Day one at the Chateau Marmont. After breakfast, we see Kanye in the lounge. Notable.
It’s Thursday morning by the pool. The lemon tree is full of fruit and striped towels are stacked high and restocked before they’re half gone. It’s quiet aside from the Sunset Boulevard traffic behind me. I take a photo of the fence—its jagged interior of weathered, broken wood speaks poetry to the facade of this historic landmark. The planks’ red and white stripes hide behind overgrown ivy and surrounding greenery.
When we arrived last night, a champagne bottle on ice was waiting in our room accompanied by a handwritten note and a stack of miniature macarons. A jazz band was playing, and the restaurant was packed. After asking if we could take a walk through just to see the place, the hostess said, “Let me ask. It’s my first day.”
“No worries, it’s ours too,” I replied. At first, there were no open tables. We shared that we were guests at the hotel, and we were promptly escorted to the garden.
A garden gimlet, vesper, and truffle parmesan fries. Our drinks were highly effective which we appreciated for $22 each.
We kept our eyes open for famous faces, but most guests were young, normal, twenty-somethings dining out with friends, shifting their eyes across the room the same as us.
We’re in room 15, the closest to the lobby, restaurant, bar, etc. This close proximity was concerning at first. How would we sleep with the noise of a bustling crowd raging ‘til all hours of the night? In reality, the sounds create an even stronger privacy and energy, like sneaking away at a lively party.
Our balcony has two chairs and a tiny iron table. Below, we watch cars roll in. A vintage khaki Mercedes waits to be parked. Past the driveway, there’s a roof of a bungalow. Over the roof, palm trees wave in front of the enormous eyes of Eddie Murphy. A billboard for “Beverly Hills Cop: Axel F” peeks into our room like a 2024 edition of the watchful eyes in Gatsby’s world. We kept the curtains closed at night.
In the morning, the restaurant was quiet—families on vacation, ladies on a breakfast date, a small chihuahua. We could see floral patterns under the umbrellas and dark caned armchairs in the light of day. Luke hesitated to note that, from a certain perspective, the isolated elements of the patio had a comforting, “rich grandma” aesthetic. The candlelit columns and gothic archways from the night before seemed less dramatic, though somehow more enchanting.
At the pool, a woman in a neon green bikini takes pictures of all corners and asks her partner to get a few shots of her laying on the edge of the pool. She lays down, facing the sky, and arches her back. Her confidence is admirable, and I don’t mean it in a sly way. I was nervous to come here, to show my pale, soft body amongst the tight and tan, but I’m not a celebrity worth paying attention to. Every time I feel beads of sweat forming, I take another dip in the pool.
In a How Long Gone interview, Chris and Jason spoke with Naomi Fry about her stay at the Chateau1. The idea of imposter syndrome was raised, to which Chris replied, “I pay to be here just like everyone else.” I’ve been thinking of that often.
We split a turkey club on rye and Luke has a beer. Another tiny iron table holds the plate, our books, two plastic cups, and a pair of tangled headphones.
At dinner, Penelope Cruz arrives to meet with Ryan Murphy. Al Pacino gets a table in the garden. Jon Lovitz chats with a couple women as he walks through.
***
Day two at the Chateau. At the pool again, I take note of the various styles of swimwear and cover-ups. Lots of thin, black flip flops this season. “Bubble” skirts are in this year, and a woman is wearing a pair of shorts in the same style, although their length isn’t the most functional—appearing more like a yellow gingham diaper. Lots of bracelets, sunglasses, tanning oil.
“Who are you most excited to see at girls night tonight?”
“Um, the back of my eyelids as you all go out…but probably Chloe.”
Flies buzz around their half-eaten french toast plates, settling on the rim of an empty orange juice glass.
We sit in the same lounge chairs as yesterday which brings our vacation velocity back to zero. I finish the second half of my pesto sandwich from Uncle Paulie’s. Speckles of sunlight sway across page after page of Emma Cline’s The Guest. I feel a year late to the party, though I imagine I’ll be able to finish the book before the weekend is through. As late morning turns to early afternoon, the shade cover of palm fronds creeps back, exposing my feet, then ankles, then calves in the blazing sun. I go for a quick dip to cool off.
A child, no older than two, throws his airplane toy into the pool and another guest dives after it. “What do you say?” the little boy’s dad asks as the diver sets the toy on the hot brick edge. The child says nothing and runs back to his father, airplane in hand. The diver gives a nod and returns to his laps.
The chihuahua is also back with its family, retreating from the heat beneath the shade of a lounge chair.
In the bar, finally at a table of normal height, I watch three men in dark suits fill silver ice buckets on wide trays, some with macaron towers, others with bowls of mixed nuts. “Wait, wait, wait!” one exclaims. Before his colleague whisks it away, he drapes a folded cloth napkin over the bottle’s neck.
An older man with greying hair opens his laptop at the table in the center of the bar. His screensaver, an image of a cowboy in a lime green shirt riding a horse, is quickly hidden beneath a script in the editing stage. He shuffles through printed pages of what looks to be the same script, decorated with red pen—more red ink than black. “French Flag” is written in all caps. His cursor pulses on the screen. A word is typed, deleted, replaced. I wonder how many scripts this bar has seen.
Rami Malek peeks around the corner. Emma Corrin waits in line for the bathroom. Emma is wearing thin black flip flops.
Our third evening here is about to begin. Girls in tight black dresses and large silver hoop earrings wade through the lobby. Most staff members I’ve seen have been here each night, although the people shucking oysters seem to be on rotation.
As it gets dark, the bar morphs from a quiet corner to a bustling epicenter. The table beside me is full of models with blade-sharp bobs and dry martinis. On the wall, a projector streams R-rated movie trailers from a DVD player while someone unsuccessfully attempts to skip them. The movie starts, and we watch The Rock reunite with his family after a stint in the army. Back in the real world, Ryan Murphy returns in his knee-length shorts, though I don’t recognize his companion this time. A guest at the bar sings loudly to a couple sitting at the nearby table.
In room 15, we watch “Once Upon A Time…In Hollywood,” and I wait until midnight to order fries—my first experience with room service. They arrive shortly, tucked under a silver cover and folded napkin. I enjoy them from the comfort of the bed.
I’m afraid to forget little details of this place: the butter yellow bathroom tiles, the turtle shell table lamps, the tassels. On the 7th floor, there’s a blue and green stained glass skylight. The stairs are covered with red, turkish-style rugs.
Every light fixture calls for attention—linen pulled tight over seashell-esque wire forms. Frosted glass cones point toward heaven or, at least, the second floor. Amber shades adorned with brass motifs set an orange glow on the wall. Overhead, the tiniest bulbs flicker in their floral bases. The dark ceiling beams are painted with stripes, geometric diamonds, and chevron. The curtains reach from floor to ceiling – red velvet. The chair cushions have an embossed diamond pattern – blue velvet. A bench of dark wood carved with spheres and indented molding acts as a stage for the tasseled pillow that sits across it – olive velvet.
On the bar, there’s a brass sculpture, about a foot tall, of a woman kneeling, her left leg bent and tucked while her right leg stretches straight back. She’s naked, aside from a cloth bunched up around her waist. Her arms are eternally held straight up, palms out in receiving.
A stained glass crest hangs above the garden entryway featuring primary red, blue, yellow, with accompanying sky blue and a bright green. Blue diamonds fit on the intersections of a grid pattern.
As we wait for our car on the patio, three young girls slouch onto the couch beside us—one blonde, one brunette, and one with dark hair. “What the frick?” the brunette repeats, staring at her phone. “I can get a pair of diamond earrings for one dollar.”
Luke and I glance at each other, sure that she’s scrolling through a fast fashion catalog.
“They refunded my order that was $899, and this pair of studs are $900, so I only have to pay a dollar.” We share another glance in the opposite assumption.
The blonde girl spins around in her jelly shoes. “Mr. Beast says Shopify is the best website for shopping,” she shares. The woman they walked out with calls them over as their car is pulling out of the garage.
The brunette girl protests. “We’re waiting for Drew!” The gate to the bungalows opens, and a woman with long, auburn blonde hair emerges. Her hat and sunglasses keep her face mostly hidden, but I catch a glimpse as they head for the car.
“Let’s go, girls!” she says. We watch Drew Barrymore drive away. Our Prius rolls out with our bags packed, and we, like Drew, ride off onto Sunset Boulevard.
- Naomi Fry’s piece for Nylon about her stay is pretty great. Also makes me question if the tree by the pool is actually growing oranges, not lemons. Guess I should have payed closer attention. ↩︎
nat biendara 