Grand Hotel
How I checked in to Dallas’ Mansion on Turtle Creek and found out for myself why it’s a superstar of the country’s inn crowd.
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The arrival of my clothes from housekeeping reminded me that it was time to dress for dinner. When we entered the dining room, all was in readiness and every member of the wait staff knew my name. “Good evening, Mrs. Hamilton. This way, please.” Our table was on the serene glassed-in veranda, which we liked, although I know for a fact it’s considered social Siberia. If we had been celebrities or members of Dallas’ glitterati, we would have been seated in the busy, buzzing main room with its carved oak paneling and sixteenth-century stone mantel dating back to the days when the restaurant portion of the building was the monumentally posh 1925 Sheppard King mansion.
With forty items, not counting desserts and specials, the menu was overwhelming, a compendium of the pan-global cuisine that has made the Mansion’s chef, 42-year-old Dean Fearing, a culinary celebrity. Morels were in season, so we decided to split an appetizer of them. As far as I’m concerned, an unadorned morel can hardly be improved upon, but in fact the caper vinaigrette brought out their subtly earthy �avor. This was the kind of dish that makes you chew slowly, with your eyes closed. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case with the next dish, a generous appetizer consisting of a tempura-fried prawn, a steamed pheasant dumpling, and passion fruit—glazed sweetbreads. The concept was dazzling, but except for the accompanying dark, sweet cherry scallion sauce, the execution lacked finesse. Luckily, my companion’s smoked pecan-crusted snapper was excellent—at once light and full �avored—and there was plenty to share. As for dessert, we agreed that we’d never had better crème brûlée—a satiny custard in a rosy pool of raspberry purée.
During our absence from the room, the sheets had been turned down and the luxurious monogrammed terry bathrobes folded at the foot of the beds with their belts rolled up like fiddlehead ferns. Even though the memory of dinner had hardly faded, I filled out a request for room service breakfast and hung it on the door, then slipped into bed to read by the light of a gratifyingly bright table lamp.
When we opened the draperies and French doors the next morning, the room filled with sunlight and cool, fresh air. At precisely 8:30, an opulent breakfast cart arrived, looking as if it had been styled for a scene in a Cary Grant movie. The waiter popped up two sides of the cart to make a spacious oval table, then retrieved from an insulated compartment beneath it assorted steaming pots and fragrant covered plates.
Everything was exactly as we had ordered. The tea (loose, not in a bag) came with a silver strainer and a rest for the strainer, the caffè latte with an extra pot of steamed milk, and there was orange marmalade in a china dish. Whatever quibbles we had about dinner evaporated: The egg-white omelet provided a neutral canvas for the vivid �avors of shiitake mushrooms and scallions; the poached eggs achieved the ideal balance between �uid and firm; the biscuits were of heroic butteriness. In place of plebeian hashbrowns was an edible haystack of crisp, golden shoestring potatoes. We were lolling around reading the New York Times (delivered with breakfast, as we had requested when we checked in) when I realized with a start that I was about to be late for my pedicure, so I headed for the shower. The bathroom’s overall marble-and-brass grandeur was compromised a bit by the slightly confined space: The bath towels occupied a tray perched on the tub’s edge, and the tub itself was narrow. But the shower was good and strong, the towels were softer than goose down (and considerably more suitable for drying yourself after a bath), and the fresh-scented shampoo, lotion, and bath crystals came in pretty square-stoppered glass jars. A note discreetly suggested that, if you wished, you could purchase some to take home. Apparently, even people who can afford Mansion-caliber prices are not above pilfering.
The pedicure was a mixed experience. The results were fine—I could have started a fire using the mirrorlike re�ection of my toenails—but the accompanying massage stopped at the ankles. Frankly, for $50 I had expected some serious calf kneading too. On top of that, the room needed dusting and corner mopping. As it turns out, the salon is operated by a separate company, but most people don’t know that. On the other hand, the fitness studio next-door was in immaculate condition and equipped with a multitude of machines, mostly Paramount brand, and other amenities, including a massage room, sauna, and steam room.
Before checking out of our sybaritic sanctuary, we decided to take a walk along Turtle Creek, with its swans and ducks gliding among the cannas, and here the staff was at its best, providing maps and helpful suggestions for various loops. When we returned, check-out time had sneaked up on us. And it was then, zipping our bags, phoning for a bellman—“Yes, Mrs. Hamilton, and shall we have your car brought round too?”—that I understood the true appeal of the Mansion. The hotel is justifiably proud of the extraordinary service it provides, but most guests, after all, will never request a large surprise birthday party on four hours’ notice. They will never be clueless that they have left a $100,000 check in a cab until its honest driver returns it to the Mansion and a hotel employee personally drives across town to deliver it just before it is needed to close a major deal. For me, it’s the little things—sumptuous bath towels, toiletries in stylish containers, being greeted by name—that make the visit special.
When the bill was presented at the check-out desk, it took my breath away: $696, which broke down into $375 for the room, a whopping $49 for the room tax, $130 for dinner, $42 for breakfast, $16 for pressing, and the rest for the pedicure and assorted other taxes and small extras. Thank God it was a business expense. As we drove away, my companion asked, “Well, if you had to pay for this yourself, would you do it again?”
“You mean, if all my bills were paid and by some miracle I had seven hundred dollars left over to do anything I wanted?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, I’d be back in a minute.”
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