First Impressions

Don't you just hate private members' clubs? So smug, so full of themselves, such bastions of privilege and social exclusion – I can't stand them. Except, of course, for the time a friend of a friend sneaked me inside Soho House. I was so busy feeling smug and full of myself that I hardly noticed the great cocktails or that Robbie Williams was sitting two tables away.

Last week the Soho House Group unveiled its latest venture, a 39-room hotel and restaurant, and announced that it would be lowering the drawbridge to the great unwashed – unlike at Soho House, Shoreditch House or Soho House New York, non-members are welcome. Half of me wanted to sneer and slag it off; half of me couldn't wait to check in.

It may be open to all, but finding the entrance isn't totally straightforward. The square, whitewashed Georgian building, in the heart of Soho, has a discreet metal sign at first-floor level, but nothing at all on the door or railings. I walk into the restaurant before finding the unmarked reception entrance two doors up; the man checking in ahead of me has been round the block three times while his taxi driver looked for it. Initial impressions aren't great – the 15-minute wait to check in doesn't help, and the loud reggae music clashes with the old English decor. At the back is a small sitting room with a lift at either side, serving the two buildings that make up the hotel. Both were built as aristocratic homes in the 18th century and in the 20th housed the Gargoyle club, visited by the likes of Fred Astaire, Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud. Less glamorously (though this isn't in the literature) it was more recently a branch of the naff pub chain Pitcher and Piano.

The Rooms

I forget my chippiness about members' clubs as soon as I open the door. It's simple but brilliantly done, in a Hamptons-meets-Hampshire way (that presumably appeals to Soho House's transatlantic membership). Light streams through the plantation shutters; the bed, walls and small sofa are in shades of cream. On a side table beside the kettle are three silver urns for real coffee, tea bags and sugar, plus another silver pot marked "treats", which contains (free!) chocolate biscuits. This might sound a bit granny-ish for sexy Soho, but it's deeply comfortable and homely.

Better still, unlike almost every other new hotel, they've rejected show-off technology for reassuringly retro touches. So, instead of a hi-tech audio system that you have to work through the TV, there's a leather-bound Roberts radio on the bedside table, next to an ordinary, manual, alarm clock. There are simple light switches rather than computer-controlled panels, and a real key, on a brass fob, instead of a card that may or may not work. But best of all, the windows actually open. I'm in a "Medium" room, one of four sizes – "Tiny" ones start at £95, roughly what you'd pay at the nearest Travelodge.

The Food

Perhaps the staff spot my inner pleb, but my friend and I are shown to the worst table in the restaurant – cut off by a big dresser used as a serving station. All through the meal my view is of eight waiters' bottoms as they clank cutlery and plates a few feet away. But the food is fabulous. Smoked haddock soufflé is as delicious as it sounds; grilled squid with chickpeas is gorgeously smokey. My halibut fillet for main course is gigantic, but moist and full of flavour.

Of course, those of us used to dining in Soho clubs don't make a big deal about celebrities, but as I scoff my pear bakewell pudding, Tracey Emin sits down at the next table! I try to eavesdrop, but can only report that she is considering the rice pudding.

It's not expensive either – more evidence that London prices today bear no link whatsoever to quality of food or swankiness of setting. Here, in a posh Soho restaurant, with silver cutlery, starched tablecloth, and Tracey going on about rice pudding, a chicken, bacon and leek pie costs £11.50, the same as at most pubs in town. A mixed grill is more expensive at £16, but that's only £2 more than if you ordered a "mega mixed grill" in a roadside Little Chef.

The Verdict

The room is inevitably a bit noisy, but it's a small price to pay for the buzz of staying in the thick of the action – I can lie in bed and watch the comings and goings at that other celeb haunt, the Groucho Club. As social revolutions go, it's hardly the storming of the Bastille, but the arrival of the Dean Street Townhouse does mean that anyone can get a glimpse of life behind the velvet rope, and all for the price of a Travelodge.

The Rate

Doubles from £95-£270.