Murder at Hotel Cinema is now out!

The moment you've been waiting for!
(or at least I have). To purchase Murder at Hotel Cinema visit your local bookstore (ask them to order if it's not in stock) or order on line. For info on upcoming signings click here.

This week, Opus Hotel asked me to make a Special Celebrity Guest Appearance (okay, my words) on its blog for old times’ sake. Here it is:

Return of the Intrepid Blogger
It’s me again! Did you miss me? Did you even notice I was gone? Don’t worry, I haven’t returned to my old job as general manager of Opus. I’ve been asked to do a guest spot on this blog. Apparently Katrina has been “busy”, but I every time I walk past Glowbal I see her sipping wine on the patio.

[Note from Katrina: FUNNY, Dan. It’s more like guzzling bad coffee on Montreal-bound flights. Now if we’re talking patio-tippling, I believe there have been numerous sightings of an certain author…]

It’s been five looong months since I left Opus to finish my book, and, well, it’s been hell. If I ever questioned whether I loved my job before, I don’t anymore. Managing a hotel is not easy, but writing is ten times harder. Spending all that time with no one to talk to but an evil voice that keeps telling you you’re a fraud can play nasty tricks on your psyche. (That voice used to say the same thing when I was a hotel manager but there were more people around to drown it out).

The good news is, my third book is done and my second, Murder at Hotel Cinema, is out this month. Continuing with the hotel whodunit theme, this one is about the murder of a troubled celebrity at the opening party of a fashionable Hollywood hotel—that is not unlike Opus. When his prized employees become suspects, general manager Trevor Lambert struggles to protect them from the incriminating glare of the LAPD and the prying eyes of reporters, risking everything to expose the killer. Oooh scary! My launch takes place later this month—where else but Opus? After that I’ll be a free agent, so if you know anyone looking for someone to do very little work for lots of money, send them my way.

Truth is, I never fully severed ties with Opus. Not only do I drop in regularly to beg staff to tell me they still love me, but I’ve also done some project work, most recently having updated the Lifestyle Concierge, which will be up and running soon. On a recent visit I was thrilled to see a development proposal for a 250-seat restaurant on Opus’s rooftop. Hot! I’m thinking of applying as a suntan lotion boy, but only if I can wear little white shorts and make enough tips to never have to write again. I was also happy to hear about the opening of Koko in Montreal, which I’m told was the party of the year—and no murders! So much for new writing material.

I used to shy away from commenting on the Vancouver hotel scene, but now that I’m a Special Guest Star with no real accountability, I thought I’d put out a few random Deep Hotel Thoughts:

1. Where are the guests going to come from?
It’s fantastic to see all the new hotels under development in Vancouver, but after the 2010 Olympics it’s going to be a fierce market. Only those who offer a superior product will thrive. Go Opus!

2. Does Vancouver need another Fairmont?
Not that Fairmont doesn’t run fantastic hotels, but with the 415-room Fairmont Pacific Rim scheduled to open in mid-2009 there will be four Fairmonts in Vancouver, plus one in Whistler and another in Victoria. Maybe too much of a good thing? I think Fairmont should give one back. We’ll take the new one.

3. Will Hotel Loden ever open?
I remember the drama when Opus was delayed by a few months and can certainly empathize with the opening team at Loden. By my calculation it’s about seventeen years behind schedule, but maybe it just feels that way. Let’s get a move on, builders, it’s lonely on the boutique front and Opus is looking forward to some friendly competition.

Well, that’s it for now. It’s been great reconnecting. Hopefully I’ll be invited back. If not, you can always visit me at my website. Until then, be cool, don’t forget to tip the maid, avoid hotel rooms with floral bedspreads, and remember to put on a bathrobe before you put that room service cart in the hallway—hotel room doors self-close.

Oh, and don’t forget to enter to win TV Week’s Sex and the City Weekend package, including two nights at Opus with breakfast and parking, spa treatments at Spruce, a Sex and the City DVD set and, la pièce de résistance, cocktails with me at Opus (but no sex, just city) and a signed copy of Murder at Hotel Cinema. Good luck!

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When the breakfast hostess shows up in hooker boots

Walking into a hotel in Seattle last month, I did a double-take when I saw an employee behind the front desk with a black eye. I assumed he just looked tired, maybe he worked a double shift. Hotels can do that to you—beat you up. But on closer inspection there was no denying it: he had a big purple shiner. I had to wonder what possessed management to schedule him when he looked like he belonged on the door of a biker bar. Were they that short-staffed?

This black eye is symbolic of the current state of the hospitality industry: bruised and battered by labour shortages. New hotels are popping up across the continent and there are simply not enough qualified people to staff them. The crisis isn’t exclusive to the hotel industry. Everywhere I go, whether it’s a coffee shop or retail store, I encounter the poorly trained, the inexperienced, the linguistically challenged, and employees who just aren’t the right fit. But nowhere is the problem more glaring than in hotels, where employees should be as sparkling and polished as the silver spoons in the hotel restaurant.

The shrinking labour pool has forced hotels to do the unthinkable: compromise. I can see the desperation of the HR manager in the faces of the scruffy staff I encounter. “Well, she’s not the ideal fit with that eyebrow piercing and dog collar,” she tells herself, “and there’s that three-year gap in her resume she can’t explain, but I have no other candidates and if I don’t fill this position soon the department is going to lynch me.” She reminds herself that sometimes risks pay off. “Think of Bob in Accounting. We had our misgivings, but just look how—oh right, Bob got fired for embezzling. Never mind.”

Hotels typically have rigid rules for personal presentation, but these standards appear to be slipping. Years ago an AAA Five-Diamond hotel I worked at had a section on grooming standards in the employee manual that rivaled the Holy Bible. Bad hair was a source of personal vexation for the general manager, who was nicknamed the Hair Police for her zero tolerance policy. A small scandal occurred when a front desk agent showed up wearing a black bra instead of the requisite white bra and it was visible through her opal blouse. Females had to wear dresses or skirts, and one of the housekeeping staff, a bit of a tomboy, was so uncomfortable in a skirt she opted to work graveyard shifts, where she could get away with wearing pants. Since then things have changed at this hotel—females can now wear pants—but so has its rating: it’s now a Four-Diamond hotel.

However oppressive, rules of presentation are essential to hotels because employees are a reflection of the brand. You don’t spend millions of dollars on interior décor only to have the breakfast hostess show up in a tube top and hooker boots. Consistency is important too. But some hotels take it too far, churning out a line of front desk staff so cloned and clinical you feel like you’re checking in at a Clinique counter.

Independent hotels and especially contemporary hotels have more latitude to allow employees to exhibit individual style and personality. This can be refreshing, but it’s also risky. Too much style and not enough personality and you get the model-types who look great but have all the warmth and depth of a mannequin. Too much personality and not enough style and you get chatty, overly familiar front desk agents wearing polyester scarves. I love to see individual style and personality shine through, but I don’t want to be served breakfast by Marilyn Manson and I don’t want to hear about the relationship problems of the woman turning down my bed. Call me a curmudgeon.

Problem is, as soon as a hotel relaxes the rules someone ruins it for everyone by showing up with a frosted perm or a safety pin in his nose. When an employee showed up at Opus with a seventies-style moustache we very quickly implemented a no facial-hair policy. One Halloween we thought it would be fun to allow staff to wear costumes—until a bellman reported for duty in full drag. An emergency executive meeting was called and, after much soul-searching, we decided that as much as we admired his chutzpah, we had to think of how our guests might react to a guy in a skirt with big fake boobs carrying their bags. This wasn’t Bangkok after all. So we sent him home to change, and didn’t encourage staff to dress up again.

Way back when while I was working at the Harbour Castle Westin we were undergoing lobby renovations. Management decided to make light of the disarray by having front desk staff dress up as construction workers. It seemed like a cute idea until I had to deal with an extremely irate guest while wearing a construction hat and orange vest.

Last year at the W Montreal I was at the front door desperately searching for a staff member to assist me. All I could see were long-haired ruffians in faded jean-jackets. It wasn’t until one of them approached me that I saw the W stitched into his collar. W Hotels is to be commended for introducing style to hotel uniforms, but this might be taking things a bit too far.

If hotels allowed more individualism and personal expression they would attract a larger pool of candidates, which would help fill some long-empty vacancies. But that doesn’t mean compromising. Guests who are paying hundreds of dollars a night for a room have the right to expect staff to look polished and professional. If an employee doesn’t take pride and care with his appearance, how can he be relied on to take pride and care with guests?

And by “personal expression” I don’t mean it’s okay to show up with a black eye. If that happens, send the employee home or put him on switchboard until the bruising heals.

Check out my previous post for a few of my more unconventional ideas for addressing the labour shortage. And for a satirical look at grooming standards read Murder at the Universe, in which the fictional Universe Hotel hires on “sparkle factor” and fires for simply not smiling enough.

Is Looking Like Hell An Occupational Hazard?

While in Seattle last week I was reminded of the saying, “If cocktails and dinner isn’t your idea of a pleasant evening, you probably work in the hotel industry.” I stayed at my favourite Seattle property, Hotel Andra, and had breakfast with my friend Julia, the managing director. When she made her entrance—as hotel managers like to do—I was shocked to see how great she looked. Not that she ever looked bad, but it’s me on leave, not her—I should be the one who looks amazing. Sadly, many hotel managers experience a slow and unrelenting descent into premature aging, bad health, and multiple chins. It’s an occupational hazard due to long days, high stress and too much entertaining.

Over breakfast at Lola—I had the Feta Scramble with toast and hash browns and she had a non-fat latte—Jules and I exchanged our secrets for staying trim and fit. When she doesn’t feel like boozing it up with a client she orders a vodka cranberry and the bartender knows to hold the vodka. Her client is none the wiser, and she can go to the gym afterwards instead of stumbling home and face-planting on the sofa. At Opus I had a similar arrangement. I would order a beer and the server would bring a non-alcoholic beer. It tasted like carbonated dishwater, but it saved me from following the same path as Amy Winehouse. What hotel manager has time for rehab? It also kept me from getting tanked in front of staff and guests, never a good idea.

Hosting dinners is trickier. A typical dinner lasts three to four hours, sometimes longer. Spending that much time across the table from a stranger can be daunting, particularly if it’s One-Word-Answer Willie from the National Rifle Association. By midnight you’re self-mutilating to stay awake. You’ve been at work since 7:00 AM, yet you’re expected to arrive first thing the next morning your usual perky self. Groups are easier. If the travel agent beside you puts a liver-spotted hand on your upper thigh one time too many you can change seats under the auspices of mingling.

During these dinners lulls in conversation used to terrify me. I would fill them with mindless blather or by firing questions at my guest, exhausting him, too busy thinking up more questions to listen to his replies. I realize now that lulls are good—provided they don’t last longer than ten minutes. A drawn-out dinner can be equally painful for the client, who has to endure all your waxing on about commitment to service and quality, as if she’s never heard it from another hotelier. The secret to being a good host is to shut the f**k up.

If you entertain frequently, the easiest way to avoid turning into Jabba the Hut is to order non-alcoholic drinks and bypass appetizers and desserts. But how much fun are you to the guy with a wife and five kids at home who’s guzzling martinis and ordering every item on the menu? A thoughtful host encourages his guest to order liberally and matches him course by course. The key is to be judicious. Salads are good, foie gras is bad. Don’t feel you have to eat everything on your plate and try to avoid licking it. Opt for a fruit plate instead of the chocolate soufflé. And take small, infrequent sips of wine; your guest will never know he’s consumed most of the bottle.

An alternative to dinner is early cocktails and appetizers. Lunch is also a good option because it doesn’t extend your workday. At least not usually. When I was at the Pan Pacific a particularly boozy lunch lasted through dinner and late into the evening. It’s polite to offer your guest wine at lunch but it’s okay if you don’t indulge; she understands you’re working. She’s probably on vacation or on a drastically reduced work schedule, so she has all the time in the world to tell stories about her darnedest cat Mr. Wiggles. Meanwhile, your emails are piling up, you just missed your third meeting, and the bellman is at the hostess stand chatting up the hostess while guests are waiting to be seated. After lunch, you crawl back to your office feeling bloated and faintly nauseous, only to have to slog through piles of paperwork or suffer through interminable meetings, where your boozy breath prompts expressions of concern.

Breakfast is the safest option because it’s quick and there’s no booze (usually). But I prefer to reserve mornings for catching up on email, returning calls and reading trade mags. Otherwise I’m buried for the day. After breakfast meetings I used to find myself so jacked up on caffeine I couldn’t focus. I would come up with what I thought was a brilliant idea and gather colleagues to share it, only to be greeted by tolerant smiles and glances at watches. Around 2:00 PM I’d collapse on my desk in a semi-comatose state of post-overcaffeination.

There’s also the issue of Menu Fatigue, the result of eating the same food in your hotel restaurant day after day. Granted, eating so well is a privilege, but sometimes you just want a peanut butter sandwich. The first (and last) time I had my mother in for lunch at Elixir, she perused the menu, proclaimed it too fussy and complex, and ordered a beer and French fries.

A final note. Sometimes you have no choice in the matter since a good hotelier always puts the desires of his guests above his own. If an important client wants to party, you’re in for the long haul. It’s part of what makes for a successful hotel. And a squishy hotelier.

Incidentally, in Seattle Julia and I went out for dinner. There were no virgin cocktails, no tiny sips of wine and no skipped desserts. We broke all the rules except one: we went off property.

Oh How the Mighty Have Fallen

Since I left my job four weeks ago to focus on writing, the transition from hotel manager to, well, unemployed loser has been challenging at times. I’ve gone through all the stages of grief: denial (“I didn’t quit. It’s all a terrible misunderstanding.”); anger (“What in God's name was I thinking?”); bargaining (“But I could do odd jobs in housekeeping”); depression (“Nobody even cares if I get up in the morning.”); and, finally, acceptance (“Sleeping in is fun!”). But my freefall in status has never been more apparent than last week when I overnighted in Miami after a cruise. (Okay, so it hasn’t been all bad).

In my past life I would have refused to stay anywhere but one of the hot luxury hotels in South Beach. I would contact my counterpart to request an industry rate, and any savings would be offset by reckless spending on drinks, lavish dinners and prostitutes. (Kidding about that last part, just exercising my new freedom as a non-hotel manager).

But as I picked up the phone to call the GM of Hotel Victor it struck me that I was no longer entitled to an industry rate. To introduce myself as a “former hotel manager” just wouldn’t carry the same weight. I considered saying I was a writer of hotel murder mysteries but I knew how I would have reacted: “Who the f**k cares?” If I said I was contemplating setting my next mystery in his hotel maybe he'd offer to comp the room. But no, I could never compromise my artistic integrity that way. Maybe for a two-week stay, but not for one night.

So, I was forced to join the realm of regular travelers, those wretched people who actually pay the rates hotels quote. Fortunately, over the years I’ve learned a few tricks of the trade. After comparing dozens of third-party websites (don’t be fooled by creative URLS like cheapsluttyhotels.com, they’re all owned by the same few companies), I chose an inexpensive but well-located and seemingly respectable hotel in South Beach. Yes, yes, I violated my principle of choosing hotels solely based on how cool they make me feel and how impressed friends are when I tell them I stayed there. I chose based on—gasp—price. And location. How could I possibly continue being a hotel snob when I stayed at 2-star hotels? Could the shame and self-loathing get any worse? Yes, apparently.

Something else I've learned is front desk staff are far more susceptible to obsequiousness and subtle manipulation than reservations staff, who are trained to suck every possible dollar out of travelers. So I bypassed central reservations and third-party websites and called the front desk directly—after hours. Sure enough, I secured a better rate and the vague promise of an upgrade.

Upon arrival, I wasn’t surprised when they couldn’t find my reservation. I half-expected it. Fortunately I had printed off my confirmation, another road warrior fundamental. Take that, suckers! Just try and deny my reservation now, try and make me pay double and then charge me for a no-show three months later. To my surprise, they handled the matter efficiently and professionally, albeit in broken Spanglish and without acknowledging the error or apologizing. And the bottle of wine and fruit basket I expected as compensation for the humiliation of lingering in the lobby and risking being spotted by a former colleague never arrived. No matter, I was happy to be staying in South Beach and not paying $500 a night.

After retrieving my key with its stylish plastic yellow tag I made my way to my room, holding my breath all the way—not out of excitement but because the stained hallway carpet promised unspeakable odors. My room, although not the penthouse suite and with no lap pool or fully-stocked bar or butler in sight, was decent in size and reasonably clean. I have an inordinate fear of floral bedspreads, so I was delighted to see a clean white duvet. There was an odor, however, one of those mysterious stenches that refuse to reveal its source no matter how hard you search. I decided it was tolerable and unpacked my suitcase.

That night, after conceding defeat in my efforts to make sense of the two multi-function remotes provided to control only eight channels, I turned out the lights and crawled into bed. Within seconds I felt itchy. Leaping out of bed, I flicked on the lights and yanked the sheets back, scrutinizing the mattress for bedbugs and—a telltale sign—blood spots. I couldn’t find any, but I knew they were there, lurking in cracks and crevices, waiting for the lights to go out to whistle to their friends and march all over me in a cockroach cavalcade. Still, I couldn’t sleep. The slamming of doors, the hooting and hollering, the strange grunting noises kept me up all night. The walls were so thin I might as well have been having a threesome with the couple next door.

Next morning I checked out at 5:30 am to catch my flight home. I had survived. No bug bites, no lice, no robbery or murder, and no $300 mini-bar bill or $45 parking fee. Maybe I had underestimated budget travel.

While in South Beach I checked out a few hotels I wished I stayed at. My recommendations include the 88-room Hotel Victor, which opened in 2005 and is adjacent to the mansion where Gianni Versace was gunned down in 1997. The only caveat is it’s operated by Hyatt, and I’m suspicious of mammoth chains who try to run boutique hotels. The 131-room Setai is also beautiful, although big and resort-like, and I personally refuse to stay in hotels with two or more towers. The refurbished 104-room Raleigh Hotel is part of the Andre Balazs group and has a stunning pool. The 194-room Delano, part of the Morgans Hotel Group, was a pioneer of chic boutique hotels so we have much to be grateful to it for. Lastly, I’m not a fan of the gilded opulence of Ritz Carlton and its “ladies and gentlemen serving ladies and gentlemen” motto, which is better suited for my grandmother (who’s dead), but if the striking modern lobby of the 375-room Ritz Carlton South Beach is any indication of the company’s future, then things are looking up.

Today I'm off to Seattle, so stay tuned for an update on the Emerald City.