Review: Shangri-La Hotel at the Shard, London

I was once told that the best part about the view from the Shard is that you can’t see the eyesore itself. From the moment it appeared and began to metamorphose, like a particularly evil Decepticon, the 310m-high Shard divided Londoners: buoyant Boris-types were proud to play host to the tallest building in Europe – until four months later a Moscow office block pushed it off the top spot – while others saw it as little more than a giant Qatari phallus that insulted the dignity of London’s skyline. But as restaurants and bars have begun to take up residence, the sentiments have tempered and now the Shard’s revolving doors are constantly turning with Yorkshire hen parties, blazer-wearing couples and Spanish tourists.

The Shard’s revolving doors are constantly turning with Yorkshire hen parties, blazer-wearing couples and Spanish tourists

In May the Shangri-La group opened its first London hotel between floors 32 and 54. I was itching to visit so I could tweet #smugphotos from the highest infinity pool in Europe and #irritate everybody. Being a Londoner I tend to scowl my way through crowds, never looking up or taking in the architecture, so sleeping above my city and being able to spy on people with the high-powered binoculars in each room was a treat. As it turned out, it’s pretty easy to be spied on yourself if you’re not careful. At night, with the electric blinds open and the lights on, neighbours can enjoy uninterrupted views of each other – a design flaw in the angles of the panelled glass that is only rectified by lowering the blinds and thereby restricting your view of the city.

And what a view it is.

If you’ve never seen a sunrise crack through morning clouds and spill across London, it’s worth staying just for that moment

The Iconic City View room has a 180-degree view over the river. The Walkie-Talkie and Gherkin sit opposite, with Tower Bridge to the right and Canary Wharf in the distance. No photograph could do it justice: the slowness of the city from this height instils calm and an overwhelming pride in London’s majesty. Unlike Hong Kong, New York or Bombay, the skyline is free from neon ugliness, making for a quietly confident beauty. And if you’ve never seen a sunrise crack through morning clouds and spill across London, it’s worth staying just for that moment.

The room itself is soulless. Aside from the bed – which is so huge you could play hide-and-seek in it – the interiors feel like an afterthought. A raw silk-like headboard and panel above the bed in off-gold hints at the kind of elegance this room might have had. Alas, it looks instead as if Staples had a closing-down sale and Shangri-La cleared up: here’s a dull writing desk, bland sideboards, and a sofa that’s just comfy enough to throw your socks and pants on. The room is also home to the worst carpet this side of the 1960s, a galaxy-blue marbled horror with sprays of yellow that looks as though someone has recently been sick on it. Even the bathroom has more warmth: the wonderful heated toilet seat that feels like a welcoming hug and the concealed jets that spray all your bits.

The opening was just under a year late and even then the much-anticipated infinity pool on the 52nd floor was still awaiting completion, so we held off until August to visit – and it still wasn’t open. Nor does the hotel feature Shangri-La’s signature CHI spa, although they do organise in-room massages through a third party who send a therapist with a foldaway bed in a giant laptop case. Which is okay – except that it does mean being facedown in your room, and forced to stare at that carpet.

Where Shangri-La London excels is in the food. After bellinis in Gong on the 52^nd floor we went down to Ting just as the setting sun began to throw long orange legs across the room. The menu is an odd mix of hearty Cotwolds fare with splashes of Southeast Asian here and there. Three beautiful mounds of dressed crab were crisp, fresh and scattered with ice-cold blobs and smears of mango and passion fruit. The two-part duck foie gras came as a medallion of dark terrine fitted around two wodges of sandy-coloured foie gras; on the side, a paler scoop of foie gras mousse, topped with a scrape of crackling. The French couldn’t make it this good. Three palm-sized chunks of Rhug estate lamb loin with mirin, sake, apple and erengi mushrooms were so immaculately seared that while the meat’s edges were as dark as burnt caramel, the candyfloss-pink wetness at its centre reflected the overhead lights. And with the exception of The Ivy’s pork belly, this is the best I have ever had: stacked with the precision of a millefeuille and so soft the fork slid through all three layers and clinked the plate. Rich, but lacking that piggy smell beneath the crackling, the meat was just grazed with vanilla and pineapple and topped with pieces of crackling popcorn.

After dinner our half-drunk bottle of Saint Emilion Chateau Le Puy 2010 was sent up to the room where we could sit, noses pressed to the glass, and watch the city twinkle below. Little did we suspect as we fell asleep with the blinds up that four window cleaners would ride past in the morning and wave at us where we lay nude – but that’s a different story. C

Shangri-La Hotel at the Shard, 31 St Thomas St, London SE1 3QU
020-7234 8000; Shangri-la.com