Downtown, a New Standard in Hip Hotels

My friend Paul walked into my room at the new Standard hotel downtown, settled into what passes for an easy chair and looked at the king-size bed holding court on an extended platform.

“This room is about sex,” he declared. He sounded perturbed. What Paul wants in a hotel room are velvety armchairs and a fluffy white robe.

I do too, usually. But there was plenty of luxury in my corner room, with its deep bathtub, five windows and sweeping openness. There was also a sense of humor. On the phone console, besides the usual buttons labeled “room service,” “housekeeping” and so on, were options for “heaven,” “hell” and “alibi.” (I pushed each one and got the same response: a message saying no one was available.)

My visit two weeks ago to the new Standard--the sister of the aggressively hip but relatively affordable Standard in West Hollywood--was the centerpiece of a kind of pop-cultural weekend in downtown L.A. Joined by various friends, I toasted the first night of summer on the hotel’s roof, toured the Andy Warhol retrospective at the nearby Museum of Contemporary Art and dined in the Art Deco restaurant Cicada.

I arrived at the Standard on Friday night, eager to try the rooftop bar that is fast becoming a hot hangout. Andre Balazs, the hotelier behind the original Standard and the revival of its Sunset Strip neighbor Chateau Marmont, fashioned this hotel on Flower Street out of a Modernist 12-story office building.

After a wait in the parking lot, an earpiece-wearing employee--not a valet, just an attentive staffer who noticed a fuming guest--carted my luggage through the lobby, a spectacle of shiny, dark floors, magenta sofas and a sleek billiards table. Then the front desk clerk delivered some bad news: The rooftop bar and pool would be closed Saturday night for a private party.

Even though I would have Friday night to see the roof, I was disappointed. I wished I had been warned about the party earlier. “A lot of times we don’t know until right before,” the clerk said.

Earlier in the week, I had scored a $225 Gigantic room for $205 (the rate for a Huge room) courtesy of a reservations clerk who purred over the phone that she wanted to hook me on the hotel. According to the Standard’s Web site, rates range from $500 (Bigger Penthouse) to $125 (Medium room), though prices actually drop as low as $95 (a few hard-to-get Medium rooms on a lower floor). In the middle is the $325 Wow! rate that promises an “Extra-long room for our Extra-long guests and those who appreciate them,” a “tub big enough for two or more” and an “emperor-size bed” bigger than a king.

Except for the new, bright red carpeting, the corridors retain their bland 1955 office-building look. But my Gigantic room--touted as 460 square feet--was airy and inviting. The bathroom opened into the bedroom, separated by a mesh curtain. (The toilet was partitioned off by a door.) Later in the weekend, I peeked at a $125 room. It was nice, but only a glass wall stood between the shower and the bedroom. Whomever you stay with in that room should know you well.

I was staying alone, but my friend Ralph joined me for dinner Friday. As we headed for the roof--he in a sports jacket and dark shirt, I in a funky print skirt and sleeveless top--we thought we looked the part of hip downtowners. But as we stepped onto the roof, never had my pashmina felt so out of fashion. Twentysomethings clad in black suits, tight pants and short skirts chattered on loveseats.

The lounge spreads across two levels, one appointed with furniture so it looks like a living room transplanted outdoors. A deejay ensures a constant but not overbearing beat. Near the infinity pool on the upper level, red fiberglass pods house round waterbed lounges.

We got drinks at the packed bar, tended by women with red tank tops, hip-huggers and tattoos on their lower backs. Armed with skimpy martinis in little glasses (what were they serving in the real martini glasses?), we drank in the skyline.

At the hotel’s 24-hour restaurant, I had chicken and Ralph had swordfish. We split a chopped salad and two half-bottles of Sonoma-Cutrer Chardonnay, each weighing in at $20. Though it was available only by the half-bottle, I felt it the best choice given the rest of the wine list. At the end of the meal we split a chocolate ice creamy concoction. The food was fine, but I expected better decor than diner-like furnishings with lights turned low.

Later we explored the lobby. I loved the entrance to the restroom, where a curtain of heavy gold beads opens onto a unisex bank of sinks. (The actual bathrooms are segregated.) It was like a scene out of “Sex and the City.”

Not far from the bathroom is an old-fashioned photo booth. We had so much fun posing that we sat on the little stool for two rounds of picture-taking--a couple of $2 strips of miniature color photos, the best deal in the hotel.

Saturday started with room-service latte and toast, then 30 minutes on a recumbent bike--no uprights--in the Standard’s serviceable gym. After a shower, I headed out with another friend, Tina, for the Warhol show at the Museum of Contemporary Art.

We walked about four blocks from the hotel up a steep hill--more exercise!--to MOCA and lunched on salads and bottled water at Patinette in the courtyard outside the museum.

Admission to the Warhol is timed to the hour, but visitors are allowed to linger as long as they want. I bought tickets--$17 each on the weekend--for the 2 p.m. admission at www.ticketmaster.com, where I also paid an annoying “convenience” charge of $4.40 per ticket plus a flat fee of $3.30.

We wandered the galleries, taking in Warhol’s works from his days as a fashion illustrator to his period of distinctive portraiture. The famous Warhols are here--Campbell’s soup cans and portraits of Marilyn Monroe, Liz Taylor and Jackie Kennedy--plus some pieces visitors may not have seen before. I was intrigued by meticulous pencil renderings of shoes and handbags, some accompanied by rebukes written by Warhol’s boss. (“The entire drawing is unattractive.”)

My favorites were the towering “Elvis I and II,” which, hung together, present four essentially identical images of Elvis--in a signature splayed stance despite the cowboy get-up. Three of the Elvises stare off to the side, while the eyes of one stare directly at the viewer.

“Look, they follow you,” Tina observed as we crossed the room.

We didn’t rent the audio tour, but perhaps we should have. Except for an introductory panel, the exhibit offers no text to explain Warhol’s development.

By the time I returned to the Standard, it was bustling with preparations for the private rooftop fete, thrown by Nike. It felt like living with the host of a party to which I was not invited.

So I was happy to leave with my friend Paul--the one who pronounced my room too sexy for itself--and stroll 2 1/2 blocks (about the maximum in 3-inch stilettos) to Cicada on Olive Street.

Opening the doors to the restaurant, in the historic Oviatt Building, we entered an Art Deco world of burnished wood walls and gold trim, a dining room with majestic sweep and wide-set tables. Weekends are notoriously deserted in this section of downtown, but the room had a pleasant buzz.

I started with a green salad, and Paul had the breaded zucchini salad. Those were followed by a bottle of Ferrari-Carano Chardonnay, salmon crusted with asparagus on a shallow pool of pureed potatoes for me, and ahi tuna and sauteed rice with sausage for Paul. We finished with coffee and shared a plate of buttery cookies. Paul found his meal too heavy, but my salmon was luscious.

We didn’t wander out of the restaurant until 11 p.m., and back at the Standard, the Nike party was still going strong. Clipboard-toting security men were at every portal. At the bank of elevators to the rooms, I was quizzed on my name, room number and number of guests before I was allowed to pass. It was more amusing than annoying. After all, I was cool enough to have a room.

Sunday morning I went to the roof for one last look. Bikini-clad sunbathers moved languidly around the infinity pool to soft Brazilian music. It was as if Miami’s South Beach had been suspended high above the deserted streets.

I moved on to a bleak industrial swath of downtown where artists have lofts and studios on Traction Avenue. At the Gourmet Coffee Warehouse, I bought an iced scone and a latte, found a table outside and enjoyed the balmy breeze.

Local artists gather regularly on Sunday mornings. I mentioned to one of them that I had been at the Standard before moving onto Traction. “Wow, you’re really slumming,” Ted Meyer teased. I had hoped to catch one of the sporadic tours of artists’ lofts, but the timing was off. (Artists who live in the Brewery complex are hosting one of the big events, ArtWalk, on Oct. 12 and 13. The Web site is www.breweryart.org.)

This Sunday, conversation was enough. I browsed the inviting Form Zero Architectural Books and Gallery next door, then headed home.

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Budget for One

The Standard, two nights...$467.40

Drinks, Standard...12.25

Dinner, Standard...65.00

Photo booth...2.00

Breakfast, room service, two days...19.44

Lunch, Patinette...19.88

Admission, Warhol exhibit at MOCA...24.70

Dinner, Cicada...87.80

Snack, Gourmet Coffee Warehouse...4.75

FINAL TAB...$703.22

The Standard, 550 S. Flower St., Los Angeles, CA 90071; (213) 892-8080, fax (213) 892-8686, www.standardhotel.com.

Museum of Contemporary Art, 250 S. Grand Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90012; (213) 626-6222, www.moca.org.

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Carla Hall writes for the Metro staff of The Times.