The Pelham

When we skipped up the stairs into the hotel foyer, itself a hop from South Ken tube, we were reminded of a Sixties’ Disney imagining of vintage London. With top-hatted doormen, sumptuous upholstery, dark wood panelling and candy-striped accessories, there’s the distinct feeling of possibility, of an enchanted experience tucked away behind a prim, townhouse façade, of Mary Poppins-esque magic. Though we’ve come a matter of miles from east London, we feel transported. We then discovered that from room 303 of the Pelham hotel, you can survey rooftops, gables and parapets of South Kensington. Beyond the nearest chimneystacks and cupolas, you can glimpse the ripe domes and mighty spires of the Natural History Museum and the V&A. Notwithstanding the blinking tip of Canary Wharf, which can be seen like a beacon in the east through the blue haze of central London, it’s all very chim-chimney, chim-chimney. This was all strangely appropriate. (Luckily, Dick van Dyke is nowhere to be seen and, given his accent in Mary Poppins, more luckily still, he’s nowhere to be heard.)
 
Our bedroom itself isn’t exactly big but is more than adequate; given its location and the appeal of its public spaces, the Pelham is not the sort of hotel in which you confine yourself to quarters. Among the room’s goodies are a sewing kit, a plethora of (candy-striped) pencils and a lavender spray for the pillow ‘to promote a good night’s sleep’ – though with a bed as bumptious as this one, I doubt we’ll need any encouragement. The bathroom is replete with quality products and a vigorously powerful shower, one of my personal must-haves for a superior hotel. There are a couple of oversights though: there is no digital radio or iPod dock, but the bedside cabinet is blessed with a Gideon’s bible. ‘Hallelujah’, says Mr Smith, archly.
 
Before we’re done staring out the window, we play a quick game of ‘Spot the Expensive Car’ during which we see two Bentleys, three Porsches and a Rolls Royce. (This is not a game that we can play at home in Hackney as Mercedes-as-minicabs don’t count.) Even if we couldn’t see Boujis down below – that nightclub so beloved of young royals and those with houses in the country and hyphens in their surnames – we are fortified in our opinion that we really are in another world. After a couple of cocktails in the hushed but welcoming hotel lounge and honestly, we decide to retire to bed and save our exploring for the morning.
 
Though the heavy curtains could keep the sun at bay all day, we welcome Saturday morning with dozy pleasure. After all, there is breakfast to be had. And what breakfast it is. The buffet is, as my mother would have it, quite the spread – fresh fruit, a smorgasbord of bread and croissants and muffins and a cornucopia of cereals. At the table next to ours, a woman who appears to be wearing a giant babygro puts her Prada bag, which is as big as a car, on the seat beside her. She orders green tea and a glass of room temperature water with a slice of lemon. Good for the digestion, apparently, though not for the temperament given the distaste on our fellow guest’s face when she hears us order a full English each (his eggs poached, mine scrambled). We suspect she’s just jealous and I order a cappuccino while Mr Smith opts for an Americano. Now, this rarely ends well and sure enough, when our coffees come, he frowns, as he always does, and complains, ‘This is too weak.’ I suggest, as I always do, that next time he order a double espresso and hot water; he looks at me as if it’s the first time I’ve ever made such a proposal. This is what he is like BC (before coffee). My cappuccino is absolutely fine, incidentally, and when our breakfasts come, they’re delicious: the eggs just so and the meat of an obvious high standard. Suitably sated, we venture out into west London.
 
Upon reflection, and aptly given the abundance of exotic exhibits that lie under glass in the nearby museums, ours is quite the expedition. Though we live in one of the capital’s most cosmopolitan boroughs, it’s a different kind of diversity from that in which we now find ourselves immersed. While hundreds of languages can be heard in Hackney, west London is tourist-tastic. We marvel on the accuracy and otherwise of national stereotypes as throngs of Italians with matching rucksacks crowd the pavements and smoke furiously, pairs of Americans pore over guidebooks by lampposts, and flurries of Japanese scuttle across Brompton Road, following their leader who holds her umbrella aloft.
 
We, on the other hand, meander – first to the Serpentine Gallery where we stumble upon some sort of art party. (We can tell by the array of rimless spectacles being worn). So nonchalantly are we wandering that no one stops us and soon we’re helping ourselves to pastries and coffee. We pause under the summer pavilion which to the untrained eye – ie mine – looks like an explosion in B&Q’s gazebo and conservatory department. Mr Smith tuts at my philistinism as I head for the gift shop. You can always judge the calibre of a gallery or museum by its gift shop and I find myself carrying a bundle of postcards.
 
Idly and delighting in the fresh air, we walk on through Hyde Park, past the glimmering Albert Memorial and all the way to High Street Kensington. It must be the first time in three years that either of us has been so far west. For all that London is the planet’s finest city, it’s incredible how quickly we confine ourselves to our own little bit of it, the village that we know and eschew other, further corners. We vow to explore more, to widen our horizons.
 
When we arrive back at the Pelham, it’s little wonder that we are absolutely starving. Foolishly we've missed their celebrated afternoon tea in the pretty sitting rooms upstairs. After freshening up, we opt for dinner at El Gaucho, a neighbourhood Argentinean steak house that wouldn’t be out of place in New York or indeed Buenos Aires. A cosy, basement establishment, its clientele ranges from a large table of Argentineans celebrating a birthday to a burly Russian man and a woman who, though certainly young enough, wasn’t his daughter.  We decide the presence of South Americans augurs well and order two sirloin steaks (medium, if you’re interested). We aren’t disappointed. The meat is melt-in-the-mouth gorgeous – while the spinach and chips that accompany it are perfectly done. The bottle of syrah we order even comes in at a reasonable £16. As the birthday party gets giddier and Spanish fills the air and the wine flows, we again feel transported.
 
Climbing El Gaucho’s steps back into the cool London air, Mr Smith marvels at the mix of experiences we’ve had, the other worlds we’ve sampled. From the Pelham’s cool version of London to a basement Buenos Aires, this is what a break from the routine is all about. And you don’t have to leave your home city to find it.