I wasn’t expecting to get a masterclass in French beauty in the lobby of Le Royal Monceau Raffles Paris hotel. But as I looked out at a sea of angular bobs among the tables at Il Carpaccio, its Italian restaurant, I nibbled focaccia and took notes.
If you’re looking for the Paris of TikTok and a marketing executive named Emily, you’ve come to the wrong place. The scene at the Royal Monceau is straight out of La Maison, Apple TV’s Succession-like drama about a French fashion house. I mistook three women for Amira Casar, who plays a feisty model-muse, before ordering my rigatoni.
Paris has no shortage of five-star hotels. Some even refer to them as “palaces,” thanks to a formal designation system that exists only in France. They are popular with heads of foreign nations and billionaires who exploit natural resources. But few of them draw any locals.
The Royal Monceau, in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, is different, and it shows right away in the restaurant, where the women of the eighth arrondissement congregate. Those with long hair look like they rarely bother with a brush; short hair is meticulous with a Kerastase sheen. A few swipes of mascara and a berry lip stain are comme il faut. And their eyeliner is slightly smudged.
A sandblasted Haussmanian building, the Royal Monceau reigns over the Avenue Hoch, a sleepy street of apartment buildings, a sprinkling of cafés, and, because this is France, plenty of hair salons.
This neighborhood belongs to Paris’s haute bourgeoisie—women who pair Hermès with Converse and Roger Vivier with COS. They’re allergic to trying too hard, which might explain why they always look so good. In the decade since the Royal Monceau was renovated by Phillipe Starck, it’s become a canteen for the locals. They take breakfast and lunch meetings over salade niçoise at Le Bar Long, its all-day café, and alternate between Il Carpaccio and Matsuhisa Paris, a sexy Japanese restaurant, in the evenings. On warm summer nights, they spill out into the courtyard, sipping white Burgundy and wearing Chanel with the panache of Vanessa Paradis.
Starck designed the hotel to feel like an artist’s home, and for guests, resting and relaxing take priority. Goose-down duvets are piled atop the plush mattresses and blackout curtains encourage beauty sleep. In the white-lacquer-and-mirrored bathrooms—stocked Frenchly with Clarins products—the lighting is clinical, so there’s no excuse for sloppily-applied foundation. Besides, the women of Paris prefer a light touch.
Hankering for a ginger shot, buckwheat madeleine, 8 p.m. reservation at Frenchie, an appointment with David Mallett, or perhaps a NAD+ infusion? Just text your own private butler, who wants nothing more than to make you look and feel your best.
Out-of-towners need all the assistance they can get to keep up with the Parisians in the restaurants and spa. On the lower ground floor is an expansive infinity pool where guests and locals alike congregate in the sauna and not-too-cold plunge. They baste and marinate, sipping shot glasses of fruit juice in their tiny Eres swimsuits. (If you left yours at home, there’s a small selection for sale.) Fancy a sweat? Pick your poison: Thai boxing, yoga, Pilates (Cadillac or Reformer?), or four training rooms full of Technogym and Kinesis machines.
These Parisians take self-care so seriously that the Royal Monceau now offers facials and body treatments from three brands—111SKIN, Dr. Barbara Sturm, and Nooance. Appointments for 111Skin’s 80-minute Black Diamond Ritual are booked weeks in advance, and after experiencing it, I understood why. Between the five-step mask and 30-minute massage, I left looking so snatched that I wondered if I, too, could be mistaken for a character in an Audrey Tatou movie.
After a three-day infiltration, I left Le Royal Monceau feeling far more French than I did after spending my entire junior year of college at La Sorbonne. I’m not willing to commit to a bob, but spending Saturday afternoons at the spa? Pas de problème.
Ashley Baker is the Executive Editor at Air Mail Look
