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Aman at Summer Palace
Aman at the Summer Palace, Beijing, is a timeless oasis of calm, a refuge from the hubbub of streets outside
By: Mary Gostelow
The car somehow negotiated the chaos of public buses and bicycles and goodness knows what else that is the road system in that part of China, less than half an hour's drive from downtown Beijing.
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We turned into a leafy lane, with eight-foot stone walls on either side, and, quickly at right angles, through an ornamental arch into a stone-flagged courtyard (the only comparison is arriving at the Mandarin Oriental Dhara Dhevi, Chiang Mai - you know you have suddenly done a Dr Who and arrived in history).
In fact the arrivals block, with characteristic Chinese sweeping roof of alternate vertical lines of concave and convex concrete tiles, is new. It may look five centuries old but oh boy, there is an elevator that takes you down to a two-level basement. Let us start from the bottom. You have two squash courts and a 36-seat screening room where movies are shown nightly at 6 pm and 9 pm - tonight is the semi-real story of Yip Ma, the first martial arts master to teach wing chun. Wow. Up one more level and you have a gym, the size of two adjacent tennis courts and with daylight coming in through an all-glass roof: it has up-to-the-minute Technogym equipment with four Kinesis fitments and you realize there is serious spend here. Next door, at basement-one level, is a torturous-looking Pilates studio (squash-court sized), and a 75 ft by 30 ft pool. Built by an 18th century Emperor? No way, you think, this is President Hu and today's Government of China, spending and spending splendissimo. That is true but the surprise is that the digging started in the mid-1980s, by hundreds of workers with shovels, making a double basement under what was going to be the best state guesthouse in the world. The government then, led by Party General Secretary Hu Yaobang, Premier Zhao Zyang, President Li Ziyang and Chairman Deng Xiaoping, decided to convert the buildings that had been the kitchens of the Summer Palace, the 1,000-acre rolling estate 30 minutes' drive from central Beijing to which the imperial family retreated during the hot summer months of June through September. Fast track to 2004, when the government-owned Summer Palace Authority and the Beijing Tourist Group, which owns the buildings, invited Adrian Zecha to have a look. They clicked. Zecha brought in Jean-Michel Gathy as architect and Jaya Ibrahim as designer, and they planned to open August 2008 (they were only a month late).
Here we are, then, back at above-ground level of the arrivals block. It is filled with ancient screens, and sitting areas and lots of dark wood and a cathedral ceiling with open rafters soaring up into the pinnacle under those roof tiles. A young woman sits playing a lute. The GM, Mark Swinton - from Vancouver - sits me down, explains the form, asking what do I want to do? I mention the six sit-up-and-beg black Feng Huang Phoenix bikes in the courtyard. Good, the head of international sales has her bike too and she will take me to Old Summer Palace. Mark Swinton suggests going into the Summer Palace grounds by the resort's private entrance, which allows us in after the 5pm closing for the public. Watch the sunset, a glass of Chardonnay in hand. There is a paper-cutting demonstration in half an hour, and afternoon tea, and Vicky will take me to my room. My bag, now tagged with a personalized red leather label, has already gone, in a bicycle rickshaw, numberplate Aman 2.
Vicky, a local youngster in the resort uniform of white coolie jacket over loose-fitting grey trousers, escorts me through several more reception-like buildings and across several stone-flagged courtyards. I feel, correctly, as if I am going through a traditional Chinese hutong, a labyrinth of buildings and connecting walkways. We go past a squash court-sized lake. We turn left through a door-in-the-wall that leads to a six foot-wide covered passage with painted ceiling, and then quickly right through a tall door in the stone wall. This leads to a garden (half a squash court) with lush grass and four lush trees. To my left is a 12 ft-tall stone wall. Ahead and to the right are 12 ft tall buildings, single floor with the same tall tiled roofing. The multi-level eaves and doors, window surrounds and walls above one metre are painted in Chinese brown highlighted with emerald and gold. Upper levels of windows have emerald fretwork. This-all is Courtyard Two. Ahead is Suite 1; to the right is my home, Suite 2.
We go into Suite 2, which is 21 feet deep, 36 feet across. This is divided into three equal areas, to the left is bedroom, centre is sitting and foyer, to right is the bathroom. The whole is floored in black-polished Beijing Jin clay tiles. Walls are cream paint, wood is natural (oiled rather than polished) and the roof once again soars up, cathedral-style, with prominent wood beams. All three rooms have a full-width of rush-blind covered windows looking into the garden. There is a big wrought-iron chandelier in the center room: the rest of the lighting is ceiling spotlight and standing lamps with scarlet shades. The bedroom has a kingsize bed that is, mercifully, delightfully firm and devoid of those ghastly 'plllowtops' that must be such a nightmare for housekeeping. At one end, looking into the garden, is a nine-foot desk, with good working light, an adaptor, plenty of stationery, including art-quality postcards showing food close-ups, and collateral in black boxes with toggle closing, a desk light, a 'chop' set, a black fan and 12 finely-sharpened black or scarlet pencils. There is a scarlet gem hanging from a black cord (this is the Do Not Disturb). A flyer suggests the hotel's Discover Beijing three-night offer: go to the Forbidden City, the Great Wall and/or the Temple of Heaven. There are plenty of sockets, and an adaptor, and the free WiFi is plenty fast. The center area of the suite has a minibar, with Sunraysia fruit drinks and half a bottle of Krug. For fine wines, however, cellar master Crystal Edgar, a New York woman, here suggests an abbreviation of her usual wine list: your choice is brought, and poured into Riedel glassware. I have a 42-in Samsung and a Bose sound system, both in a cupboard, and today's International Herald Tribune. There are two coffee tables (different heights), one with octagonal-seat chairs, and
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there is a day-bed that acts as sofa. The bathroom has separate shower and toilet stalls, two circular basins and vanity areas, anonymous toiletries in ceramic pots, and a pair of legged wardrobes, one with an Elsafe. Oh yes, there is also a freestanding oval tub with black exterior, and I have a near-black cotton robe and a brown wood-rib umbrella.
The cycle ride is bloody dangerous. We are quickly into a major dusty thoroughfare with a non-stop procession of single-decker buses, many articulated, that stop without warning to disgorge or accept passengers. Buses share what is supposed to be a dedicated bicycle lane, where the knowledgeable, and still-alive, know the secret is to set a course, any course, and not deviate from it. One woman cycles straight at me with a low trailer behind her: this holds a year-old infant and a heavy old-fashioned television set. A youth deviates from his set plan, missing me by a hair's breadth. My minder curses him loudly, in Mandarin, and he looks ashamed. After 20 dust-filled minutes we reach a lush park, where courting couples, families and lonely singles parade. My minder is 46, an only child herself who has one son, of 18 (she divorced her husband in a 5-minute ceremony). Sadly she has to say goodbye to any serious boyfriends as she is not allowed to have any more children, though her son will be able to have more than one. If she breaks the rules any more children will have no identity, no rights, no passports: at marriage, a couple is given a number, which then becomes their one child's identity number. We cycle back, go to the gym, have a swim and emerge to find a young man bearing a tray with ceramic tumbler with two fruit skewers, and two dipping sauces. In the locker room I see the white robes are Kashwere style.
Half an hour before sunset we are allowed through the locked gate-in-a-wall that leads to the public area of the Summer Palace. We walk for 20 minutes between various 18th century buildings to Kunming Lake, and establish the best place to watch the sun set behind the hills. On the skyline from that viewpoint are the 125-ft-high Tower of the Fragrance of the Buddha and, to its right, the Realm of Multitudinous Fragrance building. Back on compound, we sit on the outside terrace of the bar, looking across the mini-lake to a music pavilion where the lute lady plays. The cocktails list includes an Aman, namely 42 Below Manuka Honey Vodka from New Zealand, plus guava and peach juices and fresh mint. The by-the-stem collection includes a sake but I go for chardonnay La Brume Michel-Schlumberger Dry Creek Valley Sonoma 2006. The glass, as you will expect by now, is Riedel. There are big pink candles in glass sleeves but as darkness falls we move inside, to a Cigar Room which has humidors for each brand, Montecristo or whatever.
There is a choice of Chinese, French-Japanese or international dining, which is my minder's favourite. It is built around a pool (squash court sized), with the main 25-ft-high roof extending to a covered terrace, where we sit. The mid-wood tables are set with dark brown ceramic plates, white napkins, bronze La Tavola cutlery, night lights in glass sleeves and a single red carnation. Easy-to-read menus come in brown silk covers. The wine list is called The Palace Cellar: it is introduced by Ms Edgar, who explains that her wines are handpicked because the winemakers and families involved uphold the tradition of excellence and dedication to their craft that would befit an emperor. Names listed, therefore, include Belondrade y Lurton (Didier Belondrade and his wife Brigitte Lurton) and Meursault's Yves Boyer. We drink Pinot Noir Cloudy Bay Marlborough 2006, one of four reds in the by-stem selection, which also offers Bollinger and Dom Pérignon, one each sake and rosé, three whites, three other reds and two dessert wines. I thoroughly enjoyed my arugula and fennel salad with an exquisite squash-ball size of beetroot and goat cheese terrine, and a ribeye, available in two sizes with pay-per-unit sides of sourcream and chive mash, crispy onion rings and spinach (yes, you pay for everything here - unlike earlier Amans, the tariff here is room only, with wireless and the gym-pool thrown in for good measure). I liked having a choice of three salts, from Australia, England and France. There is no room even for flourless chocolate cake. Back home, my bed is turned down and real slippers that match my cotton robe are by the bed.
In the morning my wakeup call from husband back in England is, he says, immediately answered by a charming and helpful man. I get up, head for the gym and swim, then back up the 44 stairs that are an alternative to the elevator, back for shower, instant near-boiling water, and to breakfast. Here the continental thoughtfully includes your choice not only of yogurt or cereal but also of breads, which come warm, in a bronze wire basket that matches the cutlery. The juice is marvellous, and a Bodum plunger of excellent coffee fills the white Villeroy & Boch cup. There are big, old-fashioned white and brown sugar lumps, with tongs. Butter rounds are accompanied by three small pots of home-made jam. Outside the main entrance there are 8 scarlet cars, one BMW and the rest Suzukis, all decorated, as is a bike rickshaw, with scarlet garlands. Mark Swinton's secretary is getting married. What an auspicious day to be here, at Andrew Harper's best-ever hotel in 'his' 30 year career.
Aman at Summer Palace, Beijing, Beijing, China
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