The Mayfair

What I appreciate about Christchurch is that it’s gone from New Zealand’s most traditional city to perhaps its most transitional. After being decimated by the 2011 earthquake, it has determinedly rebuilt – its historic English Cathedral is still in ruins, but an abstract, triangular ‘cardboard cathedral’ has taken up the baton of worship. Rather than replicate exactly what was, Christchurch turned the rubble of tragedy into an opportunity for something fresh.

A notably new addition is the Mayfair hotel, in the Victoria Street precinct, though its black, blocky exterior doesn’t give much away. When I visit it’s mid-winter and a bitterly cold wind cuts through the streets, but as soon as I enter the lobby, the reception is warm, an effusive welcome from smartly dressed staff followed up with free drink vouchers for the hotel’s café and bar.

At first glance The Mayfair seems a run-of-the-mill business hotel – a stylish suit, but one bought off the rack. My King room on the third floor is as expected: minimalist shades of grey and cream, a beige cubic sofa; a typical minibar selection. But slowly I discover subtle, considered details, which are simple but effective: alongside the tea and coffee is a sink, which means I am not filling up the kettle or water glasses in the bathroom. Ah, I realise. Someone’s really thought about this.

I kick back on the pillow-stacked bed and browse the in-room tablet – it’s a digital concierge, offering to do all but mix me up a martini. A swipe of the screen and I can read a guide to the local area, find out what’s on, or order from a long list of free amenities. If only I needed a toothbrush. Perhaps I need to borrow an Apple Watch charger or a Dyson hair straightener? I don’t, but with a push of a button they’d quickly appear. Should I stop being so lazy, and have a spin bike delivered to my room for a small fee? But no, it’s dinner time. For a moment I peruse the tablet’s room service menu but instead I use it to book a local restaurant from a curated list. (We opt for ‘You Hanoi Me’, a two-minute walk away, which has very excellent Vietnamese.) 

If the room has delivered surprises, I expect little from the bathroom, often the most uninspired element of a hotel room – a perfunctory afterthought. And once again, the Mayfair’s doesn’t look much different from other standard business hotels. Until I shower and realise that mirror is, cleverly, a no-steam one, and the magnifying make-up mirror comes with its own ring light. (Oh, the Mayfair, you do flatter.) This is all unassuming glamour I didn’t know I needed, and on top of that I appreciate being able to blast volume into my locks with the most powerful hairdryer I’ve ever used in a hotel. Frankly I am left flummoxed, in a hotel that doesn’t appear particularly plush, yet somehow feels like it is. 

The next morning we take breakfast in the Majestic café adjoining the lobby, a pretty space resplendent (and I rarely use that word) in a beautiful pairing of eggshell walls and dark-blue booths that I mentally file away as a colour scheme in my future dream home. Speaking of eggs, all the dishes are artistic presentations of the brunch classics: my companion’s french toast is a deconstruction of sourdough with quenelles of brown-butter mascarpone, and my granola is a textural palate of grains and colourful fruit. All of this is such a contrast to the sparse monotones of the room, but a part of me wonders if that might be the point. 

The hotel is within easy walking distance to a lot of shops, galleries and museums, so we head out, wandering through the green surrounds of the iconic Hagley Park just a stone’s throw away. A mere 20-minute meander takes us to the Riverside Market, a buzzy hub of shops and food stands, and another gem born out of the city’s renaissance. 

Eventually the temperature drops to a lofty two degrees, and a light drizzle almost threatens snow. It’s too cold to keep walking around so I’m grateful for my central haven and its unassuming little touches. It’s an afternoon for fuzzy robes, slippers, and movies Chromecast on the TV. Best of all, we order Belgian hot chocolates (via the tablet, of course) – the kind made with real chocolate that leaves thick dregs at the bottom of the cup. I opt for one with a dash of hot chilli, because this seems to be the Christchurch way, transforming the traditional into something pleasantly surprising.