Now where are you?
The bar at Hotel Costes, Rue St Honoré, Paris.
Why?
Because Costes is something of an institution on the celeb/fash circuit. A boutique hotel located on the Rue St Honoré, two blocks down from Colette (aka absolutely definitely the world's best boutique); and a street away from the Cocktail Girl's current fave, Vanessa Bruno. The Beckhams go. Kylie goes. Every fashion editor worth her Stella Mc and slingbacks swings by for a bellini at some point in the biannual bunfight commonly known as Paris Fashion Week. The Cocktail Girl, however, has never been - until now.
And why did you choose to bother it with your booze-addled ghastliness on this particular occasion?
I was in town anyway, watching the dancing girls at the Lido; which was the oddest, most inadvertently funny and campest experience of the Cocktail Girl's entire life (which, as I'm sure you'll appreciate, is saying quite a lot). I was sitting right up front, so got a startlingly revealing view of the dancers; I could see the glue flaking from their false eyelashes; the stubble rash on the boys' lower bellies; the faux-tan-tinted sweat patches on the underarms of the super-sparkly costumes... it was all rather, well, real. I was confused, frankly. Was it ironic? Or post-modern? Was it so cheesy it was cool? Or so cool it was cheesy? Which ones were men; and which ones were women? Did I want to be them? Or, er, not, ever ever ever? Etcetera. Anyhow, following that curious sequined fandango, I was in need of some straightforward and unequivocal cool. Costes was the sensible response.
Et alors?
Costes is a mind-blowingly beautiful hotel. Extravagant and luxe and purple and gold, with chandeliers and heavy wood, a full-on central courtyard; and staff so gorgeous and breathlessly chic that it hurts to look at them. During the day, it's all hushed, self-contained and consummate upmarket hotelishness. Oh, but at night, it erupts into Destination Cool. All the focus is on the bar off the main lobby, which overflows with all manner of exotic creatures.
Like?
Well, Dan for starters. He's the bar and restaurant manager at Costes - he used to be British, but he's spent so long in Paris that he's pretty much forgotten about all that, and so has his accent. He's a delicious cliché of a wonder-host, affable, dry, endlessly accommodating, good-looking and extremely wise. He knows everything about everything and if he doesn't, he'll find out for you. Only that lunchtime, he'd shared a steak with a hotel regular, who was en route to a Botox session. She'd wanted a glass of wine, but didn't know whether or not alcohol mixed with Botox; before you could say 'banish the crow's feet!' Dan had Googled (Costes is fully Wi-Fi), discovered it was fine, and produced a cheeky glass of Pinot Noir from heaven knows where. Anyway, Dan very much set the tone.
Any celebrities, celebrity-whore?
Not on this particular night; no. But there was more than enough anonymous glamour going to compensate. Gallic-looking silver foxes stroked impossibly lovely young, willowy impassive things with super-sharp bobs and cocktail dresses (who might have been their daughters, though you'd hope not, actually). Winsome gay boys gesticulated languidly. Women who clearly modelled themselves on the ineffably brilliant Cécilia Sarkozy (and why wouldn't they?) lounged and pouted. The bellinis were excellent; and the atmosphere was heavy with Gauloises - which actually seemed somewhat exciting after the past few months of smoke-free bars in Angleterre.
I'm surprised you came back.
Me too. Allez bye-bye. OFM
The bar at Hotel Costes, Rue St Honoré, Paris (+331 42 44 50 25)
