A Minibar Manifesto

My life over the past few weeks has taken me on some remarkable adventures, many of which are providing fodder for blog posts, beginning with this one. At the center of this whirlwind of new experiences was my wedding, held at Mercury Hall in Austin, Texas. Weddings have a tendency to invite justification for extravagance, whether in the form of a new suit (how could I have gotten married in a ratty five year old H&M one?), new shoes (Aldens last a lifetime, you know) or, in this case, a nosebleed-inducingly luxurious hotel room.

When measuring the effort required by an innkeeper to muster a hotel experience, there is a gap that must be overcome to graduate from bad to good. This gap is miniscule, however, when compared to the huge leap necessary to graduate from good to great. As is true for restaurants and bars, it is not enough to create a beautifully decorated space; a great hotelier must also be a mindful and prescient host. If the hospitable grip is too tight, guests will be reluctant to enjoy and explore the amenities. If it is too loose, their guests will feel like they’ve been abandoned in an art museum after closing time. Traversing that chasm, and elevating the experience from pleasantly acceptable to truly sublime, takes more than clean sheets and good plumbing. Doing it properly requires a careful understanding of the guest, a genuine and active role in the local community, and a psychotic desire to keep every detail perfect, again and again and again.

I arrived on the grounds of the Hotel Saint Cecilia on the sunny afternoon of my wedding day. I walked under the canopy of oak trees and past the slate-blue Citroen DS parked on the brick driveway, and was greeted by a man in a dark waistcoat and light blue shirt who came bearing an expertly mixed Manhattan. I sipped the cocktail, served in an oddly-proportioned short glass, and breathed in deeply, my nose catching a wispy hint of the Nag Champa slowly burning near the open doors of the patio bar. Despite being a block from South Congress Avenue, my mind told me I was somewhere much farther away. And I hadn’t yet seen the room.

 

I've never seen a taxidermied songbird at the Hyatt.

Suite Number One at the Hotel Saint Cecilia seems to have emerged from the collision of a historical landmark building (really) with the aesthetic sensibility and peacock attitude of a newly-minted 1960s rockstar. Imagine an alternate universe wherein Ray Davies from the Kinks spent his first royalty check transforming an old Texas mansion into a gilded French-Moroccan palace for hosting orgiastic panoplies of excess, and you’ll have a rough idea of how it feels. With an Alice in Wonderland color palette, psychedelic taxidermy, gold-rimmed barware, blue flocked wallpaper, heavy bronze plumbing fixtures and push-button Bakelite light switches, the suite seems to be channeling the conjoined spirit of Wes Anderson, Marc Bolan and Timothy Leary. The overall effect is simultaneously bewildering, surreal and inspiring. Last year, my stay at the Wynn Las Vegas left me stunned. This year, the Hotel Saint Cecilia made the Wynn feel like the Luton Travelodge.

Just as dirty windows in a restaurant indicate a sloppy mentality that likely extends into the kitchen, a boring minibar can indicate the management’s general lack of interest in service. Bad hotels, plus a shocking number of otherwise good ones, fill theirs with drab vending machine crap and tepid light beer, and base their pricing structure on the ‘where else you gonna get food at 3am?’ philosophy. Minibars in great hotels are another matter entirely.

To capture effectively the attention to detail and the philosophy of the owners, I will lead your on a tour of the minibar, which serves as a barometer of the greater hotel experience. The people behind a great hotel understand that a minibar is, in essence, a tiny retail store, and when properly executed, they build an inventory as well-edited as it would be in a neighborhood boutique market. This is how it should be! The variety of selection should be small enough to offer solace from the tyranny of choice, but large enough to accommodate different tastes, blending the best of the world and the best of the region to greet late-night cravings with a treat that rivals a Fortnum and Mason hamper.

Here’s how the Hotel Saint Cecilia does theirs. Cold goods are in a wine fridge, and nonperishables are on the marble counter above:

Native Nectar Guajillo Honey - Made in South Texas by honeybees who get their nectar from the wild desert bush called the Guajillo. Slow Food has recognized it as a unique regional product in its Ark of Taste.

Thunderheart Bison Jerky - The bison raised for this jerky is grass-fed, and allowed by Thunderheart to live in family groups on the same land in West Texas where their indigenous ancestors roamed prior to their skirmish with extinction in the 19^th century. The company’s owners tout a number of health reasons supporting its superiority to beef.

Chocolat Bonnat Asfarth milk chocolate bar - This brand hit my radar a couple of years ago, and I've been attracted to them ever since, for their resistance to updating their very 19th-century brand and for their staunch refusal to use soy lecithin in their chocolate. Further endorsement of Bonnat's fine quality is their appearance in the Manufactum catalog, on whose exquisite taste I've expounded previously.

Wilhelmina Peppermints - These enormous peppermint discs are a brand that I discovered at my local German import store. Rarely seen in the United States, they've charmed their way into the St Cecilia cupboard.

Wilhelmina Chocomint - This one is an unknown for me, but based on the original mints in their family, I have high hopes that they'll impress as well.

Askinosie Chocolate, San Jose Del Tambo - This small chocolate company in St. Louis sings from the same hymnal as the aforementioned Bonnat, eschewing soy lecithin and depending on cocoa butter alone to smooth the texture of their product. Their differentiator is their obsession with the single-varietal craze that has worked so well in the wine world; each bar comes packaged with a complete rap sheet for its constituent cacao beans.

Roka Cheese Sticks - Revealing affection among the St Cecilians towards fancy Dutch edibles, this box of crunchy puff pastry cheese sticks is an aristocratic cousin to the Cheeto. No cartoon animal mascot necessary for these classy finger-stainers.

Bella Cucina Farmhouse Olives - These are the same clever people who make the ridiculously overpriced but oh-so rustic and appealing Tuscan grills for sale at the Ferry Building in San Francisco. They're based in Atlanta, and they specialize in bringing carefully-packaged and artfully produced Italian things over to the United States, whether in the form of food items or lifestyle adornments.

Tyrrell's Hand Cooked Potato Chips - You may have seen these bags at your local Whole Foods. At first, it may seem pointless to import potato chips from across the Atlantic, and for the standard salted variety, I'm still not quite convinced it's worth it. However, their Mature Cheddar and Chives flavor is spectacular and earns the miles. And for added notoriety, Tyrrell's have also proven themselves capable of making a tasty crunchy snack out of parsnips, of all things.

Feridies Peanuts - This brand was new to me, and seeing that I didn't tear open a bag for myself, I'm left to give it only the respect by association that I will confer by virtue of their inclusion in this glorious minibar. At the least, it seems to be a good sign that they hail from Virginia. For a later adventure, perhaps.

Dublin Dr Pepper – Still being made in Dublin, Texas using Imperial Cane Sugar, this glass-bottled Dr Pepper is the sole abstainer from the call of the high fructose corn syrup siren that entrapped all the other bottlers in the 1980s (leaving for later the story of the limited edition and fruit-sugar sweetened Heritage Dr Pepper). The sweetness is cleaner, the mouthfeel is less sticky, and the 8-ounce bottle is the perfect portion. I stopped drinking soda years ago and make only very occasional exceptions to my prohibition. On my frequent trips to Texas, a frosty glass bottle of Dublin Dr Pepper is one of them.

A fine selection of other nibbles completes this spectacular minibar, including Les Anis de Flavigny pastilles, Camembert and pork rilletes from France, olive oil crackers from The Fine Cheese Company in Britain, salame from San Francisco’s venerable Molinari & Sons, Gouda from Holland, cane sugar Coca-Cola from Mexico, and an international wine list worthy of its own dedicated investigation. They’ve chosen Stella Artois as their international standard beer, and their seasonal option was the heady St Bernardus Abt 12.

I was impressed to find that their other soft drinks included the Mandarin and Seville Orange Jigger and the Victorian Lemonade from Fentiman’s and a couple of varieties of Kombucha from Wonder Drink in Portland. Still and sparkling renditions of the eco-indulgent Hildon water from England rounded out the group.

Accoutrements galore

 Tea comes in a Taika cup and saucer from Iittala plus a nifty double-decker stainless tea service

For me, the greatest joy of such a well-curated minibar is not in eating or drinking these things; in fact, I didn't tear open a single wrapper. It's the fun in seeing the cumulative effect of all of these items together, seeing the statement that they make when they're all placed on a marble countertop. 

I can now go out into the world and gather up these same items for my own cupboard, and recreate a little part of the St. Cecilia experience at home. I just need to light up some Nag Champa, pour two well-crafted Manhattans, and my wife and I can be back in this surreal corner of Austin all over again.