We named it the beige beast and it embarrassed me. Mrs Smith and I had bought the thing online days earlier without gauging its enormous size. I wheeled it self-consciously across the courtyard to our hotel — peach-hued, pedimented and clock-topped, it exuded understated class. Precipitous granite steps led up to the seaweed-green front door. Panic struck. How could I possibly maintain an air of nonchalant panache while heaving this vast lump of beige baggage up those stairs? Mercifully, an alert staff member smiled, like a blond Jeeves, and with the touch of a tastefully concealed button the steps magically descended into the ground. This enabled us to shuffle forward onto the top one and be lifted vertically, like the 17th-century warship Vasa from the Stockholm sea bed, and we glided into the embrace of the Stadshotell.
From the reception we could already appreciate its reputation as the most sought-after place to stay in the city. Despite being 4pm and a weekday, the bistro-bar-café area was buzzing with (we have it on good authority) the cream of Stockholm celebs; laughing, chatting and removing flecks of dill from their sparkling teeth. Thick, plaited ropes of blonde hair swung from every other head — we were definitely in Sweden.
Our Studio Suite was on the ground floor and consisted of an abundantly cupboarded hall, which led to a sitting room housing the minibar, whose doors I threw open and left open. It was the size of a wardrobe, mirrored inside and filled with the most delectable-looking morsels you could hope to encounter. There were smoked almonds; green olives; spiced tuna; pistachio nougat; miniature bottles of booze (one with a menacing cat on it, a warning surely that it contained an aquavit so strong it would claw your throat on its way down); even a leafed Sicilian lemon on a wooden board with a sharpened Opinel knife at its side for slicing perfect curls of zest. I was in heaven. From the blond-marble bathroom, Mrs Smith called the four words I most long to hear on first entering a hotel room: ‘We have a bath!’ I’m familiar with the justifications of shower-lovers: hygiene, convenience, etc, but nothing beats a bath, particularly on a city break. After walking 20,000 steps a day — your poor feet. Only a soak in a hot tub of fragrant water will revive them.
Our impatience to explore the city drew us from our island, the Shoreditch of Stockholm, with its vintage shops and dinky mismatched cafés, into the old town. We were amused by a procession of plumed cavalry officers trotting past in the pouring rain as we ducked into a cosy café for a slice of princess cake and a cup of tea. We learned later that, had we any patience or regard for pageantry, we would have been rewarded with a glimpse of the King and Queen of Sweden. The cavalry, it turned out, was heading a National Day procession (!) that included their majesties further back in a horse-drawn carriage. As we returned to our courtyard, beaming blonde staff members rushed towards us with umbrellas to protect us from the National Day weather. We headed straight to our bath tub.
The Stadshotell boasts two eateries. We ascended thickly carpeted stairs to the posher one, Matsalen. After some vigorous handshaking with the maître d’, we sunk into a scalloped mohair banquette. The room was light and elegant with arched windows, classical pilasters and marbled walls. We ordered cocktails so strong they evaporated at dizzy-making speed. There followed a succession of courses, the provenance of which were narrated in detail by our waiter, Isaiah. Mrs Smith is not interested in hearing where the baby carrot she is about to decapitate was grown, so I did my best to prolong these encounters with what I considered pertinent questions. I can be quite annoying like that. Due to the cocktails, it’s hard to remember exactly what delicious things we ate, but a crispy little artichoke grown on a distant island by a man named Sven sticks in the mind. The events of the day catching up with us, we embraced the staff like family and exited bedwards.
Overlooking a complete lack of liquorice on the pillow, the bed was huge and glorious, with a wraparound pale wooden headboard like the dashboard on a vintage Saab. It straddled an art deco rug the colour of cardamom bun. The Swedes don’t muck about when it comes to beds. Taking their lead from the princess and that vicious little pea, they go with two mattresses. The top mattress is called a topper but bears no similarity to the quilt-like thing with strappy elastic corners we have in Britain. We slept like pine logs on a quiet mossy bank somewhere far out in the archipelago.
In the interests of research, our morning started early and with a private sauna, located in the cosy dungeon. It’s not a thing I’d normally get involved with, but when in Sweden… It made me very hot, then very cold in quick succession, which Mrs Smith assured me was quite normal. Now, ravenous for our first Swedish breakfast, we barged past Björn Borg and most of ABBA, and situated ourselves in a corner of the bistro. Eschewing the breakfast soup (chicken and pork!?), I plumped for the boiled egg with smoked caviar, which turned out to be feisty little dollop of taramasalata that paired excellently with my egg. Mrs S’s heart was swayed by what looked like a joyless prison porridge wearing a greyish beret of apple sauce, but which apparently was equally spot-hitting.
Suddenly and sadly, like stabbing away with a fork in the cloudy remnants of a jar of pickled herring to find there are none left, our time was up. While checking out at reception, Mrs Smith joked that her only disappointment was the lack of liquorice on pillow after turn-down. In a flash, Christophe, the maître d’, rushed from his post, a wild look in his eyes, returning moments later from the corner shop bearing bags of liquorice chews. ‘Enjoy,’ he said, ‘they are wonderfully salty.’ As the granite stairs bore us slowly downwards, we turned and waved. I wish our smiles were as ecstatic as intended, but I fear we were grimacing, for the liquorice really was incredibly salty.
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Zebedee Helm is a Bafta-nominated illustrator, cartoonist and author, whose work has what he likes to think of as a ‘unifying theme of affectionate humorosity’. His creations have appeared in various publications, including the Financial Times, Private Eye and House & Garden, and his clients include Hermès, The Row and Fortnum & Mason.