The Sunday Times | April 23, 2000

STAYING POWER

By Rebecca Letty

If you didn't know better, 's latest London hotel could almost be just another West End office block. Set in the listed 1958 former headquarters of a furnishing fabric company, from which it takes its name, the Sanderson lies between the Telecom Tower and the marauding language students of Oxford Street.

And yet, despite the offbeat location and the concrete facade, you just know the place is going to become the in party place. Schrager is the maestro of trend-setting hotels. When his first London acquisition, the St Martins Lane, opened last year, it was mobbed by the fashion crowd. Sanderson is the sequel - but, unlike most film follow-ups, this one is better than the original.

"I look at this hotel as an antidote to minimalism," says Schrager, who, together with the French design demigod Philippe Starck, is responsible for the look. "We wanted the ground floor to be fun and lift your spirits." And indeed, even the reception area is buzzy. With low ceilings and little architecture, the interest is created by the brightly coloured, fantastically mismatched furniture: a gold Louis XV style desk of cartoonish ornateness, a holographic "worm" art installation and Salvador Dali red lip sofa, all fringing a pebble dash column from the original building.

In the adjacent Purple Bar, tiny satin chairs make you feel like Alice in Wonderland. The low lighting reflects off Venetian mirrored tables and the atmosphere invites gossip. The gift shop next door also has a feminine feel, but if the bar is Marlene Dietrich, then the boutique is Doris Day - all candy pinks and yellows.

The focal point of the hotel is the flower filled courtyard, which used to be the building's car park but now provides a verdant view for diners at the 45ft Long Bar and the Restaurant (where the consultant chef is the multi Michelin-starred Frenchman Alain Ducasse from the Paris restaurant of the same name).

Upstairs, in the Agua bathhouse spa, yards of white nylon hang from ceiling to floor to create partitions. The result is a maze of floating walls that sway like seaweed as you pass. There are single-sex spaces with luxurious, plump chaises longues and personal audio and visual systems, and a waiter serves iced drinks in the heavenly nimbus relaxation area.

All 150 bedrooms are open plan, the sleeping and washing areas divided by silk drapes that are the dusky pink of screen stars' negligees. A 19th century silver sleigh bed, Charles Eames chair and rug inspired by a letter written by Voltaire sit against the subtle yellow walls and maple floors. At the flick of a switch, the curtains close, the balcony and blue sky disappear from view and the room takes on a salacious air. "I understand the implications when I describe it as boudoir," says Schrager, "but I don't think the result is feminine." A white cube in the corner opens to reveal the modern paraphernalia of hotel life - the television, mini bar and safe - while the washing area is unashamedly modern and mannish.

Like a seven year old with a full set of PokÈmon cards, Schrager is rapturous about his couture hotel; a glamorous haven from prosaic living. "I didn't want something tasteful, pale or interesting," he says. "Other people do that better, they don't need me." Oh, Mr. Schrager, I think we do.

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