Mr & Mrs Smith

San Francisco’s particular brand of big-city glamour is an eccentric one – classy and graceful, but with an unconventional approach to most everything. The modern-day Clift hotel, lovechild of Ian Schrager and Philippe Starck back in 2001, is a fitting reflection of the City by the Bay’s clever contrast of qualities. The beige brick façade is dignified and unassuming with its oversize doorways and windows, and the only hint it may not be so traditional comes from the artistic door handle. Highly tactile, the fancy ironwork intimates at an anything-but-ordinary atmosphere awaiting these Smiths within.

We’re whisked into the hotel lobby by virtually invisible black-clad doormen, and are instantly struck by the design's Alice in Wonderland spin on old-world elegance thanks to the modern, surreal whimsies. Soaring ceilings, wood-panelled walls, Italian marble floors and velvet-lined alcoves teleport us a world away from the bustle of Geary Street. Well-placed lighting coaxes eyes to dramatic embellishments such as an 18-foot bronze fireplace sculpted by Gérard Garouste, a Jean Nouvel-crafted concierge desk, a marble coffee table by Salvador Dalí and a Napoleon-style chair big enough for two Bonapartes.

At check-in, the super-friendly receptionist has overheard us discussing plans for the night, and she suggests some local restaurants and cocktail lounges that she thinks we’ll enjoy. Forget any upselling – she instantly earns our respect by not overly pushing the in-house options, as worthy as world-famous Asia de Cuba at Clift is of celebration.

Even the elevators at this hip hotel are a thrill, we discover. While waiting for one of three minimalist and mirrored lifts, we invent a game whereby its colour will dictate our next activity. It’s red. ‘I say that equals something naughty,’ says Mr Smith. I won’t tell you what he whispers next as we head up 12 floors, but it makes me blush: mission accomplished. Round one to Mr Smith.

The Clift is U-shaped, so stepping out onto the long lilac-colored hallway, we cross our fingers that we haven’t scored a boudoir with a view of other hotel room windows. The trick here is to get a view of the city. And, boy, do we ever. Our corner room looks south and west across the whole of San Fran. A sycamore sleigh bed is the star of the all-white show. ‘It’s like a 400-threadcount down cloud’, I sigh.

Nothing’s low-key about these lodgings: walls are pale violet, the nightstands are a tangy orange acrylic and the behind-the-bed mirrors are giant. Mr Smith raises his eyebrows on discovering a $15 intimacy kit, remarking that it seems as at home here as the bottled water and Toblerone. Instead of a game that involves cracking open all our minibar contents, we opt for another shuffle of elevator roulette: after all, cocktails in the Clift’s white-hot art deco Redwood Room beckon.

We get the green lift. ‘OK, you have to find out an interesting eco fact,’ I suggest to Mr Smith somewhat less seductively, and more earnestly, than the saucy sweet nothings he whispered to me on our last ride. His challenge is answered sooner than we could expect. Admiring the panelled walls in the bar – hands down the most beautiful I’ve ever seen – and the waiter informs us that the entire room was apparently created from a single redwood tree. Strike two to Mrs Smith. The walls glow with framed ever-changing backlit digital artworks – Gustav Klimpt by day, an avant-garde spectacle by night. From eye candy, to liquid treats: it may look a single malt scotch sort of a place but we discover it also serves a beautiful glass of wine and a perfectly chilled martini.

It’s crowded on a Saturday night, so we take our drinks to the cool, dark parlour of the Living Room. Where one imagines trophies of a manly hunt were once hung, now there are tongue-in-cheek toy animals. We sink into deep leather chairs with our cocktails in hand, and we can’t help but giggle at our good fortune.

As reluctant as we are to leave the Clift, we’re also keen to see a little of our new neighbourhood. Step right, and you hit a boulevard of sophisticated art galleries and theatre buildings as you make your way the two blocks to Union Square, San Francisco’s downtown shopping district. Head left and you enter the Tenderloin – a formerly downtrodden locale, but now home to some of the most interesting cocktail lounges in the city. We make like we’re flying first class, and see that in this part of town grit sidles up to glamour making bars such as Rye, feel like gems as yet undiscovered.

Flash forward through a few burnt-orange Manhattans and supper at Bossa Nova, a hip Brazilian restaurant and bar fashioned after Rio’s favelas, and we’re back at the Clift. Our hotel cards let us breeze past the well-dressed, beautiful people waiting to be admitted to the Redwood Room. We feel like rock stars. Slightly worse-for-wear rock stars. White cloud bed, here we come...

Lollygagging around the next morning and we nearly miss the cut-off time for Sunday brunch in Asia de Cuba. It’s an all-you-can-eat, serve-yourself affair that flaunts salmon, cheeses, eggs, bacon, sausages, croissants and more. It’s a dream start to a sunny and beautiful day. This time we hang a right from the front door and stroll through the Theater District and on to Union Square. A couple of blocks further and we check out Yerba Buena Lane, a pedestrianised plaza that houses the Daniel Libeskind-designed Contemporary Jewish Museum, the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. From culture to calorie-burning, our day’s final activity is a whirl in the well-equipped hotel gym.

It’s a good job we did have a little spin on that treadmill. We drag ourselves out of bed on our last morning in time for a leisurely pre-flight breakfast back in that luxurious dining space. It’s not exactly your standard first meal of the day: we feast on house-made brioche in a coconut egg custard, caramelised rum bananas with coconut palm sugar, covered in whipped ginger cream and cinnamon-anise maple syrup. One thing is for certain: at Clift they understand luxury. And as they say in their slogan, they certainly give it an edge. (Oh, and in case you’re wondering: the other elevator was lilac. The gauntlet that threw down? Luckily a barman in Redwood was able to rustle up a mean Chambord-laced martini.)