Ett Hem

Few things reinforce a sense of tranquillity quite like the nearby activity of others: far enough away so as not to be a disturbance, but just close enough to provide a gentle reminder of the pure luxury of idleness. It’s just before 11am and we’re lazily scoffing the most scrumptious muesli that we’ve ever known. This is multi-faceted breakfast deliciousness overload. Orange juice is here; coffee there. A basket of breads and pastries just within reach. Cold meat, cheese, slices of radish and cucumber. Buttered-to-death scrambled eggs on their way. Mrs Smith and I will be here for some time yet. No sudden movements.

Just on the fringes of earshot, a meeting is in full swing between two ladies in leather skirts; they have well-judged tans somewhere between teak and maple. An eager young stylist pipes up from time to time with a new idea. Slowly and in unison, the ladies turn their heads towards him. Slowly they turn them back again, to the real subjects of this meeting: a suited man with the greying waves of the one-time lothario, and there, discreetly chic in emerald cashmere, superstar designer Ilse Crawford herself.

We’re in the daintily delightful Ett Hem, Crawford’s latest contribution to Stockholm’s hotel scene. It’s the middle of Design Week and the city is awash with armies of black-clad aesthetes. They gather daily at the furniture and lighting fair in a conference centre on the edge of town. They walk and peer and judge. They stop mid-stride to appraise the line of a chair leg – a silent nod indicates approval. They fondle textiles, exchange business cards, do deals. In the evenings they return to the city to drink free wine in furniture shops.

It’s easy to see why Crawford would hold her meetings here. For nine years, she ran design magazine Elle Decoration before launching her own studio, StudioIlse. Her most prominent projects include Shoreditch House in London and Grand Hotel in Stockholm. Opened in 2013, Ett Hem is the perfect immersion into her personal vision of what the beautifully designed interior ought to be like: subtle, elegant, comfortable – discreetly expensive. Ah, just so. Owner Jeanette Mix and designer Ilse Crawford have given in to their love of beautiful objects and striking design, but this is no private museum: so deft and intuitive is their handling of mismatched Modernist chairs, rich muted tones, gleaming cabinets and vintage stoves that you’ll find yourself instantly at home

At the furniture fair, a large stand is dedicated to exploring Crawford’s design ideas: ‘Design is a verb, not a noun,’ reads one soundbite. Staying here at Ett Hem reveals the truth of the declaration. The phrase ‘Ett Hem’ itself is Swedish for ‘at home’. Guests are encouraged to mingle in several communal areas: a conservatory, kitchen, dining area and lounge. These are not rooms of snotty grandeur but of calm and gentle loveliness. There really is a genuine sense of homeliness here – albeit of the eye-flirtingly tasteful kind.

This is not something that can be achieved through design alone. The service is as warm and thoughtful as the soft furnishings. Each member of staff introduces themselves by name; they remember what tea you drink. One gives me a late-night cigarette when we return home drunk from yet another design party. Every afternoon, the kitchen is filled with the smells of baking and the resulting sponge cake on the sideboard has a dangerous help-yourself policy. No amount of saunas in the hotel’s private spa rooms can conceal the quantity I get through.

It’s almost – almost – too much. There’s one bizarre moment of dizzying self-reflexivity as, back in our suite, we’re surrounded by a symphony of greyscale textures and warm, copper accent notes. Our marble bathtub is just visible through the door. We idly leaf through one of Ilse Crawford’s own design books deftly left among the art books and design magazines. Looking up and around us, I realise we’ve entered the image; or the image has enveloped us. Design is indeed a verb: we are living the life. In heraldry, this is known as mis-en-abyme; it’s something of a holy grail for certain schools of postmodern culture and literary criticism. I decide to get some air.

Outside is cold and bright. Snow drapes the streets in this little enclave of the city. Nearby, nestled among the wealthy and the ambassadorial, looms Lars Israel Wahliman’s national romantic Engelbrekt Church, a splendid pile of faux-mediaeval Art Nouveau brick silliness. Ett Hem itself dates from 1910 and is tinged with similar archaisms – like the turret occupied by part of our suite. In the courtyard, somebody has lit the braziers and covered the chairs with reindeer hides. What could be more Swedishly mediaeval?

I visit the nearby Lars Bohman Gallery and my favourite tailor in Stockholm – an Anglophile Swede named Peter who runs Sundown Covey. I stay for an hour or so discussing tweed and immigration. Peter offers me a whisky. I decline: there’s dinner to be eaten.

Ah, middag! The food combines Scandinavian innovation and daring flavour combinations with an emphasis on seasonality and robust, sharing-sized portions. After a zippy little Manzanilla, we share three of the finest starters you could possibly imagine: soft, sweet veal tartare with the salty kick of white sturgeon caviar; rich, roasted Jerusalem artichoke with Swedish bleak roe; and – the pick of the bunch – exquisite young cabbage topped with crispy onions and mayonnaise (sounds weird; tastes divine). The main course of venison is as soft as butter and has Mrs Smith and I gurgling with delight. Our eyes meet, we clink glasses. It’s hard not to feel smug as hell. Home – our real home – will never be the same again.