Founding Fathers and filet mignon | Review: The Jefferson Hotel, Washington DC

We entered the elevator. “Where to?” George asked. I knew his name, even though we’d never been formally introduced, because Mr Clooney is kinda recognisable.

“Six” I said, staring ahead. The doors closed. I looked down and smiled, he’s smaller than me, and for a few quiet moments George and I were Best Elevator Friends. I can say this with confidence because he was in a BAD MOOD. But he was nice to me. Lifts can be a good place to indulge your inner Gawker Stalker.

Some years before, a gravelly old voice had boomed out from the gloom of another elevator “Which floor wud ya like?” in such an instantly recognisable rasp that I knew it could only be James Stewart, legendary Hollywood movie star. Now he’s dead and gone, I regret being unable to quiz him about It’s A Wonderful Life or, especially, Mr Smith Goes To Washington. I had been struck dumb in the face of genuine, old school celebrity.

I say especially, because he had indeed come to Washington and we were travelling together upwards inside the city’s Jefferson Hotel, me to floor six, he to, well… higher. DC was an old dark place then, populated by boring politicians, so the occasional actor, committed to some cause or other, added welcome glamour.

The Jefferson is now spruced up, a shiny marble wonder of a thing. The hotel’s bossman, Philip Wood, is an Englishman with an American sense of hospitality. Everyone is made to feel welcome, from the moment they are ushered into the lobby, where people Inside The Beltway discuss filibusters and Obamacare over spritzers and Rusty Nails. The Jefferson is also the perfect introduction to this surprisingly private capital city. A multi-million dollar refurbishment has brought it into the modern era while retaining a sense of history and place – it’s just a short walk away from the White House. (You do have a walker, don’t you?)

Washington is truly a single industry town – politics – and it would be sad to visit and not get a sense of what’s going on, even if you’re enjoying downtime. Like arriving in London on the day of Mrs Thatcher’s funeral and wondering why Big Ben isn’t working, it’s possible to wander around DC in a fug of ignorance, cavalcades of blacked out Escalades whizzing by, sirens whooping, lights ablaze, heading off to some summit or emergency on The Hill, while you’re still struggling with the map to find out where, and what, The Smithsonian is.

The Jefferson solves that. There’s a complimentary Limo available every morning for the use of guests, along with free coffee to go, and muffins for joggers who skipped breakfast in favour of the suggested running routes. Apart from anything else, you’re slap bang in the midst of things: 16^th St leads up from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue (The White House) and The Jefferson sits on the corner of “M”. Downtown is basically just a grid, not the only aspect it has in common with Ancient Rome, so it’s easily navigable.

Obama passed through regularly during his last election campaign, but the staff remained schtum. It was only after securing his second term that he made his first public visit, to woo Republicans on the US budget, and the celeb-o-meter went off the scale

The hotel is discreet, bordering on the masonically secret at times. Past presidents stay here at election time – the name is rather attractive to them – and there’s a private dining room with a concealed entrance/exit for, ahem, very special people who need to pop in and out without attracting attention. The staff will tell you all you need to know about what’s happening around town, but not about who’s having lunch in the room with the secret door. Obama passed through regularly during his last election campaign, but the staff remained schtum. It was only after securing his second term that he made his first public visit, to woo Republicans on the US budget, and the celeb-o-meter went off the scale, with every hack in North America demanding to know every detail of where he’d sat, what he’d eaten, what he’d drunk. On my last stay there, a Black and White Ball was in full swing as I arrived – everyone who was anyone in DC was there.

You can indulge yourself in The Jefferson, if you’re not the prez that is. There’s a very cosy, comfortable bar with comfy armchairs for quiet chats, or stools for meeting and socialising. The barkeeps know their stuff, from the simplest Martinis to cocktails that require bitters, there’s about a dozen different varieties collected on the counter, all of them in expert use while I was there.

The bedrooms combine classic high thread count linens and sumptuous fabrics, with all the flatscreen/wifi/Nespresso demands of modernity. There are walk-in closets, plumped up pillows and enormous luxury bathrooms; everything is done out in sober colours and a few lighter pastel shades.

In the restaurant, Plume, the chef has created a light, modern American menu. A lot of the local custom stick, predictably, with the prime beef fillet, which hails from Martin’s Farm, Maryland, just outside of town. It’s served with bone marrow and a Madeira jus (the base wine of which can be sampled here in quantity). It was, apparently, Jefferson’s favourite tipple and is clearly not just for Christmas hereabouts. The sommelier has a collection of it that is unrivalled in America, dating back over 100 years. Whether Barack and Michelle are continuing the presidential predilection for Madeira, well, you’ll have to ask a spokesman for a comment on that. C

The Jefferson, 1200 16th Street, NW, Washington, DC 20036, USA
+1 202-448-2300; jeffersondc.com

Derek Guthrie flew to Washington DC with American Airlines