February 06

Discreet and elegant – just the way I like it

Tea at Lady Mendl’s salon at Irving Place is a civilized affair that New York’s gentry still frequent.

New Year’s Day by Edith Wharton is on the mantelpiece along with Maurice Hewlett’s Rest Harrow and O’Brien’s Short Story Case Book.

A heavy black Royal typewriter is on the granite-topped writing desk, lit by a Tiffany lamp. Through the shuttered windows, in another New York brownstone, is an apartment that once housed Wharton’s lover, adjacent to one where her husband’s lover lived. Such was the world of Irving Place.

As guest of Small Luxury Hotels, I am beholden to behave and yet I have the extreme urge to toss the heavy-set typewriter through the sash window. I am so excited by the surrounding areas – Grammercy Park, for example one of the last key-controlled residents’ parks, smacks of elegant uppityness while Union Square, just a block away, brings together political protest, green vegetable markets, excellent dining and doorways of heroin users. I want to express my personality extremes too.

According to its website the Inn was “originally built in 1834, three single family brownstones sat at the corner of 17th and Irving Place. Over the years, the corner brownstone was torn down and a small apartment building was built in its place. The two remaining brownstones have stood the test of time, they now create The Inn. While once combined as a single family home, the two brownstones also housed everything from apartments, The Ingersol Mens Club, a Speakeasy, Beauty Parlour and Day Spa. After completion of a three-year renovation, The Inn at Irving Place opened its door in December of 1994.”

Illegal
It was the Ingersol Mens Club that caught my eye. I headed to the basement hoping a Martini in the former speakeasy (illegal places where drink was served during prohibition) would give me a sense of naughtiness but other than a 1980’s record player the bar was as elegant and proper as the rest of the place.

Thinking about the Ingersol Mens Club, which according to the double-cuffed hotel manager was a meeting place for atheists, I decided it was more likely a place where men of questionable sexuality could meet for a slap and tickle than to extol heathen virtues.

The Inn at Irving is so elegant and understated that if the scent of St Joseph Lilies doesn’t tickle your nose as you walk past, you probably wouldn’t find the place. Even the brass 56 next to the door has been softened over time, making it near impossible to read without climbing the stairs to get there.

Scented
I was alerted to the Inn’s alluring anonymity before arriving, so after lugging my heavy bag on the bus and train and a few blocks down the street, I could have done without walking up the stairs of three preceding brownstones.

Once inside, my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I knew I was somewhere special, somewhere my mother would like. The scent of flowers was with me from arrival to departure and the polished wooden furniture shone as light bounced through the shuttered windows, on to the gleaming floors and off the back of a smart chair. Note to self: Better learn the names of some antiques to impress readers in the future.

Shawn Rettstatt welcomed me royally and before long I was sipping tea from fine-lipped china. I usually gulp tea as I favour the chewability I get from a strong brew, but in this rarefied atmosphere I sipped gently, my lips barely touching the rim so fine I could have imagined it.

I wished I’d paid better attention to what Shawn said about the Inn’s history, instead of focussing on his blue double-cuffed shirt wondering what I could purchase it for at Bloomingdales’ sale.

Daydream
I was in a junior suite. I immediately gravitated to the typewriter and books on the mantle and struggled to move it out of the way to replace it with my Dell D600 – not as sturdy but much easier on the fingers. The suite was large enough for me to get some exercise so I jogged around it but had to stop as my pounding on the wooden floors made the furniture shake. Then the bathroom beckoned. I adore black and white tiles and Penhaligon’s bathroom amenities so after playing with something I’d not seen before – a very bright light that heats the bathroom - I ran a bath but after finding it was too cold to get into I sat and daydreamed in the wood-panelled and cushioned window seat.

Rooms at The Inn range from $325 to $495 – I guess I was in one of the top-end rooms and while penurious South Africans probably aren’t their target market at around R3 250, it is still less than some Cape Town hotels (and as nice).

Shawn was too discreet to give me names of famous guests to share with you but he did say that Hollywood producers who didn’t want to be swamped by hopefuls and hangers-on stayed there when in New York.

Impressed
While I was in the area, a new friend, Steve Harper, invited me to watch a reading of his play, The Escape Artists’ Children. I was so impressed I told him to camp outside the Inn and to wait for the next producer who visited.

As I was checking out I met one of the producer types who was complaining about the lack of hot water. Happily I noted my first Hollywood producer-shared experience.

The typewriter is still there and I left the windows intact – it was simply too good to trash.

Inn at Irving Place, 56 Irving Place, New York. 212-533-4600.