Roomers Hotel and Cocktail Bar

There are a lot of sequined items in my wardrobe. One morning, after a night trying to smoke Viagra in a shisha, one particularly brilliant male friend of mine came downstairs to breakfast wearing them all at once, like some sort of bejeweled butterfly from a grey chrysalis amongst last night’s fag ash. Roomers was a place for some sequins I thought, albeit one item’s worth, with more cocktails and less Viagra.

Roomers in Frankfurt, Deutschland, is a ‘lifestyle’ hotel (exchange lifestyle for sexy, or even just sex). It’s in the ‘Design Hotel’ league, having been created by Grübel (BMW on the résumé) and the Romanian designer Oana Rosen, and boasts an air of fantasy. You’re handed a homemade rum cocktail from the adjoining Roomers Bar upon arrival. It is sleek polished concrete, black lacquered surfaces, classy and cool. Possibly a bit too cool for sequins. The suites are furnished with fur accents; have a top-notch ipod docking sound system and huge mirrors opposite the bed and in the shower, but fear not dear reader! The lighting is so sensual you can’t see one pimple of fat fudge on your behinds (I tried looking from a few angles…. No, not like that you dirty sod). There are light switches everywhere, apart from (infuriatingly) by the front door, for all eventualities. There is even a love-making setting (press the button with the book on it). I jest. On to the bar!

Paul and I arrived early to one of four reserve-able tables in Roomers Bar, underneath a candelabra dripping in solidified black ink and met Miguel Fernandez, the head barman. I confess to be a spirit philistine, owing to my gluttonous relationship with wine. Switching to cocktails often renders me legless, armless and speechless after trying to satisfy my well-worn wine waist with numerous shot-volumes of 40% sips. I air-headedly told Miguel I liked ‘flowery’ flavours and ‘light-coloured’ spirits, upon which he returned with the Last Word (I thought he was trying to tell me to be quiet) – which was delicately delicious – complete with the story of its creation at the end of prohibition. Miguel was not just a very, very, very pretty face.

Seeing as we were early, we were treated to a show at the bar – Paul’s construction of cardamom, chocolate and 10 year-old rum all smoked out in a glass skull to mature the flavours while drinking and made by the flickiest-wristed barman I’ve ever seen. We chose spicy beef tartar for our bar snack, which arrived like a perfectly formed tit with sunshine egg yolk nipple on a plate of skin-tingling chilies. Erotic oeuf!

I won’t spoil the drinks menu (even though it’s regularly changed), but another highlight included Julio’s Bees; sage, honey and my bête noir – tequila – and testament to Miguel’s sage advice – it tasted deliciously like cool melted butter. Miguel explained that the reason I hated tequila owed more to the fact that I’ve been drinking crap (half the bottle of a bad tequila is actual crap) for the last 15 years. We also enjoyed the imaginative serving style, Paul especially enjoyed the rimming of his shaker glass with ice and rosemary black salt.

By this point we were nicely sozzled, the DJ had arrived and we were getting down to some serious people watching. Beautiful women walked in two-by-two like it was a sexy Noah’s Ark.  Rich silver fox-haired men with too good looking/young/many brides and a swarm of social climbers. After a few more drinks it ended with me eyeing the crowd and confirming that at least one of these Father Christmases had some Viagra, and at least 20% of the clientele would smoke it with me.

I’ll add in the Bar’s CV now, as it was integral you read my babble first before forming your own opinions. Best Hotel Bar 2012, Best Bar Team 2011, Top 5 hotel bar 2013, 2012, 2011. And the list goes back to when it was first opened. It doesn’t even need this review (although it definitely did if my editor asks) when there is a barman on the door turning up to 200 people away on weekend nights. Don’t turn up fashionably late – turn up eagerly early so you get in and enjoy it until ‘last man standing’o’clock’, then sashay up to your furry, mirrored bedroom, and flick on the book reading light for some ‘reading’. When the sun comes up (or long after, in our case), roll down to a long and late (I’m talking 1.30pm finish here) Sekt breakfast. Ooh, and there’s a mechanical massage table upstairs in the top floor spa you can then lie on for 5 hours until the bar opens again. That’s where I left Paul. Now, where’s that shisha…

Lucy Stott

The artist formally known as Stott, The Aquatic Enigma. When she isn't riding through her doctorate on the crest of an alcoholic wave, she writes for The Review. Do: paint the town red with her. Don't: try and make physical contact before 11am. Lucy Farrow is part 1 of writing team; The Doctors.

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