Hotel Ritz, Madrid review: Champagne in the bath

We’re sorry, this feature is currently unavailable. We’re working to restore it. Please try again later.

Advertisement

This was published 11 years ago

Hotel Ritz, Madrid review: Champagne in the bath

By Lance Richardson
Aura of presitge ... the Ritz Hotel, Madrid.

Aura of presitge ... the Ritz Hotel, Madrid.

THE first time I visited Madrid, in 2005, I stayed at a pungent hotel with my mother a few streets from Puerta del Sol. Out the window was an alley with underwear hung out to dry, and you had to step up to enter the bathroom, which resembled those park toilets that lock and fill with water after use. My mother made the best of it; I made my way to a nearby bar.

Seven years later I visited Madrid again, calling my mother on the phone to mark the occasion. "Remember how we decided not to go to the Prado Museum?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Well, I can see it from my suite in the Ritz, and I think we made a mistake."

You can tell a hotel is fancy if it has a revolving door. A cheap hotel rarely has four doors when it can get by with one. Indeed, the revolving door is a marker of class distinction, admitting the wheat while spitting chaff back to the footpath, like a combine harvester.

Against the odds, I had entered the revolving door of the Ritz and come out on the side of hand-woven carpets. A legitimate guest! This felt particularly delicious given the history of the hotel, which was once reserved for titled aristocracy.

If you were not at least a sir, you were not welcome.

When Cesar Ritz ("king of hoteliers and hotelier to kings") opened his Spanish outpost in 1910, King Alfonso XIII was the first to sign the Golden Book; princes, barons and dukes made it their social base for decades. No amount of money would suffice: if you were not at least a sir, you were not welcome (except to clear dishes). An aura of prestige and wealth has worked its way into the walls since then, like a faint smell of Chanel and royal butter cake. We say "ritzy" to mean elegant - little wonder when the place is decorated with paintings from the reserve collection of the Prado Museum. Once, a couple tried to make off with several of them in their luggage.

"Those belong to the museum," the concierge said, with that famous Ritz politesse.

Advertisement

"Oh, we thought we could have them," they apparently replied.

No, you can't have them. But you can, I discover, have champagne in the bath, or bask in the presence of a Ming Dynasty vase, should your room happen to be the Royal Suite.

And forget swipe cards - room keys are the size of a small revolver, with a giant Ritz tag in the unlikely event you forget where you're staying, or get accosted by thieves and need a blunt instrument.

After speaking with my mother, I peered into the safe, wondering how many diamonds had graced its mysterious space. I stood on the bed for a lark. Then I went down to the lavish garden, taking a seat at a bone-white table for a leisurely brunch. One table over was a family of pigeons, tearing into some tapas. The staff hadn't noticed yet, and who was I to enforce discrimination? Eat it up, I thought, feeling affinity for the feathered riff-raff. Lord knows I will.

Sign up for the Traveller newsletter

The latest travel news, tips and inspiration delivered to your inbox. Sign up now.

Most viewed on Traveller

Loading