Mr & Mrs Smith

During my days as a Soho-based magazine editor, the Sanderson was the place to hang out and memories of nights there are some of the most glam I have. It was at this designer crashpad that Pharrell Williams kissed my hand and where I watched Amy Winehouse perform an exclusive gig and hung out with Razorlight in the Purple Bar. When the place first opened, nearly a decade ago, Ian Schrager, its then owner, along with Philippe Starck were the hotel dream team of the moment – having just launched London’s sister hotel St Martin’s Lane and the Delano in Miami a few years before – and hip young things flocked to this rock ’n’ roll alternative to the Capital’s more chintzy offerings.

So stepping through this sleek hotel’s shiny glass doors and white floaty curtains on a Friday night gives me a distinct sense of déjà vu. It is no secret that the hotel was designed to bring a dose of Miami style to London but it would also appear that Starck was heavily inspired by Alice in Wonderland and Salvador Dalí back in the day. The spacious lobby, though urban, is rather dreamlike, with its scarlet lips-shaped sofa and stretch Louis IX chaise longue mixing surreally with little toadstool-like tables.

Ten years since its turn-of-the-millennium debut, the infamous Long Bar, with Dali-esque eyes winking at us from the back of the chairs, is still kicking with suits and stilettos and clearly hasn’t lost its reputation for being a prime place for courtship. Meanwhile, my favourite feature of the hotel, the decked and foliage-festooned Courtyard Garden – which is covered with a clear canopy in the winter but open to the elements in the summer – is also packed to the gills with mojito-drinking revellers, reminiscing perhaps about the live music nights the Courtyard now hosts in the summer months that have featured performances from artists like Little Boots and Marina and the Diamonds.

Clubby music, courtesy of the DJ in the Long Bar, is pumping, as you might expect in a central London bar on a Friday night; perhaps a repetitive beat too far though for the hotel’s intimate Malaysian restaurant Suka where we are having dinner. But as their house red (a very drinkable Pinot Noir) flows and fragrant dishes starts to emerge from the open kitchen, we find ourselves feeling more at home. A plate of crisp soft shell crab comes with a spicy-sweet sauce, slow cooked beef rendang falls tenderly off the bone it was served on and the ubiquitous chocolate fondant with green tea ice-cream is declared ‘just melty enough’ by my fussy Mr Smith. Designed by India Mahdavi, the black-and-taupe restaurant, with its canteen-style seating and pendulous Tom Dixon lighting has a lovely warm feel so we can’t help being surprised there aren’t more people dining there but then, it’s Friday and night and for the diehard cocktail crowd in the bar and courtyard we guess eating’s cheating. I’m tempted myself by a blackberry and lemongrass martini but know that this could well lead to an impulsive taxi ride to nearby clubs Sketch or Maddox so, wanting to recharge our batteries rather than wear them out further, we opt for bed.

It is a perky porter called Matt who shows us to our room, reminding me how seductive the lifts are in this hotel; dark and starry, as if you’re floating in the Milky Way (or perhaps that was the Pinot Noir). From space to sports, our biggest surprise comes from the discovery we’ve ended up with a deluxe ‘gym’ double. A running machine in one corner conjures scenes from Lost In Translation, prompting me to whisper to Mr Smith that he can ‘Lip my stockings’ later (a sound bite for the more devout Sofia Coppola fans out there). Minimalist, mainly white and pretty spacious for a city stay, the king-size sleigh bed is at a signature jaunty angle and there’s a ‘tub’, as Matt puts it, in the bathroom rather than just the usual shower. Bed and bath are divided by a glass wall and floaty curtain – so shrinking violets may find ablutions a tad intimidating and exhibitionistic. But hey, a stay here is meant to be an escape from the banal. A Starck-esque egg ‘objet’ next to the full-length mirror has us a little bamboozled though and as boring as a conventional luggage rest may be, we wouldn’t have minded one.

The Sanderson is a hideaway heaven-sent for night owls – so I’m not too surprised when, despite being on the sixth floor, we can still hear the music from the courtyard going strong at 11pm. Within an hour though the banging beats have died down and we slip into a slumber befitting of babies – or a couple of boring oldies as the case may be. In fact, thanks to killer black-out blinds we wake deliciously late. A call to room service brings a breakfast of eggs florentine and warm pains aux chocolat, which soon helps us get into gear. Sadly our sleep-in means I’ve missed a slot in the acclaimed Agua spa. I’ve been lusting after the new Natura Bisse Diamond Body Experience Body treatment they have on offer, so instead I magic up our own bedroom spa, making the most of the Korres toiletries, iPod speakers and that indulgent tub.

Fans of rather more low-key nights than when I first fell in love with the Sanderson, I rather wish I’d been in a more hedonistic mood when we revisited. But as Borat would say – and please banish all images of that motel-room wrestling scene – the Sanderson is definitely a ‘sexy time’ hotel. If you like your urban outposts slick, contemporary and a little bit racy this is the retreat for you. And if you are someone who can stay up past midnight, even better.