Dean Street Townhouse

I find curious comfort in the fact that after two decades living in London, I can still — despite very best efforts — get lost in Soho. In a city so familiar and steadfast, in a part of town I have spent lots of time (and even worked) in, I can get turned around within seconds. There are certain places and haunts I return to time and again, but do not ask me which street they’re on. Maybe Greek Street? Wait, I’m thinking of Frith. Wasn’t it on Old Compton? The one landmark I can reliably pin down is Quo Vadis — a favourite spot for a Negroni — which I always know is on Dean Street, because it’s directly across from that other great stalwart, Dean Street Townhouse. This hotel has become my North Star. And today, I’m moving in. 

In homage to every movie set in London, it is grey and bucketing down when I arrive at the Townhouse on a bitter Friday in February. I stumble pink-cheeked and sodden into the cosy embrace of the foyer, floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with old bound books and velvety armchairs beside a fireplace. This feels more like the converted Georgian townhouse it is than a hotel, even if I am received with a friendly greeting from behind a reception desk. I am hideously early, but delighted to be ushered straight to my room on the third floor. 

I’ve plumped for a Medium room, reasonable in size, although I wouldn’t want to go much smaller — and if you’re going to treat yourself, you might as well commit. Opening the window shutters, I look out across rooftops and down on the cobblestone walk-through of Meard Street, slick with rain. I make myself a Grind coffee and ease back on the Egyptian-cotton bedding and plump pillows with a book. Yes, this’ll do.

Mr Smith blows in after work; we enjoy the complimentary bottle of Soho House's signature Picante cocktail (complete with fresh chopped chillies on the side). A knock on the door offers temptation — a drinks trolley, going door to door shaking up cocktails to order. But instead we head down to the restaurant, which is full but not crowded; the ambience casual yet sultry, with faces lit by the glow of candles and — as Mr Smith points out — despite so much conversation going on, it’s not loud. The general manager swoops by, a stop-and-chat that makes us feel like regulars. This is not a show for reviewers; he does not know that’s what we are. He merely delights in his industry, still effusive after (he leans in to whisper it) 22 years. We are impressed. 'You must really love it,' I remark. 'Yes, it doesn’t matter who you are, where you come from, hospitality is about people, enjoying a moment,' he declares. 'And at the end of the day,' he adds, his final flourish, 'It’s the simple things that make all the difference.' We agree, eschewing mains for a gluttonous smattering of starters — steak tartare, scallops, a pillowy haddock soufflé — and for dessert, apple crumble served tableside, spooned out of a large oven dish as if the waiter were actually my mother, and which I lash with custard. It tastes like home. 

At night, I am surprised how quiet the hotel is. Not silent — impossible — there’s the laughter of late-night revellers in the street, and at dawn, the distant, tinkling crash of glass as the recycling trucks collect the remnants of Soho hedonism. But it’s unobtrusive; almost musical. In the morning, I sit against the windowsill snug in a robe and slippers to watch the small-hours straggers wrestle with umbrellas along Meard Street below. The cream-coloured Roberts Revival radio is tuned in to BBC Radio 3 — not my usual station but I don’t change it, because in this, our new, nicer home, we listen to classical.

Of course, one of the greatest thrills about staying at Dean Street Townhouse is stepping outside and immediately being in the middle of Soho. Never has getting there been so swift and painless. Nor have I ever felt more like a bona-fide local — which might be the Dean Street Townhouse effect. Because it’s not really a hotel. It’s our townhouse, albeit fleetingly. We are people, enjoying the moment. And now where shall we go? It has to be a tour of Soho: espressos at Bar Termini; homemade scones from Maison Bertaux. The Photographer’s Gallery, for an exhibition by photojournalist Letizia Battaglia. We swim with the human tide beneath Chinatown’s red-lantern sky in search of an early dinner. We mustn’t leave Soho. That’s the rule. We mustn’t stray too far from home. 

Why would we? Back at home, the bed has been remade and the complimentary cookies have been replenished. I want to drink tea and eat cookies and people-watch over Meard Street. Then take a shower in the bathroom — which is one big wet room — and slather myself with the full spectrum of Cowshed products lined up in a tiled alcove. I emerge soft and buffed and smelling like rosemary and lemongrass. Outside the city is gearing up for Saturday night; cocktails, dining, dancing, music, debauchery… We could go out again, throw ourselves into the fray… But no. Tonight let’s stay home.

In the morning, a final breakfast, taken in bed: waffles with chantilly cream; an egg-white omelette; a very good bacon sandwich. It really is the simple things that make all the difference. But simple — as this old townhouse proves — can still be very, very nice indeed. I step out into Soho, leaving home at last, and am immediately lost.