The Zetter Marylebone

Someone with a great pair of shoes once said, ‘there’s no place like home’. She was right, of course, but if I may, I’d like to add: ‘…when coming home involves a really stand-out hotel’. I say that with conviction, because a recent return home to London involved a two-night stay at the Zetter Townhouse, Marylebone, and to say the homecoming was sweet would be leading you down the wrong path. It was, in fact, the most heavenly reminder of what makes London, and this little corner of it, well, magical.

To give a little background, the big trip back to the city I spent the first 34 years of my life in was a long time coming – four years in fact. Ever since moving to Italy a couple of months pre-pandemic to do my own thing, early attempts to return had been thwarted by some restriction or another and it turns out when you live in Italy people are really happy to come and visit you.

But the absence had gone on for long enough and this Londoner was beginning to feel pangs of nostalgia for a night out in Soho, a Friday morning on Golborne Road and really good bacon butty from an old-school greasy spoon (all pretty basic, I know, but true). So when an invitation to a very special party came our way I RSVP’d a hard yes before even checking if I could swing the time off work.

Luckily I could (my boss was actually very encouraging) and so a couple of weeks later Mr Smith and I found ourselves walking under the garland-arched doorway of the Zetter, out of the drizzly autumn air into the warmest of welcomes. Part country manor, part cosy London pub, there was an immediate sense of home – or at least somewhere you would like to call home. It was too tempting not to have a celebratory glass of bubbles, and so we slinked into a candlelit corner and toasted our arrival, taking in the paintings and plates that filled the Chianti-coloured walls.

Once checked in, we headed up to our third-floor room, overlooking the mewses of Marylebone and out onto nearby Edgware Road. The higgledy-piggledy rooftops of historic cities is a particularly favourite view of mine; bar the odd solar panel these days, I think they make a timeless postcard of a place, a glimpse of what writers and artists would have looked out onto, high up in their top-floor garrets (or more luxurious crashpads just like this one).

My own musing aside, it’s unlikely any of the literary greats had lodgings quite as swanky as our own. As Mr Smith tried out the Hypnos bed (marketed as the best in the world – a claim it’s pretty hard to argue with) I clocked the Verden toiletries in the bathroom (divine), which was decked out in classic white tiles and chrome radiators. I make a point of immediately unpacking wherever I stay – even if just for a night – so that I feel grounded in a place; and so, with our party glad-rags hung up and undies tucked in drawers, we headed out for a bite.

The Zetter doesn’t have a restaurant, but why would you when you’re surrounded by eateries offering the best cuisines from all over the world? With Lebanese, Pakistani and Iranian joints in abundance on the adjacent Edgware Road, Chinese and Indian on New Quebec Street right alongside, and the legendary Italian Locanda Locatelli 10 doors down, you’re spoilt for choice when it comes to dining out.

We opted for a non-Italian option (no shade, Locatelli); having heard good things, Mr Smith suggested we try yet another cuisine – Mexican – at KOL Mezcaleria, which we could see from our window. We sat downstairs in the more informal bar area knocking back spicy mezcal margaritas like two people who hadn’t woken up at 5am that day and only ate a brioche in the airport before departure. So we demolished tacos, ceviche and guacamole so good that I don’t think I can ever eat it anywhere else, ever.

Grateful for the restaurant’s proximity to the Zetter, we hopped over puddles and back to bed, and got a responsible early night, sleeping like babies (very well, that is) which seemed somewhat miraculous given the stay’s central location. I’d like to offer my apologies to the delicious buffet-style Continental breakfast of yoghurts, fresh fruits and pastries on offer, served down in the bar the following morning, as I scarfed more than my fair share of hot bread and salty butter down (feeling grateful that those margs had had huge ice cubes in them) and all the sweet tea.

I felt like a new woman, so we wrapped up warm and headed out. Mr Smith had suggested we get a rental car to nip around old haunts, but I really wanted to be on foot, with jaunts in taxis and the Tube, just to soak up the city. When we lived in London, we both had nine-to-five jobs, and so wandering around in the middle of the day felt like we were either skiving or needed to pretend to be sick in case we bumped into a higher-up.

But we had the place to ourselves: Battersea Power Station, followed by lunch nearby with beloved best friends, a saunter down the river to Gabriel’s Wharf and a slow cinematic walk across Waterloo Bridge (a stroll that never gets old for me). We found our way back to the Zetter via Selfridges (for a sniff around its Food Hall – the best in my opinion) and Marks & Spencer (for a cashmere sweater and some Percy Pigs – unbeatable) both a stone’s throw away from the hotel.

By this time we had to get ready for the big party, Mr Smith in knitwear and dark denim, me in low-key sparkle. As the Zetter arranged  a taxi and kindly handed us umbrellas, heading out rarely felt so special. We danced, we bumped into old friends, and made new ones (aren’t those the best parties of all?) before eschewing a cab for a meander through Covent Garden and Mayfair back to Marylebone. Blissed out, we grabbed a nightcap downstairs in our now new favourite bar (the details of which I’d already sent to my mother, aunts, girlfriends, and old colleagues who are always on the lookout for a sweet meeting spot that’s super central and not swamped). Since we had an 8am flight (we didn’t really clock that when booking) we packed, slipped into PJs, and enjoyed one more dreamy night in the softest of sheets, looking out onto London sparkling in the silent rain.

A home from home is a rare thing to come by, especially in this case, when our homecoming expectations could have made our stay anticlimactic. Brilliantly, it was anything but, thanks to the Zetter – and now I know which stay I’ll have in mind when I next click my heels.