Nimb Hotel

Mr Smith was sprawled face down on the four-poster bed: nothing risque, but the siren call of the cloud-like duvet had apparently been too strong for him to withstand. In fairness, he had been the sole luggage carrier as we trekked to Nimb Hotel from Copenhagen’s Torvehallerne food market. While he dozed, I fervently snapped away at our room’s details – a working fireplace! Views of Tivoli Gardens complete with shimmying peacocks! Enormous ensuite bathroom full of Aesop potions!

As I slathered myself in grapefruit-and-orange body balm, I heard, ‘Peacocks sleep, right?’ from a muffled voice in the bedroom. Roused from his afternoon slumber by the ridiculously loud (in volume and tailfeather) birds beyond our window, Mr Smith peeked through the doorway to ask whether I’d fancy a dip in the pool, with a gesture towards the enormous stand-alone tub. This Mrs Smith, however, had meticulously researched the best bites in the city, so I dragged him out to explore. 

We stopped by general-manager extraordinaire Mikkel first, who immediately arranged a Sunday reservation at Kødbyens Fiskebar – the best fish restaurant in the city, he assured us – and amiably switched our in-house dinner to Saturday night. Major meal plans sorted, we wandered off in search of sights and pre-dinner libations. After a bit of crowd dodging and a few wrong turns, we eventually tracked down Ruby cocktail bar, with an entrance inconspicuous enough to make us feel like Copenhagen insiders and cocktails tasty (and potent) enough to make us entertain ideas of the ‘what if we moved here’ ilk. After two cocktails each, mixed up by the bartender based on our respective whisky and gin preferences, inhaling fresh air was on the agenda, so we strolled along the canals to Christianshavn – with its ludicrously cheery and photogenic buildings and boats that ranged from the antique to the ostentatious to the artfully graffitied – until sunset reminded us of our impending dinner reservation.   

Looks-wise, the hotel’s Nimb Brasserie is akin to a royal greenhouse, all tall ceilings, glass walls, and romantically twinkling lights. The staff is enthusiastic, and very accommodating about food preferences (although there was one slight and swiftly remedied misunderstanding of precisely what falls under the dairy category). We were steered towards a bottle of Loire valley white, a rib-eye for carnivorous Mr Smith and cod so good I’m having taste-flashbacks thinking about it now. After a cheeky peek at the desserts menu, I opt for coffee and ‘a little something sweet’ – which turns out to be decadent house-made chocolate truffles – and the chef amiably freestyles an insane masterpiece of sorbet, rhubarb compote and fruit for Mr Smith. Decidedly stuffed, we just make it up the stairs to collapse, à deux this time, onto the duvet. 

Mr Smith’s earlier peacock query was answered at 5.30am, when we were awoken by the less-than-dulcet call of the aforementioned birds – a champagne problem if ever there was one. We drifted in and out, before taking advantage of the very large shower and heading down to breakfast. The buffet tables look like they’ve been styled by Alice in Wonderland set designers, with glass jars and carafes of varying sizes filled with all manner of Scandinavian breakfast goodies. I made a beeline for the potently gingery green juice, lavender-laced granola and what was possibly the world’s best cinnamon roll; Mr Smith helped himself to the potted fruit, bacon and freshly-baked bread.

In an attempt to blend in without growing four inches (the Danes are not a short people), we borrowed bikes from the hotel’s fleet of achingly stylish Velorbis velocipedes. Avid cyclist (and owner of padded lycra shorts) Mr Smith deemed them very acceptable, especially in comparison to the tech-laden but clunkier city bikes; I was just overjoyed to have a basket at the front (surely that merited flowers?). Over the next four hours, fuelled by delusions of elegance on two wheels (nevermind the aching hamstrings or the enormous bruise that appeared on my knee the next day), we cycled by Copenhagen’s classic sights, spotted a human sledge team running through a park, and waved ‘Hej’ to the Little Mermaid. We’re nothing if not thorough.

From the Tivoli side, Moorish-inspired Nimb and its gingerbread-house-icing lining of hundreds of coloured light bulbs looks like something that, at the beginning of a film, Helen Mirren’s character would disdainfully sniff at for being over the top. The dancing peacocks probably wouldn’t help. But by mid-film, she would embrace the whimsical charm of the hotel’s exterior; the sleekly Nordic interior – with its artfully placed antiques, statement walls and fresh giant tufts of white hydrangeas – I feel certain she would love from the start.

Mr Smith and I, however, lack Dame Helen’s decorum; included in our stay were tickets to Tivoli, so we gleefully made like teenagers and headed straight to the front row of the roller coaster. It is not, I found, a glasses-friendly ride. One near-disaster later for this near-sighted Mrs Smith, we giggled our way back to Nimb’s cavernous ballroom-turned-bar for an apéritif. No sooner had we beelined our way to the armchairs by the Dane-sized fireplace than the barman magically appeared with cocktail menus. A rum-based Omertà for Mr Smith and a coffee-flavoured Russian Ballroom for me warmed us up from the insides, too.

The most direct way to dinner in the hipper-than-thou meatpacking district is straight across the street and through the central train station. We passed the bright neon signs of former show rooms, industrial buildings and the remnants of (yes, another) outdoor food market before reaching a restaurant front that was just gritty enough for me to ask Mr Smith if he was sure about the place. Inside, however, it was immediately clear that industrial-chic Kødbyens is out to impress. Mr Smith started his meal with papillon oysters and I ordered cod again, but ended up commandeering most of his crispy-edged hake. Copenhagen is a pescatarian’s dream city, my friends.

Although I warned him he’d be tempting fate, Mr Smith felt compelled to conduct an after-dinner test of the 100km-an-hour, 5G-force claims of Tivoli’s aptly named Vertigo. I watched through my fingers, but all ended well and we settled into our cushy bed for one last night at Nimb. We’ll return someday and spend more time in the cellar wine bar, soak in a massive tub after pedaling our sleek borrowed wheels through the city and eat more of the open-faced sandwiches Nimb made famous. Until then, I’ll miss the brightly coloured avians-turned-alarm-clocks, our personal fireplace and the cinnamon rolls most of all.