Hip Hotels

HOTEL IVY
The Ivy, attached to a luxury condo project of the same name one block from the Minneapolis Convention Center on the south edge of downtown, was the first reminder of what “full-service” feels like.

It was 22 minutes from parking valet to that sublime supine moment. A bit longer than I’d ordinarily prefer, but mitigated by a chat with the bellman, Ignatius, an engaging and I daresay sophisticated Liberian émigré, the sort of guy you’ll read about in The New York Times 20 years from now when he’s returned home and been elected prime minister. The rest of the Ivy staff was just as bright and attentive, if not quite as compelling.

We found the room, which was larger than those at Aloft and W, masculine in its mix of umbers, golds, and black varnished wood. If that was a complaint it was lost on me. Both of us were delighted with the invite- the-relatives-sized bathroom, the only one at the four hotels we visited to have a shower stall and tub (deep-soaking variety, no less). Mrs. Lambert had no complaint about the exceedingly comfortable chaise upon which she was soon swaddled in a robe and engrossed in one of her potboilers.

The Ivy heavily promotes its spa. Water, via every imaginable delivery system, is essential to its full experience. Nodding during a tour of the candlelit personal massage rooms/loges, the fully equipped gym, and an entire wall of Ivy-specific emollients (every shampoo, body lotion, bar of soap, and set of complimentary slippers appear to come with the Ivy’s proprietary lavender-grapefruit-tangerine fragrance), I zeroed in on the steam/sauna/whirlpool facilities (free to hotel guests). This way to bliss!

Ninety minutes later—post soak, steam, sauna, and steam redux—I returned to the room and a wife who had discovered House of Saddam on HBO. It was remarked that I looked rather like the Wednesday lunch special at Red Lobster.

Perhaps because it was a Thursday, the austere bar at Porter & Frye was, like the spa, virtually empty. A couple businessmen were chatting up the female bartender, who was being a very good sport laughing at their corny double-entendres.

Situated on the edge of downtown and cultivating a discreet vibe, it seems unlikely the Ivy will compete with the W’s Living Room for that beating-heart-ozzzzf-the-city vibe, but tired and tense conventioneers will love it. One of the staff (not Ignatius) whispered to my wife that two bona fide celebrities were in the building the night we were there, singer Diahann Carroll and exercise comedian Richard Simmons. Sadly, we crossed paths with neither, or I would have had Simmons autograph my jowls.