The Devil, the Details, and Pierre

A recent guest took our Lifestyle Concierge quiz and was so surprised by his similarities to Pierre he sent us this letter. We thought you’d enjoy.

To: Mr. Nicholas Gandossi, General Manager

I have just spent an evening at your trendy little address in Vancouver and felt I should convey my observations for the sake of fellow travelers, loungers and food lovers.

A little selective disclosure: I travel extensively, have enjoyed all manner of lodgings, from the piteous to the posh, and have come to appreciate good food and fine wine. In short, according to your Lifestyle Concierge quiz, I am “Pierre”, right down to my strong preference for all things French. That you were able to peg my profile so closely borders on privacy invasion – if it weren’t so flattering.

First impressions: If your staff were any more accommodating, I might believe they actually enjoy what they do (perhaps they get paid too much – you might want to look into that). “We’ll have our hotel car take you there.” “I’m sure we can launder your shirt for this evening.” “We’ll see what we can do about finding a replacement sock.” (Don’t ask.) It all got to be a bit tiresome, I must say. I take great pleasure in finding fault, and deeply resented being deprived of such.

A hotel reveals itself not all at once but in layers of nuanced and subtle detail, like a beautiful woman or, in culinary terms, an onion. Take your fitness room. Bright and well equipped indeed, but was that larger-than-life, nude mural near the entrance meant to motivate or mock me? The closest I will ever get to becoming this Adam of Eden was one of the complimentary apples, which at first seemed like a consolation prize, but as the evening progressed became more a symbol of temptation. Then again, I could have been reading too much into it.

As for my room, like Pierre, I approved of its “airy and fresh décor, a tad conservative, eclectic and cozy” reflecting my “tony and traditional lifestyle” (your words not mine, and if I may you’re trying just a bit too hard). However, I do have a quibble about the “intimacy kit” in the amenity drawer: thoughtful, yes, but only one prophylactic? A bit lacking for someone of my prowess. The last thing I want to worry about while in flagrante is whether supplies will run out, to say nothing of the awkward conversation with room service (you try tipping without pockets). And the oxygen dispenser? This is Vancouver for heaven’s sake, not Mexico City. Yet I had to confess it might come in handy and placed it next to the intimacy kit. As for the bathroom and its enormous window overlooking the room, I love the open concept – a little voyeuristic and naughty (parts of my profile your quiz missed) – but my 82-year-old grandmother might see it differently.

A word about your car service. The BMW 7 Series is built for speed and should to be driven as such. I was totally unimpressed with your driver’s insistence on going the speed limit and adamantly refusing my commands to cut other drivers off and jump meridians. Yes, there were small children in the area, but I was late for my fitting at Harry Rosen, and small children have never impeded my drivers in Paris. A small suggestion: send driving staff to the Grand Prix for training.

I had been looking forward to a drink at notorious hotspot Opus Bar, so was disappointed that it wasn’t busier. Yes, it was rather early, but it was cocktail hour somewhere in the world. Kristina, my sultry waitress, informed me that staff were setting up for a private party that evening, “when the real debauchery begins.” I took that thought with me to the loo, where the only thing that separates the boys from the girls, besides the obvious, is a window. My poor grandmother would have had to hold her bladder all night long. To my delight I found video screens mounted above the urinals, allowing me to spy on people in the lounge while relieving myself. Two were broken, however, and I was obliged to wait in line for one that worked, and then rejoin the line after others complained I was taking too long. Kindly repair.

Now, I’m no Anton Ego (the uber-critic from Ratatouille) but like him, I have a soft spot for simple dishes, perfectly prepared. The menu at Elixir was inventive and inviting, if a bit rich. Bypassing the lobster bisque and biodynamic risotto, I followed my inner “Ego” and chose the rib-eye, with pecorino and truffle oil pommes frites, all preceded by the poached pears, for balance of course. As I sipped an exquisite glass of Garry Oaks Fetish (you know me so well), I couldn’t help but be baffled by Elixir’s French-bistro décor and its contrast to the ultra chic Opus Bar only metres away. It was as if the two venues were competing. If they were, Opus Bar won, because as much as I love fine cuisine I love les jolies femmes even more. There, Kristina had been true to her word: by 11:00 pm the party had spilled into the lobby (ever hear of a retaining wall?) and the area resembled a mosh pit – granted, with the most beautiful and fragrant bodies one might ever be accidentally pushed against.

In the interest of discretion I feel obliged to wrap things up here. In conclusion, would I return to your hotel? Let me simply say this: If the devil is in the details, then she must have a room at Opus.

Yours truly,
“Pierre”

P.S. I’m only slightly exaggerating when I say the Tylenol and oxygen canister brought me back to life on Saturday morning. Whoever put them in the mini-bar deserves a promotion.