It was the finger sandwiches, fondant fancies, and bone china that clinched it: Against my better judgmentsurely only diapered types, from blue-hairs to babies, need bother with between-meal snacksI succumbed to afternoon tea on the terrace of the Mount Nelson in Cape Town. A century-old pile of buildings in the center of town, the hotel is justly famed for that afternoon tea, set in its enormous, Raj-shaming garden. Big, pink, and unabashedly colonial, the Mount Nelson was recently renovated, and the vibe is Great Gatsby-meets-Out of Africa with a dash of Malawi-era Madonna: surreal, genteel, and not-quite English.
There's the same level of comfort at Duke's Hotel in London, which was also just redone. It has a Bond-endorsed heritageIan Fleming's shaken-not-stirred preference was a product of martini-sipping thereand the bar is reassuringly staffed with slick-haired, fortysomething bartenders decked out in Connery-era double-breasted cream tuxes. They'll whip up the hotel's signature rose martini on a tableside tray (although the drink's $32 price tag is gulp-inducing for all the wrong reasons).
Both hotels reminded me how much more white-gloved service, not white-walled minimalism, matters now. Give me a dash of history and some classical music over ripped-from-IKEA ready-mades and generic house beats every time. (A desk clerk in Miami once explained away a chilly shower by saying to me, with an unapologetic shrug, "Well, we are a boutique hotel, sir.") Those hotels are more like art spaces staffed by glassy-eyed gallerinas rather than welcoming homes-away-from-homerefuges for the big-wallet, small-imagination set.
MARK ELLWOOD
Photo: Courtesy of Mount Nelson Hotel