan pond, containing the same birds, now swanning in a filtered and recycled pond that saves 1.5 million gallons per year.
The fusty-elegant lobby has been transformed into hushed lounge, with seats grouped around a convivial fireplace and concierges quietly clickity-clacking on laptops off to the side. Hosts now accompany you to your room, doing away with most front desk formalities, showing you how to use your in-room iPad to remotely operate your room’s temperature, lights, and the loaner iPhone to which it’s connected (Internet access is now free).
On the way through the pink inside-outside rabbit warren of rooms — which look nearly the same as they always did, surrounded by ever-blooming gardens — you’ll pass just a few noticeable changes. The Bar — the hotel’s sanctum sanctorum — keeps its familiar wood paneling and grand piano, but has been expanded with three “garden niches” that extend to the outdoors (so you can choose to be seen, or disappear inside). On the opposite side of the lane, a new cocktail bar has private alcoves that allow you to sip whilst ogling the swans.
Once you reach those rooms, what rooms they are. Designer Alexandra Champalimaud has taken the still mostly-compact quarters and replaced tired pinks and mauves with a custom-mixed emblematic green wall and smart black trim. Custom limestone floors and natural wood ceilings are clean and full of light; even my tiny “deluxe” had a wood-burning fireplace and a fenced in yard.
Twelve new hillside guestrooms and suites have sweeping canyon views and sliding glass walls, outdoor fireplaces and decks with spa pools. The Bel-Air’s seven individually designed specialty suites weren’t yet open, and I was among the first to get a glimpse of the Herb Garden Suite, whose vaulted ceilings now drip with a sexy modern fixture, and perfectly muted hues in the bedroom all blend into an improbably Moroccan affair.
The new Presidential Suite has a reminiscent California style, I was told, though someone that could not be named was staying in the nearly 7,000 square foot compound, which isn’t even visible to hotel guests.
There are a few little quirks — perhaps the consequence of sending a settled old classic scuttling into the future. On my first morning, the wireless went out — and off went the in-room iPads connecting me to the room’s iPhone and, well, the outside world.
I called the front desk from my own mobile phone, and they quickly dispatched me via courtesy car to a Starbucks in Westwood to connect while they fussed over the wireless problem. I like to think that the ghosts of Bel-Air guests past approved of the design scheme, but perhaps not so much of the technological advances. Either way, by afternoon, the problems had been solved.
Back in the hotel, I wandered through the restaurant, newly presided over by Wolfgang Puck; Puck himself was actually on premises that day, working the kitchen and playing host to guests in his new California and Mediterranean-inflected place.
There in the restaurant, he was the Wolfgang I first fell in love with before you could buy him frozen in grocery stores and on-the-go in the airport. A new indoor/outdoor patio connects everyone to the terrace; skylights have been uncovered and a marble-clad hearth fireplace flanked by glass wine towers is all that separates you from the private dining and wine room.
THE VERDICT
Even with the addition of a new La Prairie spa building (in a Spanish belltower), which includes a workout room and spa suites, one of Bel-Air’s most important attributes — its rambling, dreamy layout — hasn’t changed.
Sure, it may be all iPad this and Alexandra Champalimaud that, but this is still the same cozy and private escape that cosseted the likes of Grace Kelly, who stayed so many times that a suite was named in her honor. It is the same hotel where Richard Nixon stayed for months while writing his memoirs, the place that once took in Truman Capote for a much-needed rest back in 1966, before he hosted the now-famous masked ball to celebrate the release of “In Cold Blood. Essentially, this still is — and still feels very much like — the Bel-Air. Except now, talk about having the last laugh, it once again feels superbly relevant.
Info:
Rooms from $595, (800) 648-4097; hotelbelair.com
KICK IT OLD SCHOOL
Two more superb classics to book now
RANCHO VALENCIA Rancho Santa Fe
This little resort (49 suites) on a hill outside of San Diego filled with orange trees and other sweet-smelling flora feels a lot older than its twentysomething years. For that you can blame things like the hopelessly nostalgic (and adorable) Spanish Colonial-y décor, or the preponderance of tennis courts and women of a certain age in their regulation whites. Many people have never heard of it, which is precisely why in-the-know types like Michael Jordan, Bill Gates and The Clintons have favored the property for years now. This is hospitality on a very serious level — we are speaking, after all, of Southern California’s only Relais & Chateaux member hotel. Various freshening-up efforts over the years (a new spa, bringing in Auberge Resorts to manage, new owners that have dragged the food & beverage into the 21st century) have kept things on point without ever attacking the resort’s soul. You can spend a lot of money on a hotel in California, but here, you can do so with confidence. Note: A $20 million renovation will take place in 2012 (ranchovalencia.com).
FOUR SEASONS BILTMORE Montecito
This 1927 gift from the resort gods sits right on pretty Butterfly Beach — the sort of place you would build a hotel back then, and never now. One can stroll out of one’s oddly-designed (but comfortable) casita, across the well-coiffed front lawn, across the street and directly into the Pacific, should that appeal. Simply put, the setting is kind of ridiculous, in the best possible way. And yet, for years, it’s like the hotel didn’t exist. Too old school. Not luxurious enough. Too public. These days, who remembers all that — the Biltmore is back, and, thanks to major upgrades in recent times, totally badass (fourseasons.com).