Petit Ermitage

Los Angeles, I’d been to, but not West Hollywood. And it isn’t what I was expecting. A bohemian former apartment block off the main Santa Monica drag, a Thirties-style stained-glass awning and the scent of exotic perfume: Petit Ermitage has us seduced before we’re past the valet parking. The edict of the Ashkenazy brothers, the owners of Petit Ermitage, is that this is a place where you elevate, worship and retreat. So, arriving at their arthouse, we surrender to their decree. Hang on. Is that a three-foot shocking-pink furry cat, a talking duck and a child-size Pinocchio ambling past? Welcome to WeHo.

Mr Smith pauses on an Indonesian wooden alligator to admire specially commissioned art; I check us in. A charming French receptionist explains the morning-coffee MO: we order it how we want it, as soon as we wake, and have it where we like. How civilized. (We’ll need that caffeine: pesky LHR–LAX jetlag.) In Annie The Musical, this is where she breaks into ‘I Think I’m Gonna Like it Here’.

Squeezed into the dinky elevator with maxi-size marionettes (they’re here for an audition in the Rooftop Club), we head up to the fourth floor where we’re greeted by an Olivia Steele neon scrawl of ‘See you on the other side…’. A fellow hotelier had mentioned to us that Stefan Ashkenazy takes pride in the details. A floral pattern extending from the carpet to a delicately painted wall decoration seems from the hand of Perrier-Jouët’s original art nouveau illustrator. This, along with the brocade rug in our bedroom, even thaw my long-running stand-off with patterned floor coverings.

Our suite, with its earthy dark colours and souk-like lighting, is the same level as the rooftop pool and restaurant. Sneaking a glass of what’s been left chilling in the wine bucket for us, we follow the steps up to admire the sunset poolside. Toes dipped in the 3.5ft-deep aquamarine saltwater reveal it’s as warm as a spa. Why leave our newfound oasis for the rest of the weekend? It’s winter, but giant heaters take the edge off the January chill. Under an awning fashioned from former military tents, amid candlelit Moroccan lanterns and potted kumquat plants and cacti, it feels more North Africa than West Hollywood. We admire houses twinkling from the pine-and-palm-tree-punctuated hillside to one side, and to the other, a far-as-the-eye-can-see view across to mountain and sea, over LA’s rooftops. We can’t wait to flop on those terracotta-coloured striped beds in the sunshine.

We steal a final dose of dusk from our balcony overlooking this residential street before ordering room service. Mixed grains, aromatic vegetables and sweet dates invite a taste of Morocco into our suite and treat our senses to another imaginary far-flung foray. The members’ club is gently thrumming to life and though the chanteuse is enticing, we have our little girl in tow. It’s treat enough to have a night in front of the big-screened TV while Miss Smith snoozes on her roomy pull-out sofa clad in a threadcount fit for a sultan.

A tonic for an early wake-up is having that rooftop to head straight for. Our jetlagged morning splash is with a family that’s just flown in from Sydney; we commiserate over strong frothy coffees. There are more triumphs of detail to admire in the daylight: such as an old barrel that acts as the towel basket. Any urban noises are upstaged by the gentle sound of water splashing into a copper trough, enhancing the ever-exotic ambience.

An early start is no deterrent to friends coming for breakfast. With two toddlers, they’ve been up hours by the time most folks are rolling out of the nearby Viper Room, or as the spectacular of croissants and fruit are being laid out in the hotel’s French-inspired Garden restaurant. We’re invited to colonise the most special table at the end of the rows of cabanas; ‘The Garden’s End’ is our own curtained-off outdoor private dining room. The chic black-clad staff couldn’t be kinder even with three ever-curious small people dancing around under their feet. Don’t let our tales of toddlers mislead though: this is a place for lovers – and even our chaotic presence can’t impair this.

You’d think salmon pita piled high with capers, and mountainous eggs Benedicts, would cross ‘eat’ off our list of things to do. But since we’re greedy, we still tap the chaps on reception for their tips on the neighbourhood’s best places to eat (Chin Chin’s Chinese-chicken lettuce wraps are reason alone to visit LA). The valet magics back our rental car and we head up to Hollywood proper, then take an excursion through Koreatown; a cosmopolitan circuit, before returning happily to our Marrakech-feel abode. And here, just like Morocco, a blue-skied sunny day gives way to a clear but chilled night. We’re delighted to discover the open hearth in our room springs to fiery-flamed life at the touch of a button; a swoon-worthy setting for our daughter’s Korean noodles and kimchi for one. (It's less romantic when she knocks her take-out supper onto that pretty carpet. Housekeeping is swift and sweet about restoring decorum. Phew.)

Soon the Buddha Bar-esque tunes lure us back to the rooftop. Since Mr Smith popped the question two days before in Palm Springs, this is our night to celebrate. A babysitter installed (booked through a staff member a few days earlier), and we have no desire to stray far. Friends join us for meze and lamb tagine in the leafy restaurant, then it’s drinks on the terrace under the stars. Even our born-and-bred-in-LA visitors can’t help but ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ over the views. (And they’re lucky to be here – the management are fairly strict about allowing hotel residents only two guests up here.)

The conversation touches on what people think makes someone lifetime Mr or Mrs Smith material, and it starts to sound like how I feel about Petit Ermitage. Easy on the eye. Cultured. Sexy. Someone you can introduce to your family, and have a great night with à deux. The clincher? A sense of humour. A peek behind the doors labelled ‘Mr’ and ‘Mrs’ reveals this trait. The ladies is a bijoux bathroom decorated in the style of a boudoir via hand-painted trompe-l’œils: dressing table, butler sporting a broached turban, a festoon of fringed curtains. As for the chaps, a circus character scrutinises you at a certain anatomical level, with a magnifying glass. But I’ve told you too much. I’m ruining the surprise. You need to experience the drama for yourself.