Hôtel Providence Paris

Stepping into Hôtel Providence is like setting foot in a Parisian storybook commissioned by Maison Kitsuné and illustrated by Wes Anderson’s moody, demure sister (if he had one). Dim lighting, dark textured walls, and a large painting of a plump aristocrat greet me as I approach the check-in desk. There are rich velvets and vintage lamps aplenty. I instantly feel at home in this bastion of cool on its sleepy corner perch in the hip Haut-Marais neighbourhood. The current coolest hangout in Paris.

I’ve arrived early, and my room is not yet ready (such are the woes of Red Eye life). The lovely girl at the front desk offers to store my luggage – I hand over my suitcase and camera bag. She threatens to take selfies while I’m gone (playfully, or perhaps not-so). I tell her to please be my guest.

What to do while in check-in purgatory? The hotel’s bar and terrasse are so inviting, but the explorer in me begs for a walk to République. I know I’ll get some quality time in at the hotel bar later this evening. I breakfast at a pâtisserie on a side street adjoining the main Place, wander for a bit, and wait until an appropriate time to déjeune at my favorite restaurant nearby, La Pharmacie, for a prix fixe lunch of bavette and a few other requisites in between, chased with coffee. I wonder silently how many forms of bread I will eat today and kill a bit more time by ordering a crème brûlée; I shatter the almost-blackened top very slowly and with extra care. My room must be ready by now.

After an extended and wayward stroll, I arrive back at the hotel (somewhat dazed due to jet lag and steak frites overload), and am indeed granted access to my tiny, darling room, which is equipped with a breezy balcony, smart barware, and the same dark romanticism I’d first encountered downstairs. I am torn between choice a) purchasing ingredients for a simple cocktail, so as to utilise the shiny copper accessories and serious ice cubes in the freezer, or choice b) seeking out a nice bottle of wine to savour at the table for two overlooking the street. This proves impossible in my trying state. I opt for the lobby bar instead, where the mixologists can guide me.

A lone table at the end of a neatly lined row seemed to be waiting just for me, so I take a seat and allow my glazed-over eyes to roam the small menu of wines by the glass. There are four reds, and with this slight chill, I’m most certainly in a red mood, so I embark on a gastronomic journey: I request each one in the order listed. Glass number one: a Bordeaux. It’s toasty, sort of spiced in curious ways. I shamelessly take clichéd ‘wine glass on table in Paris with a cobblestone street in background’ Instagram photos. 

Glass number two: a Ventoux. It’s unpretentious, earthy, tart, with a similar spicy bite to its predecessor. I would like to meet the person who curated this wine list. The waiter returns. I get the sense that he is proud of my ambition and waiting to see if I will actually order the next two. I don’t disappoint.

Glass number three: a Bourgueil (my favorite). By this time, the waiter and I are best friends. I tell him I’m from New York and that I love this Bourgueil. He tells me that he loves New York and gives me a bottle of the Bourgueil.

Glass number four: a morgon. What time is it? I might as well stay for dinner at this point.

Dinner: well, damn. The eatery is now buzzing and nearly every table is filled. I feel like a (somewhat drunken) explorer who’s stumbled upon a quiet, untrodden patch of land only to have it invaded by the masses moments later. While nibbling on a plate of 18-month-aged Ibérico ham, I generously decide to let these people share my glorious discovery and claim it as their own. Then I anxiously await my faux-filet of Blonde d’Aquitaine steak with veal juice while lucidly dreaming of meat as red as its liquid counterpart, a postcard setting on one side and a background of brilliant wallpaper on the other. Here, I am perpetually full and aesthetically sated.

Tomorrow, I will try the whites.