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ROME HOTEL D’INGHILTERRA
I suspect this place has always been used to entertaining persons of taste and refinement. In the 17th century the noble Torlonia family built it to house their guests. In 1845 it became an hotel. Here have stayed Mark Twain, Gore Vidal, Gregory Peck and the Duke of Edinburgh. (And, had history permitted, would they not have made a fine quartet at dinner?) Now there come folk from all over the world – the sort who like their billets to be quiet and discreet and yet who want to be in the centre of the sights and surrounded by the most exclusive shopping. My taxi pushed its way through the crowds surging up the via Condotti towards the Spanish Steps, turned into the deserted via Bocca di Leone and stopped almost immediately. Is it not strange that a dozen steps can take you from bustle to calm? In through the flag-bedecked classical entrance and I was immediately struck by the welcoming scale of my surroundings – and by the friendliness of the staff at the Reception desk. Within moments I was on the 4th floor, passing doors smartly turned out in dark green lacquer. Then I was shown into room 445 – at the far end of the long, narrow building.
I adjusted the curtains at the two windows (each with a tiny balcony), stowed my passport in the safe, turned on the four table lamps, found the local classical music radio station (89.5 FM) and – to the strains of Barber’s Adagio for Strings – drifted into a doze. Waking, I felt in need of the bathroom, and found another joy: a marble floor with a geometric pattern in red, white and grey. Was I looking at boxes or at steps? This visual trickery made my daily ablutions more than usually interesting.
This most important of meals is taken in a complex of small rooms on the lower ground floor. Trompe l’oeil scenes of gardens lend these spaces a most charming aspect. Smiling waitresses supplied pots of good, hot coffee and I raided the buffet of slices of bacon and chunks of luscious melon and pineapple. With the eating done, I could immerse myself in the International Herald Tribune and linger over a final cappuccino. These mornings were thoroughly civilized occasions.
Thinly-sliced, cold veal was carefully arranged on a large, white plate and accompanied with truffle oil. A delicate, well-balanced dish. Spaghetti – with green beans, potato and Genoese pesto – was soft and full of flavour. Lamb chops with herbs were deliciously tasty. A plate of blue cheeses was generous in its portions – my favourite being the Roquefort with fresh pear. And pineapple with lemon sorbet made a sharp finale. (115 euros for these courses.)
In the Café Romano, as throughout the hotel, I found the members of staff I encountered courteous and eager to please. General Manager Marco Sarlo clearly runs an efficient ship. I suspect it is also a happy one. For only a happy staff can maintain a truly welcoming atmosphere – which is what is on offer here. As I left, I decided that the Hotel d’Inghilterra was really like a private club for those who value traditional good taste, and want to find it – deep in the panting heart of Rome.
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HOTEL D’INGHILTERRA
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© Francis Bown 2003
Deep in the panting heart of Rome there lies a jewel of rare quality. Superbly located, modest of external appearance and full of old-fashioned charm, the Hotel D’Inghilterra is that rarest of hostelries: a true home from home. Indeed, its tiny entrance hall seems like a deliberate defence against those who might not appreciate its antique charms. Those seeking the bold and the brash will never enter here.
Designated a Junior Suite (and therefore 588 to 682 euros a night, bed and breakfast for two, according to season), this was just the sort of accommodation I wanted. I like plenty of space to walk about and I like quiet and efficient air-conditioning. Here were both. I also like a room with character. From the pretty plaster cornice around the ceiling to the striped green and white material on the walls to the old-fashioned easy chairs upholstered in red, this was my sort of room. I am used to being surrounded by polished period furniture, so the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the beds and the writing table were entirely to my taste. As were also a flamboyant, gilt carved-wood and gesso mirror and a fine oil painting of a peasant girl by Fiametta.
Before dinner, I wandered around the ground floor and found three pleasant sitting rooms, as well as a snug little bar. These, together with the comforts of room 445, made the Inghilterra a most charming and comfortable base from which to explore the Eternal City. Certainly, I was able – as each of my excursions neared its end – to look forward with real pleasure to returning to my temporary Roman home. And, after a good night’s sleep within bed linen of the highest quality, each morning I was also able to look forward to a jolly good breakfast.
You will want to dine at the Inghilterra. And you will be right to do so, for there is some seriously good food on offer at the hotel’s Café Romano. So do not be put off by the brightly coloured and illustrated menu card, which tells you of dishes for breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and cocktails. Inside, the Café has a certain chic, with floors of black granite and barrel-vaulted ceilings in red. But I preferred to sit outside, at one of the tables on the via Borgogna – opposite the windows of the Fendi emporium. Here, waiters sporting red shirts and black bow ties and waistcoats brought me 5 dishes of Chef Rodolfo Chieroni’s tasty and prettily presented cuisine.
The menu details only wines by the glass. There are 7 whites (like Mondavi’s Woodbridge chardonnay from California at 8.5 euros) and 7 reds (like Lurton’s malbec from Argentina at 9 euros). For bottles, you will need to speak to the excellent maitre d’ Aurelio Ottavio de Luca. I did, and he looked after me extremely well. Into the good Spiegelau glasses he poured a smooth, well-made New Zealand sauvignon blanc, with tones of melon, toast, cat’s pee and (unusually) petrol (Mount Nelson, 2000), and a stunning Nobile di Montepulciano, oozing black fruit, mint, chocolate and toffee (Asinone, Poliziano, 2000). These two bottles cost a total of 112 euros – a snip for such glorious drinking.