Chicago, we’re getting quite posh. Sir Richard Branson’s first-ever hospitality foray, the Virgin Hotel, recently opened in the former Old Dearborn Bank Building, a 27-story, Art Deco-y tower in The Loop. The rooms, they say, are “chambers.” The WiFi, they say, is “free.” So we, like you, were curious. Because we, like you, have in-laws whom we’d prefer stay elsewhere. And we, like you, enjoy the occasional romantic hotel stay. So we spent the night. Here’s what we found.
Words: Michael Nolledo, Chicago Editor
@mnolledo
Photos: Sandy Noto
“I know. Creepy, right?” she says.
Yes, creepy, right. But ok, since your British accent is delightful.
A young pompadoured swinger with an iPad checks my date and me in. Banter exchanged. As are my credit card and room keys. He ushers me to the bronze Art Deco elevator doors, “Big plans today, mate?”
I plan to drink my way through this assignment, so yes.
And I have no plan except to wander through this entire place, drink in hand and pinkie raised. God save the Queen.
My waiter wastes no time with recommendations: tres leches french toast; the double-patty Miss Rickey’s burger. But their most popular, he says, is the chicken and waffles.
“It photographs really well.” He shoots me a glance as if I’m a junkie who was just offered a bump.
But does it taste really well, my dude? That’s what I care about.
I thank him and order the chicken and waffles with a side of potato hash.
Not sure what to do next. Our waiter tells us about the in-house Tesla.
Here’s a vid of one crushing a Ferrari in a drag race.
It’ll drive anywhere in a two-mile radius. I request a test drive — natch — and meet my driver, Steven, outside.
Yes.
What followed was a little Lake Shore Drive, and a lot of this. Let’s just say Insane Mode and chicken and waffles make not for the greatest combo.
It’s Virgin’s open-to-all social club. There’s a restaurant. Full-service bar. Library area. A lounge called the “Shag Room”.
History tell us the Commons Club occupies the space of a former bank vault, which explains the massive gold gate and the large sum of cash I’ll spend later.
The first of many clever details that greet you upon entry: the “Do Not Disturb” sign is a simple, one-press button. Ample closet space. Sit-down vanity area. A yoga mat. Bluetooth sound bar. Glassed-in shower with a bench.
This front section is partitioned from the sleeping area by a thick sliding door, where there’s a Smeg mini-bar stocked at street prices.
Unexpected mini-bar treat: a Lover’s Intimacy Kit, which contains a cock ring, multi-speed vibrator, condoms and some lube.
I open a bottle of Herradura because life is good and so is tequila.
“Anything within reason,” she says. “Premium stuff included.”
At this point I have a serious question: How much Happy Hour whisky can a reporter on assignment drink in a crowded hotel bar on a Friday night? Rest assured I do not take this lightly.
“White Oak Akashi neat, please.”
“Morning, Michael! Did you enjoy your stay?”
I did, Jessica. Thanks. And I’ll surely be back.
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