The Mandrake is a new ‘design hotel’ in London, which means it is for people who treat Elle Decoration magazine as their primary source of op-ed. It lives in a red-brick terrace in Fitzrovia and it feels very odd, like a corpse with the beating heart of a baby, perhaps even a Beckham baby: would it have preferred to demolish the crusty frontage and establish itself inside Heathrow Terminal 5, or a giant fridge? Who can say? And why is it named after a poisonous plant?
The entrance is dark, and haunted by black-suited men. I do not know what they do, besides lurk charismatically and pretend they work for Karl Lagerfeld, and he is in danger, perhaps from cheap skirts, or his own plastic surgeon. Inside, there is a check-in desk by a curved fake leopardskin sofa, an arrangement of black and white ostrich feathers, and a painting that looks like a Hieronymus Bosch repainted by toddlers and the animals of London Zoo. Design continues into the bar: there is a sculpture of a woman who is part tree, as women often are; a goat, or maybe gazelle, wearing peacock feathers; a skull with something crawling out of its head – like a writer! It’s potentially very meaningful if you are a cocaine addict but not otherwise.
The maids are dressed as Edwardian maids; that is, pornography maids in white frilly aprons. They match the ostrich feathers, and this is insulting; it reminds me of Dubai, where they style the staff according to ethnic origin and height. These maids may be art installations. Or they may be real maids, in which case they should unionise and seek guidance from Len McCluskey.
There is also a library.
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