Review by Fiona Duncan, published 3rd December 2006.
My friends Dave and Rene are looking for an occasional bolthole in London. Something less anonymous than a hotel... more of a club, with preferential rates for members, but without a long wait for membership, the need for sponsors, the chance of not being accepted. Half hotel, half traditional club.
They've considered the convivial Fox Club, a hotel I reviewed in September, but although its Mayfair location would have been ideal for Dave's work as an art dealer in St James's, it felt too small, too laid back. Now they are trying the Sloane Club, a larger, far more sober members-only hotel that's actively seeking new clients as it expands into adjoining townhouses in Lower Sloane Street. The owners would be happy if at least some of those new members were, if not bright young things, then not completely over the hill - people like Dave and Rene.
Although its Chelsea location isn't so convenient for Dave - an inveterate cab-hailer who thinks he's been on the Tube "once or twice" - it certainly is for Rene, just paces from the King's Road and "The Mothership", as we aficionados refer to Peter Jones. I feel at home here, too: born in Chelsea and practically brought up in the dear old Mothership, where my father was general manager.
It's a parallel universe, the Sloane Club, so smart and proper: as cosmopolitan as cucumber sandwiches and as hip as tea on the vicarage lawn, but also calm, comfortable, elegant and well run. And, if you use it more than about half a dozen times a year, good value.
We dine well, the English menu served with aplomb in the recently revamped restaurant, a combination of clubby and contemporary that sparkles under its glass roof. Our fellow diners are busy tucking in, some with napkins under their chins, some straight from the pages of P G Wodehouse. We spot stiffly coiffured hairdos bobbing above rows of pearls, a covey of vicars and a brace of bishops, a boho-chic Hon. in plimsolls bellowing at her aged father, deaf as a post, who bellows back, "Speak up, girl"; a droopy squire from the shires, his posture a question mark, nose in a book; a smattering of familiar faces, including the recently ennobled treasurer of the Conservative Party and his elegantly understated wife. The restaurant is busy, the food enjoyable, the wines, selected by the Wine Guild of Great Britain, interesting.
Our bedrooms are very Peter Jones and very pleasant: no frilly stuff, but well-equipped (modern bathrooms, flat-screen TVs, good linens, wool carpets). They're also sensible. An upright armchair here, a patterned cushion there.
We leave content, after a generous breakfast taken at a sofa table in the pretty garden room. On the way out, we pause to inspect the dozens of affectionate cartoons and caricatures of toffs at rest and play - - with their dogs and guns, their g&ts, their gardeners and their village fêtes. Good grief, we realise, glancing back at the guests; they've all come to life and are here in the Sloane Club. As for Dave and Rene, they'll fit in perfectly - but give it 15 years.
The Sloane Club, Chelsea, 52 Lower Sloane Street, London SW1 (020 7730 9131; www.sloaneclub.co.uk). Annual membership from £280; double rooms £149 per night, including breakfast.
