It’s official: I’ve created a monster. There’s always a period of adjustment after a holiday, but our recent stay at Paris’ Four Seasons George V has pushed my daughter over the edge. “Maid!” she barks at me for the umpteenth time since our return to Blighty, as her brother (now her official butler) scuttles off, challenged with quenching her thirst. If this slapstick scene wasn’t ridiculous enough, her little sister piles in, trotting around unsteadily, swanky George V brolly in hand, sheltering her highness from the spring sun. The farce cannot go on.
To be fair, the poor girl didn’t stand a chance, with the high life embracing us whilst still on home turf. Hurrying through St Pancras, spurred on by the pop-up pianist ambitiously tackling Chopin at 6am, we bypassed the queues, hotfooting it towards Eurostar’s Business Premier lounge; a hush-hush space of Francophile pastries, pungent café au lait and a small bibliothèque of glossies, to help pass the 2 hours and change aboard. Having eaten our bodyweight in complementary croissants, we pulled into Gare du Nord; a clamorous tangle of hooting taxis, deflatingly familiar fast-food outlets and the odd sex shop to boot. Rosie’s eyes darted around, wondering where the Eiffel Tower was amidst the madness.
Minutes later, Palais Garnier’s lofty columns and Roman arches shook her from her post-pastry slumber, her unease dissipating as the City of Light unfurled. Soon we were engulfed in the Golden Triangle’s monument-speckled streets; all flagship fashion houses and ritzy restaurants. Within milliseconds of arriving at George V’s eponymous hotel, we witnessed a true Four Seasons welcome; drawn to our taxi like moths to a flame, Paris’ most attentive doormen moved it like a choreographed dance troupe; doors were opened, bags were swiped and umbrellas took flight, as we were ushered inside the prestigious palace hotel.
The tone is set from the moment you enter its revolving door; a lavish lair of Carrara marble, seventeenth century tapestries and crystal chandeliers, overflowing with floral displays of Amazonian proportions. The latter comes courtesy of artistic director and celebrity florist, Jeff Leatham. With a bloom budget which is rumoured to run into the millions, it takes 12,000 stems per week to create the extravagant displays which propel stunned guests into a stunned jaw-dropping, eye-widening, pollen-inhaling paralysis.
“Hello Rosie,” uttered a receptionist, the personal welcome catching us off guard, theatrically dominoing its way along the front desk team- I half expected them to burst into song, jazz hands and all. If we felt a little more special than other guests, it was momentary; it soon became apparent that beneath the glinting crystals guests’ names effortlessly ricochet around the team from dawn to dusk. It’s easy to see why Michelin have just awarded the hotel 3 prestigious Michelin keys, the highest accolade in the guide’s new category – this is personalised service to the hilt. I turned to find Rosie vehemently gazing at the hotel’s inner sanctum; it’s marble courtyard.
Having recently been bestowed yet another Michelin star, this gastronomic enclave, flanked by three of the city’s finest eateries, now boasts six coveted stars (plus a green star), making it Europe & the Middle East’s leading culinary destination. “But where are the stars, Mummy?” Rosie asked, puzzled. It’s a fair question, if I ran this insanely decadent ship, I would have them illuminated for all to see. “They’re in the food, Rosie,” was the best I could muster, scurrying off to our room.
Renowned for having the city’s largest standard rooms, our airy abode ticked every box; deep soaking tub, crystal chandelier and a sweet Juliet balcony overlooking the marble courtyard – invisible stars and all. The hotel’s guestrooms and suites are in the throes of a stylish redesign courtesy of Pierre-Yves Rochon – much to the delight of international antiques dealers, scrambling to purchase the old fixtures and fittings – even their old coat hangers fetch a pretty penny. Presumably, this exquisite glow-up is a cloak-and-dagger affair, as I saw hide-nor-hair of a workman (unless they were cunningly camouflaged in Dior and Chanel, in which case the place is teeming with them).
George V has more suites to choose from than any other Parisian palace hotel and their four newly renovated suites compliment the collection admirably, each has its own je ne sais quoi, but you can expect cutting-edge technology alongside gleaming French parquet floors and sumptuous artworks. For incredible Eiffel tower views, the opulent two-storey duplex apartments certainly fit the bill, or for a true home from home feel (well, if you are blue blooded, that is) the Grand Premier Suite is just the ticket. The Parisian Apartment, with its own kitchen and a vast terrace perfect for al fresco dining, is perfect for families, with interconnecting rooms available.
Just a five-minute stroll to the Seine, we jumped aboard a river cruise. Pedestrian? Perhaps, but it’s also the savviest way to see the city’s architectural gems in one fell swoop. It occurred to me Rosie may find looking at old buildings boring, albeit from a sun-drenched vessel on one of Europe’s most glorious UNESCO-listed rivers. I needn’t have worried, I had her from the moment I revealed its source was a grotto near Dijon… guarded by a nymph, a dog and a dragon. She soon took over proceedings, “Quasimodo lived in that cathedral and Ladybug and Cat Noir hang out at the Eiffel Tower.” Circling Île de la Cité, all eyes were upon Conciergerie’s fairytale turrets. As Rosie wracked her brain as to which Disney princess resided there, I unceremoniously chipped in, “that was Marie Antoinette’s prison before they chopped her head off,” she looked at me in disbelief – because turning into a superhero critter is far more believable.
Having disembarked, a freak shower emptied Paris’ largest square; wet deckchairs hung around like lost souls. Standing in unexpected silence, surrounded by Paris’ most iconic sights, it dawned on me that in a few months this spot will be bursting at the seams, thanks to the arrival of the world’s greatest sporting event. Throughout Place de la Concorde’s historic shapeshifting, it’s always been the city’s stage; from bloodthirsty locals witnessing Marie Antoinette lose the aforementioned head to Parisians celebrating the city’s liberation. This summer, crowds will flock here once again. This time, people from every corner of the world will unite, to gawp at the world’s top BMX riders as they ‘tail whip’ and ‘can-can’– not to mention the breakers who, for the very first time, can dance their way to an Olympic gold – I wonder what Marie Antoinette would make of that.
George V’s subterranean spa, a seamless 21st century addition, makes the ideal retreat after a busy day sightseeing. Showcasing the finest French and international skincare brands, Le Spa’s unique, personalised treatments top every savvy Parisian’s little black book. Bound to my decadent poolside lounger, sipping oesophagus stripping ginger tea, I overheard a husky-voiced New Yorker console his teary 8-year-old, “your mascara looks fine, honey. Don’t cry, think of your insane new Chanel bag.” Rosie looked at me, doe-eye’s full of want. I shot her an incredulous look in return, silently questioning her sanity.
Bagless, we made our way to the hotel’s one Michelin star restaurant, Le George; an opulent whitewash of theatrical blooms where impeccably polished silverware glints beneath a gargantuan Baccarat chandelier. Here, Simone Zanoni, who’s as charismatic as he is distinguished (you’ll have to take my word for that, as they don’t offer stars for being jolly), serves up refined modern Mediterranean cuisine, alongside an award-winning team (wine comes courtesy of Italy’s best sommelier, Francesco Cosci and you’ll find Pastry Chef of the Year 2023, Michael Bartocetti, in charge of sweet treats).
But Le George also has a lesser hyped green star; acknowledgement of its eco-responsible approach. In fact, the hotel restaurants grow much of their menus in its gardens, just outside Versailles. Their ‘Lunch at Potager’ experience offers a window into this world. Gastronomes stroll the gardens with Zanoni, collecting ingredients for an al fresco cookery masterclass. The result? An unadulterated seasonal feast, with one of the world’s best chefs. To complete the experience, Francesco Cosci helps guests select the perfect pairing from the hotel’s wine cellar, home to around 50,000 rare vintages– serious oenophiles can even bring him along for the ride.
Back beneath the Baccarat, it’s clear to see how playful Zinoni enjoys walking the tightrope which exists between art and gastronomy; a string of lemony yellowtail looks like a delve into abstract expressionism, while the lusty asparagus with lobster hollandaise is a work of art in itself. The guinea fowl ravioli, presented as a neat wreath, left me with a conundrum; too pretty to eat, too delicious to save. Utterly full, but unable to leave the homemade focaccia alone, tackling the much-praised milanaise was a step too far. If only I had an insane bag in which to smuggle it.
The next morning, surrounded by Le Cinq’s majestic palm speckled bling, we planned our final hours. Between bites of sashimi, I reeled off Parisian bucket-list experiences; Rosie met each one with indifference. “Can we go sightseeingin the hotel?” she asked, not for the first time. To my surprise, I agreed – to be fair, having welcomed everyone from Madonna and The Beatles to Queen Elizabeth II made it a worthy Parisian landmark in my book. Plus, kicking off one’s day with a 3 Michelin starred croissant could certainly be deemed bucket-list worthy. Having cooed at the grand dame’s spiralling Art Deco staircase and intricate Flemish tapestries, we arrived at The Penthouse Suite. From the balcony, Paris unfurled once again; the Eiffel Tower and Sacré-Coeur glinting in the spring sun. Sometimes, just sometimes, the hotel is destination enough.
Rooms at Four Seasons George V start at €3140. Visit www.fourseasons.com for more information.
