Broadwick Soho

When it comes to finding somewhere to stay in London, you’re spoilt for choice. But if your criteria are: centrally located (tick), eccentric decor (tick) and good vibes (tick) then Broadwick Soho is for you.

Upon arrival, our black cab is temporarily caught up in a square-dance with a Greek food truck (so far, so London), so we decide to hop out on the corner of Berwick and Broadwick Streets and amble across the cobbles to the big pink door of Broadwick Soho. A rather fabulously dressed doorman greets us, wearing a leopard-print blazer, summoning us inside. We’re immediately met with the hotel’s signature scent, a bespoke creation of oud, tobacco and jasmine that took two and a half years to perfect. Warm and welcoming, it’s the perfect way to signal to our senses that we have arrived at our whimsical home-from-home for the weekend.

Many will be familiar with interior designer Martin Brudnizki’s penchant for loud prints and clashing colours, and he’s certainly not held back here — minimalists won’t be fans. That said, we absolutely loved the interiors, from the leopard-print armchairs in the rooftop bar Flute, to the 1970s Formica tabletops of the Dear Jackie restaurant.

London hotel rooms usually fall into two categories: ludicrously spacious, if you’re at one of the historic grandes dames, or on the petite side, if you’re in a newer opening. Such is the case for Broadwick Soho, whose rooms do come up on the more compact side of the equation, but still have ample space for a double bed, wardrobe, minibar, coffee table and two armchairs. My toddler’s favourite thing to do (aside from eating the gummy bears and madeleines left as a welcome gift) was to point out all the wonderful quirks of the decor: from the brass hands holding up the bed, moulded on the designer’s own mitts, to the fringing on the wardrobe and the cockatoo on the minibar handles. Meanwhile, my favourite thing to do was to luxuriate in the shower, which features a marble bench and Ortiga toiletries, surely the chicest of all shampoos?

After freshening up, we headed out for a spot of retail therapy, jumping on the Piccadilly line to Chelsea Green for Toddler Smith, and then coming back via Regent Street for Mama Smith. The location makes it ideal for scheduling in a much-needed catch-up with friends, who join us at Flute, which is unsurprisingly busy for a Friday evening (Louise Redknapp is spotted sitting at the bar). We’re all extremely happy that as is Italian custom, cicchetti are served alongside our glasses of champagne, with the Perelló olives in particular being supremely moreish.

Appetite whetted, we head down to Dear Jackie for a supper of burrata with spring vegetables, and veal and pork agnolotti with truffle — both with the Toddler Smith seal of approval, though she probably liked the princess sticker book she was given best. The fully stocked minibar in the room is very appealing once my daughter has gone to sleep — particularly when I spot those Perelló olives — but I practise restraint.

If you’re used to total silence when you sleep, then I don’t know why you booked a hotel in Soho. The pubs on the street below (it’s only an eight-storey hotel) are noisy until chucking-out time, and there might be the odd 'THIS VEHICLE IS REVERSING' in the early hours of the morning. But I’m staying with a toddler, so I’m used to a broken night’s kip. Earlier than I’d like, I’m up and having a Nespresso in bed, while Toddler Smith watches Peppa Pig cast onto the television from my phone. Bar Jackie is our breakfast spot, where we line our tummies with a full English, featuring the most delicious bacon and sausage we’ve sampled in a hotel for a long time. There’s an on-theme Italian-style counter for those coming in simply for espresso, and piles of the best newspapers to read. I take one into the Nook, a lounge located next to Bar Jackie, but alas, with an impatient toddler, I’m soon on the move again, this time to Kensington Palace to see a new exhibition about servants.

When the time comes to check-out, I’m loath to leave, not least because I’ve never encountered a hotel that so encapsulates all of my tastes: leopard print, cosseting scents and Italian grub. With the press of the 'magic taxi button', a black cab receives the Bat Signal and drives round, and we’re back off to a far less Technicolor reality.