Condesa DF

I love Mexico City. I love it because it’s big and brash, and a little bit mental. And that’s the point: if you want peace and quiet, go to Alaska. If it’s edge and excitement you’re after, the Distrito Federal is where it’s at. So when I find myself outside an elegant art deco boutique hotel on a tranquil tree-lined avenue, shortly after arriving at Benito Juárez airport, I feel slightly off-kilter.

As I’m waiting for Señor Smith to fly in from Cancún to join me, I have to drag my luggage into the tiny lobby of Condesa DF alone. There to greet me is a huge chocolate labrador, watching imperiously from behind reception with his paws on the counter. Is he making sure I’m dressed appropriately for this chic boutique hotel?

I walk through into a light-bathed, laurel-dotted triangular courtyard, where dressed-down chilangos are enjoying a parasol-shaded late lunch. I look up and see a Pythagorean vision of sky as blue as Frida Kahlo’s Casa Azul. I’m in the centre of the atrium, and four floors of white walls, constructed from huge rectangular louvred panels, rise up around me. Oblong patterns of light are beamed onto the walls of the corridors behind. It’s beautiful and geometric. My old maths teacher would be delighted with Condesa DF.

This terrace leads onto a series of rooms, filled with mismatched, gently curving, Barbara Hepworth-esque furniture. Bold floral graphics in fresh verdant tones feature heavily, complementing the turquoise walls. Our own room continues the natural theme. Green walls segue into chocolate-coloured wooden floorboards. Huge doors slide closed to separate the bedroom from a pretty lounge, in which sit more flower-emblazoned chairs. I open my window and the sound of birdsong floods into the hotel from the palm-filled park across the road.

When Señor Smith arrives, I bounce around the room showing him all our new toys, before realising there are perhaps more important things to focus on after a spell of distance-enforced absence. When we finally make it up to the buzzing rooftop bar, there’s a slight chill in the air – but the stylish crowd of young creatives doesn’t seem to mind. We ward off the cold by cuddling beneath a blanket, as lounge music and the gentle throb of conversation provides our soundtrack. Occasionally, we stick out a hand to pick up champagne cocktails or to clamp chopsticks around morsels of Condesa DF's Mexican-influenced Japanese cuisine.

We’re on Latin time now, so breakfast is still waiting for us when we make it down to the courtyard at 11am the next morning, . Another beautiful day beams down into the atrium. With nowhere particular to be, we boutique-hop, gallery-browse and café-idle our way through this genteel, leafy neighbourhood. It’s hard to remember we’re in Mexico City – this all feels more like a romantic weekend in Paris.

In the afternoon, we brave the hot, frantic and intense city I know. Mr Smith is reluctant to leave our idyll in the suburbs, but I persuade him to come with me to the Zócalo. This bustling square has been the heart of the capital since the time of the Aztecs, and shows no signs of letting up. I drag Mr Smith through tightly packed crowds watching feather-headed dancers spin and whirl to a pounding drumbeat, to the Diego Rivera murals at the Palacio Nacional. After spending an hour or so admiring the epic frescoes, as chaotic and colourful as the culture from which they came, we head out to brave the burning sun amid the ruins of the Templo Mayor.

By 6pm, though, Mr Smith can bear no more. We jump into a green and white VW Beetle taxi and crawl along Mexico City's traffic-clogged highways, watching people weave between the cars to hawk toys and chewing gum. Stepping out of our cab beside the park, we breathe simultaneous sighs of relief; it’s hard to imagine we’re still in the same city.

That night, we treat ourselves to dinner in the hotel’s El Patio restaurant. Seated at a table in the atrium, we begin with refreshing ginger and champagne cocktails, then I move onto melting black cod in tequila miso while Mr Smith tucks into hearty braised ribs with a roasted apple purée. The food is divine; the service impeccable. We roll out of the hotel with full bellies and head to low-key local bar La Botica, which serves 15 different kinds of mescal, a local tipple caustic enough to strip paint. Bravery buoyed by the cocktails back at Condesa DF, Señor Smith asks for the strongest one they have. Several shots and some chillied peanuts later, he’s a little worse for wear.

Next morning, as we sit up in bed with coffee and pastries, we reflect on our weekend. What’s not to like about Condesa DF? Nothing. The hotel is a peaceful haven in one of the most frenetic and extreme urban environments on earth; it also happens to be a stylish and fun boutique hotel with world-class food and service. And it has a dog on front-desk duties. I wonder whether – if I tickle his tummy – he’ll let us stay for another night.