A night of high-style pampering at the Four Seasons Olympic

For in-city getaways, my esteemed Travel department colleagues chose some of Seattle's more offbeat places to stay.

Terry scampered off to a trendy Belltown hotel atop a bar and restaurant. Sorry, I wanted to relax, not party with people 20 years younger than myself.

Carol headed to a B&B on Capitol Hill. I can barely stand myself at breakfast, so dining cheek-to-cheek with cheerful strangers is like waking up to a nightmare.

Brian stayed on a converted tugboat on Lake Union. Why pay to stay somewhere cramped that sways in the wind?

No, I chortled gleefully, I'm going for luxury. If you're going to stay at a hotel in your home town, I reasoned, go for what you don't get at home. Like pampering. A really nice pool. And people who deliver gourmet meals to your bedroom — and do the dishes.

Nothing would do but the Four Seasons Olympic, Seattle's grande dame of hotels, I told my boss, Terry. Rolling his eyes, he agreed.

I eagerly phoned the hotel for a reservation, but sputtered when I was quoted $345 for one of the most modest rooms on a November night.

Don't you have winter discounts, I archly asked, knowing full well that through the Seattle Supersaver, an off-season discount program at many hotels including the Olympic, the rate should be about half that.

Well, yes, answered the reservationist, you could have that room for the $175 Supersaver rate. (Memo to hotel managers everywhere: Why not offer discounted rates up front? You'll make friends and get more guests.)

I gleefully booked the room. Terry sighed.

Short trip

On a rainy Saturday afternoon earlier this month, my 11-year-old daughter and I set out on our 10-minute journey from home to hotel.

We cruised into the Olympic's circular driveway where a half-dozen valets waited, eager to whisk away our car (for a $26-a-night parking fee plus tip).

"Are they going to war?" asked Stephanie, staring at the valets' uniforms. They did look rather like Edwardian soldiers as they snapped to and swept open the hotel's glass doors for us.

Inside the opulent 1920s hotel, it was equally Old World. The high-ceilinged, sprawling lobby was full of comfortably overstuffed chairs, gleaming side tables and 6-foot-tall floral extravaganzas. The flowers are real; I pulled the leaves to make sure.

In a cozy corner of the lobby, waitresses in sensible black dresses served tea at the Georgian Terrace. In the evenings, it morphs into a place for sipping martinis, smoking cigars and listening to a smooth pianist.

Up a sprawling staircase, ladies in slinky gowns bustled around, putting the final touches on a high-end charity auction in a ballroom.

We definitely were underdressed in our jeans. But the hotel staff was gracious and helpful, and there was none of the we-know-you-don't-really-belong-here that you get at some high-class places.

Settling in

We headed to our room, on the 11th floor of the 450-room hotel. Classified as deluxe, which actually is about the cheapest category, the room was far from palatial at a compact 350 square feet.

Still, it was perfectly comfortable, spotless and soothingly decorated in subdued floral prints, reproduction antique furniture and pale green walls. My daughter commandeered the room's wingback chair and started channel surfing. I indulged her in dumb TV shows, and indulged myself in a bath.

The bathroom is a good barometer of a hotel's quality. The Olympic is up there: big, tiled bathroom; thick towels; terry-cloth robes (including a kid-sized one); good-quality toiletries; a hair dryer.

Suitably refreshed, we headed downstairs to roam the hotel. We drooled at the shops — designer dresses and $1,000 diamonds, anyone? Then indulged in $25 manicures at the salon, about the only luxury we could afford.

Cocooned in the room

Poking our heads into the Georgian Room, we debated dining in the elegant, newly redecorated hotel restaurant, lighted by gleaming chandeliers. Instead, we decided to cocoon and do dinner and a movie in our own room.

Sprawling on the down-quilted bed, I dialed room service for dinner. It arrived, elegantly laid out on a white-tableclothed rolling table — but a half-hour later than promised and without my entrée. Since our relatively modest meal would cost about $60 (without wine), I was not amused.

Still, everyone makes mistakes. And if the hallmark of a good business is how well it handles customers when it messes up, the Olympic gets high marks.

The waiter apologized, phoned the kitchen, and arranged for my crab cakes to be cooked pronto. In the 10 minutes it took him to return with my food, a manager phoned to apologize and tell us the entire meal would be free. Impressive, especially since I really hadn't whined that much and had booked anonymously as an individual, not as a newspaper writer.

Things weren't quite so impressive the next morning at The Georgian for breakfast.

We dragged ourselves away from the indoor pool and workout room, housed in an airy, light-drenched, second-floor solarium where a scattering of kids frolicked in the pool; grown-ups read their books as they whirred to nowhere on exercise bikes; and couples lolled in the tiled hot tub

Indulgent at breakfast

We undid the benefits of exercise with breakfast. I should have stuck with the buffet — an enticing selection of muffins, pastries and mountains of fresh fruit.

But in the spirit of an indulgent weekend on the town, I opted for eggs Benedict. It arrived lukewarm and with the yolks virtually uncooked. My daughter's French toast was far better.

Add two glasses of fresh apple-raspberry juice (excellent) and a side of bacon (also lukewarm), and the bill added up to a startling $45, not including tip. I've had far better breakfasts for a third of the price at small-town cafes.

Still, even the underwhelming meal couldn't spoil the pleasure of sitting in the sumptuous, yellow-hued Georgian Room, reading the Sunday paper and watching the hotel's world of elegant matrons, sleek couples and happy families.

Too soon, it was time to check out. The valet brought our car to the door and cheerfully offered us directions to the freeway.

We know our way home, we giggled, and drove off, reluctantly, into the real world.

Copyright © The Seattle Times Company

---