Hip Hotels

The past year has been bountiful for the discerningly hip among us. Chic, upscale boutique lodging has proliferated through downtown Minneapolis like gold foil–wrapped artisanal chocolates. Complementing Ralph Burnet’s 2006 Chambers “art hotel,” 2008 brought Hotel Ivy, W Minneapolis–The Foshay, and, in a more modest price range but similar vibe, Aloft Minneapolis.

Hip or cool is a core sensibility at each venue. Details matter. Tone, if not everything, is significant. Each venue markets hip in a slightly different way, but the essential pitch is to a knowing crowd, people of varying ages but young enough at heart to appreciate something different and sophisticated enough to appreciate velvet services done right.

In a previous life I spent more nights than I care to remember at The Plaza and various Four Seasons, Bel Ages, Mondrians, et cetera, in L.A. and Beverly Hills. The trappings of au courant décor and wittily penned guest manuals are one thing. Truly knowing and solicitous service, of the caliber of Four Seasons or Ritz-Carlton, is an altogether different task to pull off. It’s something any number of local hotels has historically claimed to offer but few delivered on.

My lovely wife and I are regular folks at our core, so I was surprised to be chosen to sample and assess the vibe and creature comforts of these four hip hotels. Truth be told, the Mrs. is fully conversant in 600-thread counts, demineralized glass, and basil-coconut–litchi nut reductions. But me? My idea of the perfect idyll is a sleeping bag on a flat rock next to enough runoff that I can make coffee in the morning. No one has accused me of being hip since the last time I snagged a Country Joe and the Fish eight-track.

But far be it for me to turn down a public service mission. Armed with an appropriate expense account, we set off to test our “high game” and affect a little cool with those for whom the fashionable life is a skin they don’t slough off in the backyard. Here is our report.

ALOFT MINNEAPOLIS
In hotel parlance, Aloft, on Washington Avenue in the Guthrie Theater district, is what is known as midpriced lodging. Like all of the hotels we sampled, Aloft is self-conscious about being anti-“big box,” the pejorative description for your average 30-story Hilton or Marriott.

Unlike its cool siblings, Aloft eschews the first-impression embrace of a parking valet, doorman, uniformed Swiss guard/curbside aromatherapist . . . so we toted our own bags in to the desk. In a small kiosk just up from a sunken lounge area we met Scott, who exuded a comfortable balance of efficiency and informality as he processed our card, explained how to get into the (heated) underground parking, pointed out the kitchen amenities in re:fuel, the serve-yourself “dining area” behind him, and sent us on our way.

From disembarking in the parking lot to flopped out on the bed was a brisk nine minutes. Very good. Some guests might like being fussed over and tutored on how to operate a thermostat. We prefer to officially cease the hassles of traveling ASAP with a long, private supine exhalation.

Dominated by a king bed, our room itself was, shall we say, modestly proportioned, but again, efficient, with the translucent glass-walled shower stall we came to believe is now de rigueur for all “small box” hip hotels. The work area was acceptably large, with free Wi-Fi, thank you very much, and a first for us: a universal black box for putting anything using electrons—Wii, iPod, personal videos . . . uh, oh . . . or PowerPoint up on the room’s flat-screen TV.

An art deco bedside clock provided an analog counterbalance. It was a homey touch. Like something your Swedish grandmother might have left you. Although we didn’t use it, the in-room safe big enough to swallow a laptop also struck us as a good idea.

Judging by the clientele checking in with us and those we saw the next morning in the re:fuel “kitchen” and Wxyz bar lounge, the typical Aloft customer is 35, Mac–toting, Bluetooth–enabled, and genetically synched with Aloft’s high quality serve-yourself espresso machine. (An endless supply of frothed milk. Damn, I want one of those.)

While I did experience a moment of self-consciousness parading in my Speedo from the pool area toilet to the hot tub (a sight that had to have been a buzzkill for the cocktail crowd on the other side of two walls of glass), the soak was easily accessible, clean, and spot-on relaxing.

The basic vibe of the place—and this I think is key to Aloft’s hipness factor—is what could be described as “Stockholm airport techno-modern.” Without the slightest hint of jet fuel, Aloft’s bright red-orange-yellow accent color scheme and neon-tinted public areas suggest a Nordically sleek and efficient oasis from the worldly jostle and bustle.