One arrives at Petit Ermitage hoping for louche indulgence, candlelight charm, and that particular West Hollywood brand of nonchalant glamour — the kind of place where Peter Sellers might have mislaid his trousers and no one would have thought it remarkable.
Alas, what we found was an establishment oscillating somewhere between inspired eccentricity and organised chaos. The front desk team were a roll of the dice — some quite delightful, others seemingly suffering from a rare allergy to engagement. Our first room, charming in theory, was in practice a biohazard. My wife’s asthma was instantly stirred by the unholy alliance of ancient carpets, heavy drapery and what I can only assume was a century of dander and dreams. We fled after one night.
The second room was almost habitable, provided the windows remained open and one avoided the sofa, which appeared to have lived a more eventful life than most Hollywood agents.
Now — credit where it’s due. The rooftop pool was an absolute triumph. Mad, glittering characters swirled about like extras from a lost Fellini reel, and the cocktails were worthy companions to the spectacle. The gym, though excellent, required reservations, which lent the curious air of booking an audience with one’s own dumbbells.
Housekeeping were lovely, albeit operating on Hollywood time — by which I mean “whenever inspiration strikes.” The concierge at the fringe door was a genuine delight, a calm figure amid the fragrant storm.
Food and drinks upstairs: splendid. Properly done, served with a smile that hinted at insider knowledge.
But, dear reader, the cracks showed. There was, as others have noted, no discernible adult in charge. During our stay we were treated to the most extraordinarily candid staff conversations about management woes, operational oddities and general gossip — all delivered within guest earshot, as if part of the entertainment.
When we were forced to move rooms, management neither assisted nor acknowledged the inconvenience. Had it been our hotel, we would have moved the luggage for the guest — and sent up a bottle of something agreeable as a peace offering. Here, we were met with polite silence.
I should add that the hotel’s Tripadvisor responses — all silky wit and promise — was among the reasons we booked in the first place, forsaking our usual haunt at the Sunset Tower. One fears those very missives will now be repurposed to bid us a fond and final farewell!
And yet… what a curious, unforgettable fortnight. Wildly imperfect, occasionally maddening, but never dull. The Petit Ermitage remains a place one wants desperately to love — a near miss, dressed in velvet and patchouli.
So close, but still so far. What a shame — but not, I must admit, an unhilarious two weeks.
