The Ludlow

On the hip Lower East Side of Manhattan, discretely situated on the street of the same name, you’ll find the Ludlow, quiet cathedral of cool. Iconic and eye catching, but with an old-school air shoehorned snugly into its 20 storeys, the former factory has retained the external signs of its industrial heritage while exuding a subtle sense of eclecticism. 

Like one of its intuitively conceived cocktails, the Ludlow has been perfectly blended into its neighbouring milieu of organic modernism, fashionista chic and gritty creativity. Sandwiched between Little Italy and the East Village, just a 10-minute saunter from the subway, it thrives among the jostle of bars, bakeries and boutiques.     

On arrival, Mrs. Smith and I are serenely ushered across the threshold. Two genially deferential gents, for whom nothing seems too much trouble, glide alongside, bidding us welcome into a library-quiet atrium then entrusting us to reception staff (our bags seem to have floated off in the direction of our room). Our surroundings are packed with reassuring nods toward a gentleman’s club – mosaic floors, outsized chandeliers, a courtyard garden, vaulted ceilings, oak panels, leather armchairs, chesterfields toasting by an open fire…

Blessed to have landed a Skybox Loft room, we have extraordinary floor-to-ceiling, wrap-around views of bridges and skylines – at one side of the four-poster, the brave can step into the scene themselves, via a vertigo-inducing balcony. The living room and bathing suite command 270-degree views of Manhattan – our windows’ top trump is One World Trade Centre, with glimpses of the East River across to Brooklyn.

We’re tempted to provide a celebratory soundtrack to our arrival in the company of other great monuments, and to test the privacy of our haven of intimacy: shower-curtain shunned and window wide, Mr Smith booms Sinatra, adding his own liberty to the New York skyline. And what a boudoir of luxury it is, when your immediate surroundings are a monsoon shower over a marble bath, brass-gold taps, antique mirrors, Moroccan rose-scented tinctures and potions, Maison Martin Margiela bathrobes, unexpected tuck-box treasures of spirits and snacks, and Egyptian cottons on a Balinese bed.

Eventually, meandering down to the extensive cocktail bar, which opens out onto a candle-lit courtyard, feels like the right kind of early evening pre-prandial stroll. (Try the Grand Prix – Japanese whisky, coconut vermouth and ras el hanout spices with aromatic bitters.) Advertised after dark in voyeuristic pink neon, the Ludlow's spot-the celeb, spend-all-you-dare restaurant Dirty French is decadently – yet somehow understatedly – epicurean. Book in advance. The particularly noteworthy Gallic-Moroccan delights not to miss are the lamb carpaccio, millefeuille of mushroom and chicken with crepes; feel free to pass on the surprisingly unsubtle almond liver and sparrow breath ice-cream. Throughout the show, our waitress amusingly thesps and gesticulates her effortless lines with nonchalant near-Broadway perfection.  

(That sublime in-house cuisine – coupled with dangerous proximity to the gustatory and celebratory Katz delicatessen, where Harry met Sally – necessitates half-hearted trips to the Ludlow's rooftop gym. But once safely back down to earth, you are a comfortable ten-second dash right back across the road to a hubbub-infused sauce-laden pastrami.)

To this Englishman in New York, Ludlow is no longer just a favourite town in England famed for its restoratively slow pace and stellar gastronomy. The Ludlow is now an American home from home – a place of moments among the monuments, and delicacy among the delis.