With views of the Pont Neuf, lobbies scented in custom Dior, and menus that travel from Tokyo to Provence, Cheval Blanc Paris offers its own couture take on the modern Parisian stay
Time seems to unspool at a silken pace in Paris; the wind feels gentle like cool silk and a late-summer breeze. On the Rive Droite, just where the Pont Neuf arches its stone spine over the water, Hôtel Cheval Blanc Paris stands all tall and elegant (as if it’s just about to curtsy). For decades, this corner of the city was home to La Samaritaine. In this Belle Époque department store, gilded balustrades met glass ceilings and Parisians of a certain sensibility came to shop, linger, and be seen. In the autumn of 2021, after a sixteen-year slumber and an LVMH-fuelled metamorphosis, the site reawakened as Hôtel Cheval Blanc Paris.
Cheval Blanc unfolds as a mise en scène of haute design, gastronomic theatre, and considered sensuality. It is no small feat to make luxury feel this personal. Yet the Cheval Blanc does exactly that, starting with the scent. Literally! As you enter the lobby, you catch a whiff of white musk, honeyed white flowers, tonka beans, a custom Dior scent that follows you from corridor to chambre. It’s a space that engages all of your senses, from the weighted click of a room key to the hush of hand-laid carpets to the champagne sabrage that occasionally breaks out on La Terrasse (usually just as the Eiffel Tower twinkles).
Even though it’s quite hard to believe, Cheval was Peter Marino’s first foray into hotel design. The design is all about tactility—zebrawood and saddle leather, Venetian plaster and sculpted bronze. A glint of Jean-Michel Othoniel’s golden glass marbles snakes across the façade like a divine mischief. The rooms seem to inhale the Seine and exhale elegance. Every suite has a soul, but the River suites? They flirt shamelessly, with balconies that brush the city’s oldest bridge and views that feel almost too cinematic to be real.
Now, of course, one doesn’t come to a house under LVMH’s reign and expect restraint. The art collection here is vast; one moment, you’d sip your noisette beside a Vik Muniz; and in the next moment in the lift, a collage of Lalanne sketches might catch your eye. The spa—a Dior-branded cocoon lined in alabaster and hushed lighting—feels like slipping into a silk scarf. There are facials here that verge on the spiritual.
Then there is Plénitude, a dining experience led by chef Arnaud Donckele, who treats sauce like scripture and each plate like an aria. The langoustine consommé arrives beneath a hand-turned silver cloche; bread comes in at least three textures. The dining, however, is not limited to hushed reverence. Upstairs at Le Tout-Paris, the tone loosens its bowtie. Think brasserie, but with more swagger: crab served under a thatch of herbs, a bouillabaisse that could make a Marseillais weep, and steak frites done with imperial hauteur.
The crowd here is a mix of locals who work in fashion and guests (who want to feel like they do) in their most exquisite vacation suits. Conversations drift from couture to climate to which sunglasses look better on a hangover. All of it is wrapped in 1930s glamour, with lacquered wood and mirror-clad columns, and a view that could make even the most cynical Parisian pause.
For those who prefer their champagne horizontal, the rooftop infinity pool beckons. Heated year-round, it stretches like a liquid runway above the Seine, flanked by cream loungers and discreet attendants who appear with chilled towels and apricot iced tea. As the sun dips below the Haussmann rooftops, and the sky purples like the inside of a Ladurée box, the entire hotel seems to exhale.
What Cheval Blanc Paris offers is not merely luxury, but a form of lavish intimacy. It understands that true decadence is not in the marble (though there is plenty), but in the margin: the fact that your pillow preference is remembered before you request it and the way even the bellhops seem to have been cast from Central Parisian Casting.
And it is, of course, Paris. A city that resists reinvention unless it comes laced with pedigree. Cheval Blanc doesn’t defy the city’s traditions—it elevates them, wraps them in silk, and hands them back with a wink. In the end, the magic is in the mix: Maison-crafted rigour softened by the touch of warm hospitality. You leave with Dior on your skin, salt on your lips, and the afterthoughts of extending your stay.
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