I narrowed my eyes as I sipped on yet another unicorn cocktail that brought me closer to having my credit card denied, surveyed my glowy surroundings and thought: my life could be perfect if only I smelled like that candle. By upping the ante on scent branding with his LeLabo partnership, he inadvertently ushered me into a micro-era of sensory euphoria. And because I cling to a fleeting but deep suspicion that I hung out at Studio 54 in my last life, I’m apt to follow his contemporary vision and masterful curation wherever it may take me. Half the duo that launched Studio 54, Schrager is largely credited with incepting the concept of the boutique hotel and considered an entrepreneurial genius-albeit one with notable experience in public pratfalls. Part of what inherently compels me about The Edition Hotel is that Ian Schrager is the mastermind behind the enterprise. LeLabo was-at the time of The Edition’s inception, at least-considered by Ian Schrager to be “the best perfumers in the world” ( according to an anecdote shared by the brand’s cofounder, Fabrice Pinot ). A symphony of black tea, vetiver, cedar wood, bergamot, and “musks.” The woman at the desk gave me a knowing, smug little smile as she explained it was The Edition’s signature scent, one they had created in collaboration at LeLabo. After several unicorn cocktails, I marched my drunk ass to the concierge and demanded to know what that smell was. It seemed to be diffused in the air, possibly streaming out of the vents. The candles tucked into corners around low profile seating. The scent, it quickly became apparent, was coming from everywhere. I’ve since learned this particular flea market is where the tourists go, but as an American teenager in Paris for the first time, I was enchanted. But when I walked into The Edition, I was immersed in the Paris memory’s closest match. I wore Chloé perfume throughout my early twenties believing it had scratched the surface of the vibe I was coveting. The amalgamation of fragrance made it impossible to identify exactly what stood out to me, and the memory was buried as an essence, something too ethereal to hold or properly recall.
It reminded me of something unnameable and unfindable-a memory I had of Paris at 19 years old, departing the piss stench of the metro at its Porte de Clignancourt terminus and stepping into the bustling, sweet, thickly-perfumed air that surrounded the crowd of upscale flea market attendees. The moment I walked into the hotel’s lobby I was struck by its intoxicating scent. If I was drawn to The Edition by the prospect of Instagramming an aesthetically pleasing drink, so be it, but that’s not what kept me going back. And, of course, just a few blocks up near Madison Square Park, the allure of The Edition awaited me. A martini with four olives and $18 worth of tiny purple carrots billed as crudité at The Nomad Hotel’s Library Bar. A bourbon smash and a parker house roll at The Ace Hotel’s John Dory Oyster Bar. The Edition’s Instagram post that launched a thousand ships (a $200 bar tab).Īt the time, my office was located on a strange stretch of Broadway that was in the process of being rebranded as “NoMad.” But surrounded by abandoned furriers, wholesaler drug fronts, and ephemeral alt-milk coffee shops that closed before I could fill a punch card, I always lovingly referred to it as “the last slice of Mayor Lindsay’s New York.” The longer I worked in Mayor Lindsay’s New York, the more post-work (or mid-work-I work at an agency, you’ve seen Mad Men ) libation-laden activities began to unfurl for me.
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