AKA SUTTON PLACE, New York City
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| AKA's intimate lobby, Michael clowning in the distance |
Our first contact with AKA was catastrophic. Already irritable and exhausted after a difficult flight from Paris, we discovered on arrival at the Sutton Place “hotel alternative” that our reservations had been cancelled.
On the good side, the staff was --from the very first moment-- impeccably friendly and whatever the problem (and there have indeed been a few), systematically in search of the best solution. When we located our own copy of the booking confirmation, things began to quickly work themselves out.
The young man responsible for accidentally destroying our reservations was clearly humiliated and devastated by the public outing of his inefficiency. I felt sorry for him, and it was soon apparent the incident was apt to bring us future good will, which I always welcome.
By mid-week, we were thoroughly won over, thrilled with the overall luxury of the surroundings, and of the terrific interaction with the staff. The entire concierge desk seem to absolutely love its work. To a man (or woman), they take enormous pleasure in chatting with guests, and generally rendering themselves helpful whenever possible.
One evening we did have a key problem. We had been given the wrong key, and it took quite a lot of effort on everyone’s part before figuring out why the key no longer fit our apartment. It was no big deal, but still kind of a bad omen.
Then, the following day, after some pretty heavy walking, including a fairly long hike across the Brooklyn Bridge, Brenda returned to our apartment alone. I had some errands to do in the neighborhood.
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| Manhattan seen from the Brooklyn Bridge |
Back at the hotel, one of the staff warned me there had been a “bit of a problem,” but assured me all been taken care of. He didn’t wish to elaborate, and I was more than intrigued.
Brenda met me at the door. She was laughing and almost crying at the same time. The adventure she recounted was not banal: Back in our apartment a few minutes earlier, she had started undressing to take a shower, and as she sat on the bed to remove her shoes, just like in the tale of Goldilocks and the three bears, she suddenly realized someone was asleep on our bed.
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| Mrs. Singh |
It turned out to be a charming Indian lady, who had travelled just that day from New Delhi to attend the graduation of her nephew at New York University. Brenda and Mrs. Singh were mutually flabbergasted. They both had a momentary fright, a bit of an embarrassing moment, and ultimately a laugh, too.
The extended family of Mrs. Singh occupied the two next door apartments, and the downstairs clerk had inadvertently given the jet-lagged Mrs. Singh the wrong key --ours. Of course there was no real harm done, but it certainly didn’t look very serious on the part of the hotel.
Nevertheless, there was a silver lining: the management, thoroughly contrite, insisted on refunding a night’s lodging, which was more or less the maximum one might expect under such circumstances and a welcome economy to our New York budget. The rest of our stay went off without a hitch.
There is a superb postscript to this story, as the best was yet to come. Returning in 2010, I figured with all of our mishaps of the previous year, we might hope to get a special welcome. That was not immediately in the cards. We were ushered into a tiny, very dark apartment, clearly in need of repairs, and told with a straight face it was one of their most popular.
When I objected, my interlocutor --as always-- showed plenty of good will in finding a solution. Michael was a young, very personable New Yorker. He took me aside and whispered that he remembered last year’s regrettable incident with Mrs. Singh, that if I could just wait 24 hours longer, the penthouse suite would become available, and we would be welcome to move in. Needless to say, at no additional cost.
We waited the 24 hours, and our expectations were all surpassed. It was at least 1000 square feet surrounded by panoramic windowing with stunning views of the city skyscape. Cary Grant would have felt right at home.
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| Brenda puttering about in the early morning |
So there you are. AKA has never been quite perfect, but it’s all a bit of give and take, and in our experience the give and the take have balanced themselves out rather nicely.
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| Room with a real New York view ! |
SIDEBAR: Sutton Place
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| Queensboro Bridge seen from Sutton Place Park 2010 |
Hollywood has long perpetuated the image of New York City’s Sutton Place as the very epitome of chic.
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| Onassis (Google photo) |
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| Crawford (Warners) |
Several scenes from both Woody Allen’s “Manhattan” and “Annie Hall” were filmed there, as well as exteriors in the original “Manchurian Candidate” and the remake of “Scarface.”
Hollywood most memorably captured the neighborhood in “How to Marry a Millionaire,” the story of three almost penniless glamor girls who pool their resources to rent a luxury apartment for one month with the goal of nabbing rich husbands.
Billed as the first comedy in Cinemascope, I wanted to see it as part of my 11th birthday party, but my mother insisted that the children vote; I had to go to “King Solomon’s Mines” instead.
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| Vintage movie poster (20th Century Fox) |
Your input is welcomed: frank.pleasants@libertysurf.fr
Next Friday: "The Decline of Mme Augier ... goings-on at the Negresco"
[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]
