Welcome back to One Night Stand, a regular-ish feature where far-too-fancy hotels in San Francisco arrange to put us up for the night (translation: we eat/stay for free), and then we write about the elusive five-star digs for your "hotel porn" pleasure. Why not? And with that, we present our stay at the diamond-chic place that signifies class, million dollar troupers, Gary Cooper, and rubbing elbows: The Ritz-Carlton, San Francisco.
After a hellish week in the steaming bowels of SOMA, where we live/work/play/dodge drunk Giants fans, we galloped up Sutter earlier this month with one overnight bag in hand to hit The Ritz. High atop Stockton, The Ritz-Carlton, San Francisco is ideal for shacking up with a temporary trick for a tryst (alas, we did not); or perfect for those needing time away from the norm, but don't want to leave the 7x7-mile confines of the city. Oh, and it's also for people with money to spare. An excellent spot for locals who want to grab a finer slice of the city.
One we arrived, we were (mercifully) lodged on the hotel's Club Level. Thank God. (Though the world may be ripe with ailments and war, He really should focus more on our luxury settings.) What is Club Level? It's free-for-all luxury insanity is what it is. More or less, it's The Ritz's private-lounge floor featured at all of their hotel properties. Yes, it's pricier; however, it comes complete with the floor's very own concierge (mine was very friendly as well as an SF native), and has its own full bar and daily rotation of three food settings.
While the hotel itself is not the most avant-garde hotel in the city, it's not stuffy like you might assume. As we did. And the Club Level was shockingly casual and, dare we say, chipper. When we arrived after putting our bags in our room, we grabbed a few small plates of food -- decoratively stacked on tiers -- and a few fistful of candies form the massive jars full of caramels, macaroons, and chocolate chip cookies.
We also downed half (or so) a bottle of the finest chilled rosé.
Later, with a few cookies in hand, we stumbled back to our bedroom, plugged in the laptop (free wifi, which should be mandatory at all hotels), drew a searing-red hot bath in the marble-surrounded tub, and ended the night meeting our friendly but concerned next-door neighbor. Turns out, much to his aural displeasure, we had been blaring "Speak Now" a touch too loud. Ack. He kindly informed us that our music was a touch too fort. Again, as we just mentioned, we had had a hellish week. Sometimes, when one's heart hurts, only a five-star hotel paired with T-Swift at high volume is the only cure.
We woke up the next morning, as one does, in the swellest bed in which we'd ever rested our pretty little head. At the door, in a burlap bag, hung two bottles of water and a local newspaper. Which is, shockingly, a nice surprise. There's something to be said for increasingly rare instances of ye olde newspapers waiting for you at the door in the morning. But not much.
Tomorrow, Part II: We dine and sparkle at Parallel 37. (Bonus: Willie Brown was at the table next to us! Because he's fancy.) Come back to SFist Friday for a rundown on new executive chef, Michael Rotondo.
The Ritz-Carlton, San Francisco: 600 Stockton (at California), S.F.; 415-296-7465