by Chrissy Iley
I used to stay in the Royalton Hotel, New York, when I first started staying there and fell in love with the city. Back then a Philippe Starck design was so exciting and new. It was the ultra cool place to stay. Dark, moody and filled with pop stars and models.
It is navy like a ship and dimly lit and I remember spending hours and hours in some dark place downstairs with Naomi Campbell. We had only just met but she got me tickets to see the Rolling Stones. She was going out with Robert De Niro at the time and she hired a limo to take me to the concert which was out of town. The limo had a TV screen and there was a choice of any Robert De Niro movie I wanted.
Another time I remember meeting the film director Kevin Smith. He was so overwhelmed by the Royalton he said we should go opposite to the Algonquin. It may well have been where Dorothy Parker had her circle but it was kind of tatty and forgotten. I hated leaving the place that made me feel so special.
Over two decades later I find myself by chance at the Royalton. First of all I was excited. Some of the best times in my life have been spent in that hotel. And as I made my way to Room 501 I remembered I’d stayed in that actual room many times before because I had requested a bath tub not a shower. And the tub that you get is large and round and mirrored, like it’s your own personal disco.
However, things had changed. Not the room. The room was exactly the same. Comfortable bed, dark wood, white bedding, and not much else.
I had changed. As I arrived the receptionist wanted my passport. It was so dark I couldn’t find it in the innards of my bag. I remember years ago old people would complain about the darkness of that hotel, that they couldn’t see anything. Had I become old? Had it become darker? Or could I just not find my passport?
That night I had a wonderful cocktail from the bar. It came with a sugar burnt orange, or was it grapefruit. But there was no one else in there and it was fashion week. The Royalton is no longer fashionable. And the bar was not so chic. There was a very ordinary looking breakfast room which replaced the navy carpeted den that I’d sat in with Naomi all those years ago. I didn’t fancy having breakfast in it so I ordered room service.
My scrambled egg sandwich came wrapped and in a takeaway cardboard box. It felt like I’d gone to McDonald’s for an Egg McMuffin. I suppose handy if you want breakfast on the go. But if I’d wanted breakfast on the go I’d have gone and done it.
So I ate my tasteless sandwich and sipped on grapefruit juice from a plastic takeaway cup and put the ensemble in the trash and wondered perhaps that’s why they do it. They can employ less people to pick up dishes and wash them.
The Royalton used to be about luxury and excess, and now it’s about fast food and recyclables. It made me as sad as visiting Dorothy Parker’s old round table at the Algonquin.
The next day, which was a Saturday, I went down for breakfast. They don’t do cooked breakfast on a Saturday. There wasn’t even the egg sandwich option. There was cereal or bagel. And in the words of Dorothy Parker I said to myself, “What fresh hell is this?”