Two months ago, the readers of Conde Nast Traveler picked two Chicago hotels–the Four Seasons and Ritz-Carlton–as, respectively, the No. 1 and No. 2 hotels in North America. This one-two sweep by one city (and one company–both hotels are members of the Four Seasons-Regent chain) was unprecedented.
But what was even more impressive was that these hotels also came in No. 1 and No. 3 in the entire world–ahead of such famed hotels as Paris’ Ritz (No. 28) and four previous winners of the same poll, Bangkok’s Oriental (5) and Shangri-La (13), and the Peninsula (6) and Regent (7) in Hong Kong.
Which got us thinking. In recent years, the Tribune has reported on all of those legendary hotels (most recently, the two Paris hotels, in the Magazine’s Oct. 5 special Part II on Travel). Might we be overlooking the travel riches in our own back yard?
So we sent our travel editor (who has stayed at many of the world’s great hotels, including the five mentioned here) to spend one night at each. Separately, because dining is a big part of the grand hotel experience, our restaurant critic (who has eaten his way through America–and Paris) checked out the food. Both made their visits anonymously and at the Tribune’s expense.
RITZ-CARLTON
Friday, noon: There is no room at the curb. My taxi double parks at the Ritz-Carlton entrance on Pearson Street as I climb between parked cars with a small overnight bag in hand. I don’t really need any help–which is good, because none is offered, though the doorman does proffer a hearty “good morning” as I walk to the elevators that take me to the 12th-floor lobby.
The Rolling Stones have been staying here, and the hotel is very, very busy. Because check-in time is 3 p.m., I am not surprised that my room (weekend rate: $300 plus tax) is not ready. I take a claim check for my bag and proceed to lunch.
12:12 p.m.: Two choices–the Cafe or the Greenhouse. I pick the $13.50 Greenhouse buffet, a limited but first-rate selection of salads, pasta and soup. For $9 more I get a glass of house “champagne”–Mumm from California.
Later, the hostess and waiter inquire as to how lunch is. Fine, I truthfully say. But no one notices that for the last half hour my water glass has been empty.
1:08 p.m.: The room is ready. The receptionist hands me the key card, discreetly telling me what floor I am on, pointing to (but not stating) the room number. A bellhop suggests it would be quicker to retrieve my bag if I point it out, so I go into the baggage room, look around and locate it. I am offered assistance, but decline; there is no pressure for a tip.
1:15 p.m.: Room 1518 is not high enough to have the best view (rooms are on floors 15 through 31), but behind the buildings to the south I can see the Amoco building. The best views are to the sides: the lake and Navy Pier to the east, Michigan Avenue and the Water Tower to the west. Right below me is the new Museum of Contemporary Art, quite intriguing from on high.
By my measurements, the room is approximately 400 square feet, with a small walk-in closet, minibar alcove and bathroom with separate room for toilet and tub.
There are two robes in the bathroom, plus all the usual amenities–boxed soaps and plastic bottles of shampoo, conditioner, bath gel and hand lotion (none, alas for souvenir seekers, bearing the hotel name), powder puffs, Q-Tips, magnifying lighted mirror and hair dryer. Lots of counter space and an elegant footstool. My favorite extra (though I don’t need it on this warm weekend): the ceiling heater in the toilet/tub stall.
The minibar has the usual selection of drinks and snacks, no more outrageously priced ($3.50 for a 10-ounce Coke, $4.50 for domestic beer, $6.25 for liquor) than most. The silver ice bucket is classy but tiny; two tall drinks with ice, and you’d be out. But that, I guess, is what room service is for.
Flanking the king-size bed are end tables with crystal lamps, a phone and a GE clock radio that looks like it has been lifted from a Ramada. The bedroom also holds a small couch, another end table with a jar of candy, two comfortable armchairs, a nice big desk with a two-line phone, and an armoire hiding the TV. Lighting is good, and the upkeep is immaculate.
2 p.m.: Call to make dinner reservation. No one is in the Dining Room, but I’m promised someone will call back “in a few minutes.”
2:30 p.m.: Call again. This time I get the Dining Room; they have no record of my previous call but apologize profusely and promise to check it out. I reserve a table for two at 8:30.
3:05 p.m.: After reading an extensive bedside brochure extolling the features of the private Carlton Club & Spa, I’m left with only one question: Where is it? I give up and find the location in the hotel directory, then proceed to the 11th floor, where I make a massage appointment for 3:30.
Because I’m using a spa service, I do not have to pay the standard $10 fee for the facilities–a little nickel-and-diming that seems tacky on top of the $300 room charge. The men’s side of the club is not your typical locker room. Two padded leather armchairs complement the usual benches. An attendant brings a robe and towel. The steambath, sauna and individual showers are pristine. Mirrors, toiletries and hair dryers are everywhere.
Back in the common area for the massage, I am offered juice as the masseuse makes up the room, a small but well-appointed, dimly lit cubicle with soothing music playing on a CD player. She assures me that “we’ll only go as hard as you want,” and keeps her word. A half hour later, the $50 (plus tip) massage ends as I’m about to fall asleep. More juice as I head to the pool.
This might be the best urban view you’ll ever see while swimming on your back; directly above you, through the skylight, loom the towers of Water Tower Place and its neighbor, the Hancock Building.
4:47 p.m.: To check out the one-hour service, I call housekeeping for a quick press job.
5:02 p.m.: A maid arrives for the shirt, then I leave for tea in the lobby lounge.
5:05 p.m.: I order the Te de Iberia for $20.75, which includes a glass of sherry. A big pot of tea plus another pot of hot water with insulated coverlet quickly arrives with a three-level tray of goodies: a hot scone (with butter and luscious lemon spread and jams), four tea sandwiches (salmon, egg salad, curry and–of course–cucumber), tiny but ornate one-bite pastries and two kinds of nut breads.
The Ritz-Carlton lobby is vast, but the big fountain in its middle gently drowns out individual noises and makes you feel like you’re sitting in the middle of a lush urban rain forest. When the pianist begins playing at 5:30, I expect his music to get lost in the “rain,” but the added layer of sound produces an almost magical peacefulness.
My cup of tea.
5:40 p.m.: My pressed shirt is waiting in the closet. I watch the sun set out of the corner of my window.
6:50 p.m.: The turn-down crew efficiently does its job. In a bit of reverse snobbism common to many luxury hotels, no mints are left on the pillows but there’s a bag in which to leave my shoes for a free overnight shine.
7:03 p.m.: Dinner can be ordered off the Dining Room menu, so though I have reservations, I decide to get an advance peek and call for a copy.
7:13 p.m.: A waiter delivers the menu and is gone before I have time to think about a tip.
8:35 p.m.: My evening dinner companion calls from the lobby. I tell him to come on up, but having noticed the security detail by the elevators, I warn him he’ll probably have to be “cleared” by security. He scoffs, stating that properly dressed people with briefcases never get stopped by hotel security.
8:37 p.m.: Security calls.
8:50 p.m.: We are quickly seated at a banquette, supposedly in non-smoking, but almost immediately the people behind us light up. We call over the waiter, Bertrand Sequette, who calls over the maitre d’, who admits that, yes, tonight we are on the dividing line between smoking and non. We are quickly and graciously moved to another banquette.
We decide to order the special degustation menu, seven courses for $60, but my friend wishes to make one substitution. Of course; whatever we’d like. There will be no repeat here of the Jack Nicholson diner scene in “Five Easy Pieces.”
9:15 p.m.: My friend, a wine connoisseur, quickly hits it off with sommelier Pierre Lasserre. After we inquire if anyone really orders those super-expensive bottles on the extensive wine list, he tells us a wonderful story about a customer at another establishment who ordered a $2,000 1879 Bordeaux, then asked for it to be decanted–a procedure that would have ruined it.
After all this high-priced talk, we end up ordering–on Lasserre’s recommendation–what turns out to be a terrific white for a modest (by Ritz-Carlton standards) $79.
11:30 p.m.: Time to leave. Dinner has been wonderful (for more on the dining experience, see restaurant critic Phil Vettel’s accompanying story). We have lingered–without any pressure to move along–long after all other customers have left.
12:10 a.m.: I hang the shoe bag on the door and retire.
Saturday, 8:55 a.m.: I order breakfast; room service asks if I also want the Tribune (of course) and promises to deliver both by 9:25.
9:15 a.m.: Breakfast arrives–without the paper, which the waiter returns with in 5 minutes.
10:47 a.m.: Call to have breakfast cart removed.
10:48 a.m.: Maid knocks while I’m on phone and enters before I can get to door, catching me semi-dressed. She apologizes and promises to return at a more convenient time.
10:58 a.m.: Call concierge and ask for Alka-Seltzer to be sent up from the gift shop. I do not have indigestion but simply want to check on services (once at the Ritz in Paris, I had called for aspirin; five minutes later, a concierge’s assistant delivered a silver tray with packets of aspirin and other pain relievers arranged next to a glass and bottle of spring water).
11:47 a.m.: A staff member arrives with two packets of Alka-Seltzer in a small bag; I reach for my billfold, but he’s gone.
11:55 a.m.: A final check of the room (where the breakfast cart still sits), then check out with no delay. No charge for the Alka-Seltzer.
11:58 a.m.: The doorman hails a cab. I tell the cabbie I’m going to the Four Seasons–two blocks away. Dumbfounded, he says, pointing (and pointedly), “It’s right over there.” Yes, I tell him, I know, and throw a $5 bill on the seat.
FOUR SEASONS
Noon: Once again, no room at the curb, but this doorman moves out to open the taxi door, welcomes me and checks my bag. I take the elevator to the 7th-floor lobby.
12:02 p.m.: The room (another $300-plus-tax) is not ready here either (check-in time is also 3 p.m.), so I explore. Unlike the dramatically expansive Ritz-Carlton lobby, the Four Seasons’ is broken into smaller public areas. It has the feel of a private club–albeit one that, on this day at least, is hosting a wedding party or two.
In separate rooms off one end of the main lobby is a U-shaped arrangement of three restaurants–Seasons Lounge, The Cafe and (the fanciest) Seasons Restaurant–plus a bar, Seasons Bar, where I decide to wait for another friend who is joining me for lunch.
1:05 p.m.: The receptionist escorts my visitor to the bar. We have a glass of the familiar house sparkling wine–Mumm.
1:20 p.m.: At Seasons Restaurant, one of us orders the “Nineteen Fifty” menu (appetizer, main course and dessert), the other a la carte for twice the price. When we can’t decide on wine, Kirk, our friendly waiter, pours us several generous samples. We can’t decide on desserts either, so he brings us three.
When signing the check, I mention I don’t have a room number yet. Kirk volunteers to check with reception. He returns a while later with the number, then walks us to reception, which he warns us is unusually busy.
3:05 p.m.: Kirk is right; the reception area is a madhouse. He stays with us until I get the key, then directs us to the elevators.
3:15 p.m.: Rooms here are on floors 30 through 46; I am in room 4407, looking north. The view of Lincoln Park, the lakefront and the city below from the bay window is spectacular. Only one other building, in the next block to the north, rises up to interrupt the view, and I feel like a peeping Tom when I realize I am looking into living rooms, not offices.
The room layout is different, but the tale of the tape measure confirms that this sister property of the Ritz-Carlton is about equal in size. The amenities–down to the soaps, shampoos, ice bucket and GE clock radio–are virtually the same. I count the hangers in the closet: 14, including 2 padded and 4 with clips–precisely the same count as at the Ritz-Carlton.
3:30 p.m.: My bag hasn’t arrived, so I call the desk. They don’t seem to have it–or my claim check. I go to the lobby, where I look through the storage room. No luck. We take a service elevator to the ground floor, where we look through another storage room. Still no bag. The weekend is turning into a tour of the leading baggage rooms of the world.
3:45 p.m.: After a few more minutes of fevered searching at reception, the mystery is solved when a bellhop appears to say the bag is now in my room. (Apparently, it arrived moments after I went off on my search.)
5:39 p.m.: Housekeeping calls: When would I like them to “refresh” the room? A nice touch.
5:40 p.m.: I make an appointment at the spa for an 8 p.m. massage.
6:05 p.m.: Tonight I plan to see how a solo diner is treated. I call Seasons Restaurant for a 9:15 reservation and am asked if I’d like to have reading matter by my table. Another nice touch, though I decline.
6:10 p.m.: Like the Ritz-Carlton, the Four Seasons offers videocasette players on request. I have enough to keep busy, but decide to check the service, so I call the concierge. Yes, Mr. Curwen (everyone addresses you at both hotels by name), we’ll send one up with an engineer.
6:15 p.m.: “The Out-of-Towners,” a 1970 film, is on TV. Jack Lemmon and Sandy Dennis are Ohioans coming to New York City for a big weekend, including dinner at, coincidentally, the Four Seasons. Their plane is late. They miss their dinner. Their hotel is full. They get mugged.
I feel much better about my temporarily lost bag.
6:40 p.m: My room is “refreshed” on schedule. Two sets of earplugs (but no mints) on the pillows. Another nice touch, I think, though the implications are a bit strange (and unwarranted–the room turns out to be as peaceful for sleeping as any I’ve been in, even with the window open).
6:53 p.m.: Brian, the engineer, calls to say he’ll be up in five minutes with the video player–and five minutes later he is. As he hooks it up, he talks about the hotel, of which he is very proud.
7:30 p.m.: On the elevator to the spa/health club on the 8th floor I run into the bellhop who had delivered my bag. He apologizes profusely as he explains how the luggage mixup occurred. Just as I’m ready to step out he says, “Please don’t be mad.”
I assure him I’m not, and the door closes. Honestly, I’m not mad–especially not at him; he seemed to be an innocent bystander in this minor case of front-desk confusion. But I fear there has already been a report about the incident, though I have made no complaint. And I won’t. No, all I’m going to do is write about it in a million-plus Sunday newspapers.
I feel like a jerk.
7:35 p.m.: The spa is about as posh as the Ritz-Carlton’s, though I miss the leather chairs. But it’s free, even if you don’t buy a massage or other service. No time to visit the quarter-mile jogging track on the roof, but the Romanesque pool is huge. The giant skylight above it doesn’t offer the soaring overhead views of the Ritz-Carlton’s, but the great views of the Near North area to the sides more than make up for that.
After a quick dip and a bit of steam, it’s time for the massage (45 minutes for $65). Two massages in two days; I’m beginning to feel like Kobe beef.
9:15 p.m.: I am seated alone at a nice table in the middle of Seasons Restaurant, not off in some corner. Again I am asked if I would like some reading material, and again I decline.
The eight-course “surprise” taster’s menu ($80) turns out to be entertainment enough. The pacing is perfect as courses of artichoke with caviar, smoked duck, halibut, gnocchi, foie gras, tenderloin of beef and cheese arrive. I follow the recommendations of Russell, my waiter, and order half bottles of modestly priced California chardonnay ($20) and cabernet sauvignon ($29). Dinner ends with the “Eighth Wonder of the World”–chocolate pyramids with carmelized bananas and coconut sorbet.
11:30 p.m.: I pass on another free shine and go to bed.
Sunday, 7 a.m.: I am awake when room service calls about my order of pancakes. But I haven’t ordered breakfast yet. Oops. There is another quick apology.
9:30 a.m.: I order the Japanese breakfast and accept the offer of a Sunday Trib on the side. They’ll be here by 9:55 a.m., I’m told.
10:02 a.m.: Room service calls; breakfast is on the way.
10:06 a.m.: I call–yet another test–to get a shirt pressed. I also make a last-minute brunch reservation.
10:08 a.m.: Breakfast and paper arrive. But what’s this pot of coffee? “A lot of people like coffee with their Japanese breakfasts,” the waiter tells me. Yes, but I wasn’t one of them. He’ll be right back.
10:22 a.m.: The shirt is picked up.
10:24 a.m.: A big Japanese thermos of hot water with tea bags arrives.
10:30 a.m.: The minibar checker comes by while I am in the bathroom. Before I can respond to his knock, he starts to come in–then apologizes when I emerge from the bathroom in a towel. (In the top hotels of Asia, the ever-present floor staff always seems to know when you are or aren’t in your room to minimize such surprises. Too bad American hotels can’t come up with some system of their own.)
11 a.m.: The valet calls; the buttons on one sleeve don’t match–would I like them replaced? Sure.
11:20 a.m.: Call to have room service cart taken away.
11:30 a.m.: My shirt arrives with new buttons (no extra charge).
11:58 a.m.: I say goodbye to my fabulous room-with-a-view. I also say goodbye to the still-present breakfast cart.
12:10 p.m.: After checking out, I check my bag and join a friend for brunch.
12:15 p.m.: A hostess gives us a tour of the food stations, then seats us in a prime spot for what may be the best Sunday brunch in town. At $40, it also may be the most expensive.
Kirk, the waiter from yesterday, stops by to say hello.
2 p.m: At reception, I dig into my pockets for the baggage check. Before I can produce it, the bag magically appears.
Great hotels may make mistakes. But they don`t repeat them.
Epilogue: So, is the Four Seasons the best hotel in the world (with the Ritz-Carlton right behind)?
The short–and snotty–answer is, No. But a fairer response would add, So what?
The quality of the service at the Ritz-Carlton and Four Seasons was as good as any I’ve experienced anywhere in the world. However, there were those little slipups that led me to conclude that the quantity of the service couldn’t always meet peak demands.
Service more than anything is what sets hotels apart. Service comes relatively cheap in Asia, where hotels frequently run staff-to-room ratios that would bake the brains of hotel bean counters in America. In Europe, service is expensive, but that doesn’t stop the top hotels from laying it on–and adding the cost to a room bill that can easily double American or Asian rates. (For comparisons, see the chart on Page 1.)
The physical properties of both hotels were excellent, and if they don’t have the history of, say, the Ritz in Paris, that’s more Chicago’s youthful fault than theirs.
But one night or one stay is not enough time to truly check out an entire hotel. Both hotels have an impressive list of business services (which I did not sample). Both offer a wealth of personal services (which make my attempts at “testing” look feeble). Both have direct access to their own shopping malls on the greatest shopping street in the world (which I ignored because I work just down that same street).
All nit-picking aside, I had a wonderful time.
And how many guests check in with stopwatches and tape measures anyway?
