The Norman

As our taxi pulled up outside the Norman on Nachmani Street, Mr Smith muttered ‘wow’ under his extremely well-travelled breath. For while we’ve visited impressive hotels before, there’s something arresting about this baby-blue Bauhaus facade with its manicured lawns and handsome bellboys.

It’s eye-catching, unique and enough to transform your mood. A moment ago I was a jaded Londoner in seek of respite. Yet now I was Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, ready to don dark glasses and skip through the city’s streets. But Tel Aviv and her eclectic boulevards would have to wait: I had a 398-square-foot Grand Deluxe Room to explore first.

Tastefully furnished in an antique colour palette of muted greys, whites and cream, our room had a huge double bed, a writing desk and a posy of flowers with a pair of pink macarons to welcome us. Yet it was the bathroom we both flocked to. I hopped into the rain shower, which had perfect water pressure and acoustics, while Mr Smith was hypnotised by the deep soaking bath tub.

‘Let’s skip the cocktails and have a hot bath,’ he suggested.

It was a tempting proposition, but with a cocktail menu to examine in the Library Bar, we had to press on. It was Wednesday, which meant the Norman’s weekly ‘DJ and cocktails’ party was getting underway. But this is no Ibiza nightclub: even with vinyl spinning, the Library Bar retained an intimate atmosphere. We loved watching the highly skilled female mixologists set to work behind the bar. Mr Smith ordered a Tom Collins which I somehow ended up drinking – it was delightful.

We snacked on seared calamari with tomatoes, fresh herbs and tartar sauce. As the hip Israeli actor at the bar next to us said in Hebrew: ‘Tayim mayod’ (‘very tasty’).

By 1am we were on first-name terms with everyone on the adjacent bar stools, including the sous chef who came to greet us personally when we praised her work – always a nice touch.

Eventually we tumbled upstairs to our room and put the blackout drapes and luxury bed linen to the test. They passed. We fell asleep snuggled under the duvet while listening to the light December rainfall outside. We could have been on the Orient Express or in an Embassy club in Colonial India; the frenetic pace of the city outside contrasted nicely with the romantic mood inside our room.

We awoke hungover, keen to revive ourselves with breakfast in the Alena restaurant. Weekend brunch here is a Tel Avivian institution, with people driving from all over Israel to eat here (the hotel offers valet parking, which Israelis love) but even on a Thursday morning the restaurant was buzzing – clearly it’s a place to eat and be seen eating.

Mr Smith had eggs Florentine; I had shakshuka with copious salads from the impressive buffet, all washed down with black coffee and juice.

At this point we should have donned our walking shoes and headed out to explore the architecture in this part of Tel Aviv – which is Unesco-protected and particularly beautiful – but I couldn’t leave without sampling the infinity pool on the hotel’s rooftop first. All alone up there in the winter sun, I laid out before taking the plunge and jumping into the unheated pool. It was a bracing experience; the hotel’s lifeguard told me that at just 18 degrees, the water was three degrees colder than the nearby Mediterranean sea (heating is due to be installed this year, I believe), but a hot shower in the spa area soon brought me back to equilibrium.

For dinner that night, we took an early sitting at the world-renowned Dinings, which is said to offer a unique fusion of traditional izakaya style Japanese tapas and modern European cuisine, all served with flair in an informal setting. What this means in practise is that you sit at a pristinely laid table, with a view of the Tel Aviv skyline, while expert sushi chefs chop, roll and fold food at a central marble counter in an open kitchen. The menu here is exciting – we loved the yellowtail sashimi with caviar and yuzu lemon garlic, and the seared beef with truffle salsa and ponzu jelly.

We also appreciated how absolutely dapper the maitre’d looked and how exclusive the restaurant felt.

Leaving the Norman the following morning was hard. What was life like outside of these extremely stylish walls? After 48-hours in such chic environs we couldn’t remember – and we didn’t want to. The Norman felt more like a member’s club than a hotel – a place we were so happy to be a part of, that we could quite happily never leave.