Norman Hôtel Paris

For a Londoner like me, one of the joys of visiting Paris is how quickly you can get in and out of the city, thanks to the Eurostar. And to add to that joy, the Norman Hotel is just a half hour from Gare du Nord on the Metro. I know what you’re thinking – Norman. The name doesn’t exactly exude Parisian sexiness, but this hideaway is most definitely sleek, chic and ideally located just minutes from the Champs-Élysées. 

And there’s more to the story here – the name nods to the American artist and graphic designer, Norman Ives. His influence, reflected in the abstract artworks (some original) and geometric patterned carpets, gives the place a modern feel. Rooms are sumptuous – my spacious Junior Suite Corner has a balcony and lots of clever touches, including a brilliantly compact open storage wardrobe and strategically placed flower-boxes outside the windows, to offer some privacy from the neighbours. There are also dark-chocolate-coated orange florentines from French tea room Angelina, waiting for me.  

The first thing you’ll see on entering the hotel is the bar. A word of warning, you will be diverted by the clinking of glasses or a cocktail being shaken en route to your room. Soon after I heard the pop of a cork, I was curled up on a sofa sipping a glass of champagne and munching on wasabi peas.

However, one can not live on wasabi peas alone, so helpfully the hotel also has a tasty menu of bar snacks, such as chicken skewers and tuna maki; and there’s also restaurant Thiou serving up Thai cuisine made with fine French ingredients. Had I not found myself worn out from shopping and far from the hotel come dinnertime on my first day, I’d have given the langoustine spring rolls and shrimp dumplings a whirl at Thiou. Instead, I stopped off in a bistro and had shakshuka, with nothing but my Sézane purchases for company. Did I mention that Mr Smith had to bail on the trip at the last minute? Sadly, work duty called – zut alors! 

Breakfast each morning is taken in the restaurant or on the pretty outdoor terrace. Kudos if you can resist the basket of pastries and opt for the healthier offerings on the menu: fruit, yoghurt, eggs… On my second morning I had pre-arranged to have breakfast in my room. The city’s rubbish-collection lorries had woken me up with the larks the day before, but my second night was so deliciously restful that I didn’t stir until the knock on the door announcing the arrival of my food.

Later that morning I heard the sound of drilling coming from the basement, a reminder that the hotel would open a spa in the coming weeks. I asked for a tour of what turned out to be a dusty cavern. In one corner there was a miniature rectangle of blocks with aspirations to be a dip pool and in another section, a space waiting to be portioned off into treatment rooms. By the time you read this, I imagine pan pipes will be filling the air and guests will be lounging about in fluffy robes. 

In the absence of a spa, I took myself off to the Grande Mosquée de Paris, which is in the fifth arrondissement and has a decent hammam. The last time I was there, over 20 years ago, I made the mistake of wearing a bikini; everyone else was naked. This time round, lesson learned, I didn’t pack swimwear – except everything had reversed again. Thanks Covid. 

Standing awkwardly in the changing room I spotted the only other naked woman. We instantly bonded over our predicament. She suggested we put our pants back on and by the time I was misremembering my locker code for the third time, she had segued into a teary monologue about how her husband, ‘ze shit’, had recently asked her for a divorce and was sleeping with someone half her age. Only in Paris. If I hadn’t been in such a rush to go for my massage I’d have told her that a surefire way to cheer herself up was with a stay at the Norman. Oh well, c’est la vie.