Rosewood London

I am appallingly underdressed.

We’ve just walked through the grand, wrought-iron gates of Rosewood London’s central carriageway, stepping aside for a top-of-the-range Tesla to pull in. We are treated no differently than the guests in the car: the gentleman manning the door runs to meet us, whisking away our well-loved suitcases (why, yes, that is a euphemism).

The hotel’s historic façade emanates from on High Holborn, all ornate, rustic stone and soaring pillars. It has pride of place in what was once Roman London, but today is a short skip from Holborn tube station, Drury Lane, museums, and the hip wine bars and restaurants of Lamb's Conduit Street. 

Rosewood London first opened in 1914 as the headquarters of the Pearl Assurance Company. Holborn Dining Room and Scarfes Bar, which we passed on the way in, were the east and west banking halls. There are more nods to heritage and eclectic objets d'art than I have room to review. Every surface glimmers, from the mirrors to the marble to the uniform clusters of pearls gracing the necks of women behind reception. Later, I’ll comment to Mr Smith that he should consider asking if our waiter’s tailored plaid pants are available to the general public. 

On our way to our third-floor room, we pass one of the hotel’s centrepieces: a seven-storey Renaissance-style marble staircase estimated to be worth £4 million. Books lay open at each intersection, wayfaring towards rooms and lifts. 

Each door in the hallway has a small, silver animal sculpture fastened to the wall; a deer here, a bird there. My mind switches to review mode, the analytical brain looking for faults – and failing. 

‘Ah-HA!’ I say to no one in particular as we stand outside room 347. There’s no sculpture outside, just a couple of silver stumps. What are the chances. It’s the only ‘fault’ during our two-night stay, its memory all but erased by general meticulousness everywhere else.

Our grand executive king room is less flamboyant than the rest of the hotel and more like a swanky British residence (I’m not so sure the same can be said of the Manor House, the only suite on the planet with its own postcode – next time, eh?). 

The plush bed is made with pristine Italian linen, the bathroom – with vintage-style taps, marble and smoky mirrored tiles – is stocked with luxury Votary rosemary and chia products. Even the spare roll of loo paper is tucked away in a silver box. Half bottles of Chablis and Ruinart champagne await in the minibar fridge.

Having arrived at 5pm, we decide to eat at Holborn Dining Room, Rosewood’s main restaurant (there’s also art-inspired afternoon tea and all-day dining in the Mirror Room, plus the Pie Room, which is a takeaway kitchen by day and private dining room by night). 

I generally have low expectations of hotel restaurants. They are rarely on my list of places to eat in cities like London, but I’d recommend Holborn Dining Room regardless of whether or not one is a guest here. It’s a gorgeous dining room with high, corniced ceilings and classy, tweed-topped red leather banquettes. 

As soon as we’re seated, I invert the French aluminium salt and pepper grinders to take a picture of the brand, perhaps a giveaway that I’m somewhat out of place. The menu is a cast of England's most recognisable dishes, redone to an exquisite standard. 

A scotch egg resting on creamy caper mayonnaise is extra rich in rare-breed pork and white pudding. The Dorset crab tart sees sweet vestibules of crab meat piled in a thin pastry shell with fresh green peas and lovage mousse. 

We opt for the pie de resistance: a salmon, octopus and saffron number for two, baked in a copper pot with decorative pastry scales and a drinkable jug of bisque on the side. 

On the one occasion Mr Smith goes to refill his water glass, a waiter materialises and smoothly says, ‘Allow me,’ a tray of glasses in his other hand. 

On the second night, after an evening stroll around London, we’re not ready to call it in. I go to push the revolving door of Scarfes Bar, opposite Holborn Dining Room. I’m stopped by security and am politely informed that the four people standing outside are actually a queue. We end up skipping it – hotel guests have first dibs on seating. 

The bar is named after Gerald Scarfe, an English cartoonist who has illustrated for The Sunday Times, The New Yorker, Pink Floyd and Disney to name a few. It’s clear from entry that this place is first-class. Our server explains that Scarfes, now in its 10th year, is aiming to land on the 'World’s 50 Best Bars' list. 

A number of features immediately stand out: the long, wooden bar with high-backed, Edwardian-inspired teal stools; a glowing whiskey cabinet with no fewer than six shelves; a grand fireplace surrounded by 1950s chairs and bookshelves (there are more than 1,000 antique books throughout the venue, sourced by a Portobello antique dealer); and Scarfe’s caricatures on the walls.

Cocktails are split into 10 greatest hits and 10 newbies. We tend towards classics, ordering a Manhattan and scotch whisky over concoctions like the 'Scandal Symbol' (Patrón silver, Aperol, passionfruit, espelette, clarified milk and Ruinart Brut). Although we arrive too late for the nightly live music, the atmosphere provides a more than adequate buzz. 

Back in the room, Mr Smith unfolds a navy-blue cardboard slip that’s been placed beside his laptop. It’s a glass-cleaning cloth, and there’s another beside my messy workstation. An airline-approved plastic bag has been left in the bathroom with a travel-sized Marvis toothpaste, and glass bottles of water and slippers have been placed on either side of the bed. Sliding my bare feet along the geometrically striped carpet, I can’t help but feel slippers are moot. 

In fact, in these lush surroundings, clothes feel somewhat moot. I strip off and dive into the decadent bed. Ironically, I no longer feel appallingly underdressed.