The Water Club's indoor pool and bar
Photo: Courtesy of the Borgata
I’m an aqueous type. I swam in college and completed triathlons. Scuba diving, surfing, waterskiing, boogie boarding, high diving, water polo, sailing, rowing, yachting, river tubing—you name it and I’m there. Oh, and I live on the beach.
I was thrilled to hear Bloomie had commissioned giant waterfalls, but you have to be in a kayak, under a bridge, or in Brooklyn to see them.
So when power gourmandises Geoffrey and Margaret Zakarian (you’ve read about them here before) clued me in to their latest gig as king and queen of all things culinary at the Borgata Hotel’s newest extra-exclusive property in Atlantic City, the Water Club, I begged to be included. Wanted to be first. Drove my column-helper, Claire, crazy booking me for a preview this past weekend. Was I confirmed yet? Did I get an ocean view? (Well, kind of, my room faced the ocean, but it seemed pretty far away. What I did get was a giant close-up of those fancy new windmills that everyone complains about, which I found fascinating to watch.)Atlantic City is becoming more and more like Las Vegas every minute. I’ll let you decide if that’s good or bad. I missed the whole transformation, probably because so much of it seemed to be affiliated with TRUMP.
I started regretting missing stuff. Puff Daddy did something, and didn’t former crack dealer/now music impresario Jay-Z open a club? I wanted to go to these things.
Then there were all these eateries. Wolfgang Puck! Bobby Flay Steakhouse (he’s a long-lost friend whose wife, Stephanie, I adore, so I made it over there for a snack of lobster/crab/tomatillo/chili-oil thing and got seated next to Bobby’s mother—life is funny, no?) There’s a Buddakan. You get the picture.
I follow the papers and glossies, so I knew the Borgata was the big-money hangout for the high rollers. But the Water Club investment was no roll of the dice. The Borgata publicly disclosed it had a 96-percent occupancy rate over the last two years. They needed more rooms, bigger rooms. But the Water Club stands on its own with 12,000 square feet of meeting room space and two of the prettiest conference rooms I can remember.
I asked Drew Schlesinger, vice president of Borgata and general manager of the Water Club, if there were any “cows” in the house. Oops. The term for the highest of high rollers is “whales.” The sources of the “whale” tag that I know are Martin Scorsese's masterpiece Casino, with Sharon Stone and Robert De Niro, all of whom I know, and the Steven Soderbergh/George Clooney Oceans franchise, none of whom I know and about which I share Rupert Everett’s (whom I do know) evaluation that they (Ocean’s Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen) are a cancer on our society. He might have said “pox.”
Drew Schlesinger says he does not use the word “whales.” Others I’ve overheard do.
Drew wouldn’t show me any of the secret rooms where the whales swim, probably afraid I’d call them cows, but he showed me plenty and knew the answer to every question I asked.
Let’s stop here and make it clear that I think this is a wonderful hotel in so many ways. Nice rooms. Super gracious staff. (I felt sad leaving.) Comfy slippers. There were a few flaws—one glaring—which, don’t worry, I’ll share.
But my real reason for being there was the food. There is no giant Geoffrey Zakarian-branded restaurant. Instead, he approached the whole hotel’s dining needs strategically. The result is what all four-star hotels should look to.
I knew Mr. Zakarian had a restaurant at the Carlton Hotel (where I once escaped to during an apartment renovation), but what I didn’t know is that he had overseen the room-service menus himself.
Hallelujah!
When you spend 50 to 100 nights in a hotel every year, you become Jekyll and Hyde. Dr. Jekyll puts on his smartest jacket and stiffest collar and greets the hosts, clients, and press, hands out biz cards, accepts biz cards, makes plans to talk again soon, real soon. Mr. Hyde goes back to his room grumpy and starving. He doesn’t allow Dr. Jekyll to sample the lovely hors d’oeuvres because he knows his gnarly hands and unkempt napkin skills will draw attention. But he does drink. So by the time Dr. Jekyll returns to the room, he lets Mr. Hyde take over—grubby, dressed only in a towel or bathrobe, dialing for dinner like crazy.
But so often it is such a disappointment.
I always give as an example to this theory the Shutters Hotel in Santa Monica. Hipsters and trendsters try to give her a run, but if you want to stay on the water in Los Angeles, Shutters is head and shoulders above the crowd. (Ask for a corner double waterfront; they charge more for them and it is worth it.) But the room service is so miserable. Tough gray hamburgers on chewy brioche bread. Dry eggs for breakfast.
So back to the Carlton, where as I was trying to review the restaurant, Country, as an event space (one room prettier than the next), I became fixated on trying all the items on the room-service menu.
It was this eggs-in-a-jar thing (I’m sure I’m mangling it) that made me realize that this was a room service created by someone who really cared about providing tasty, interesting, real food.
At the Water Club there are all sorts of things to recommend in the realm of room dining.
The crudités are the best I’ve had in the world. Crisp yellow carrots as crunchy and satisfying as Doritos. Weird curly lettuces that hold yummy dipping sauces (you get four), like the classic “bagna cauda” headliner, which I think translated means hot bath. If I had a vendor who would make this for lunch every day for $14, well, I might not be single.
Margaret pointed out the food prices were reasonable. And they were. But some were a steal. For breakfast you can order pork cheese grits for $5.
If it arrives while you are in the shower, don’t worry, the mini enamel cresset keeps it piping hot, and this breakfast-side offering is a perfect meal in itself. If you order an omelet, they wilt tarragon and chervil on the plate and when the lid is removed you are somewhere else. Somewhere better. Somewhere verdant. It’s a nice somewhere.
Geoffrey did a demo of a savory strawberry dish that I intended to reprint here, but something tells me I am already too long. But I will write it up and email it to interested readers one at a time.
The one problem with the Water Club that caught my eye is that the fabulous outdoor pools have a dearth of deck chairs. Does anyone remember that story by a Hollywood wife (Gigi Levangie maybe?) that ran in Vogue (was it?) about the deathly competition for chaise lounges at the Four Seasons in Hawaii? There were ladies getting up at four in the morning or worse, sending their nannies to claim their day’s settee. Last weekend I heard lots of grumbling about not enough recliners. (I smoke and sat on a ledge where it was allowed, which suited me just fine.)
But don’t worry. Super-diligent Drew is on top of it and even showed me a little lawn that would be converted into deck space. It may already be done before you read this. Isn’t luxury living wonderful?
I was thrilled to hear Bloomie had commissioned giant waterfalls, but you have to be in a kayak, under a bridge, or in Brooklyn to see them.
So when power gourmandises Geoffrey and Margaret Zakarian (you’ve read about them here before) clued me in to their latest gig as king and queen of all things culinary at the Borgata Hotel’s newest extra-exclusive property in Atlantic City, the Water Club, I begged to be included. Wanted to be first. Drove my column-helper, Claire, crazy booking me for a preview this past weekend. Was I confirmed yet? Did I get an ocean view? (Well, kind of, my room faced the ocean, but it seemed pretty far away. What I did get was a giant close-up of those fancy new windmills that everyone complains about, which I found fascinating to watch.)Atlantic City is becoming more and more like Las Vegas every minute. I’ll let you decide if that’s good or bad. I missed the whole transformation, probably because so much of it seemed to be affiliated with TRUMP.
I started regretting missing stuff. Puff Daddy did something, and didn’t former crack dealer/now music impresario Jay-Z open a club? I wanted to go to these things.
Then there were all these eateries. Wolfgang Puck! Bobby Flay Steakhouse (he’s a long-lost friend whose wife, Stephanie, I adore, so I made it over there for a snack of lobster/crab/tomatillo/chili-oil thing and got seated next to Bobby’s mother—life is funny, no?) There’s a Buddakan. You get the picture.
I follow the papers and glossies, so I knew the Borgata was the big-money hangout for the high rollers. But the Water Club investment was no roll of the dice. The Borgata publicly disclosed it had a 96-percent occupancy rate over the last two years. They needed more rooms, bigger rooms. But the Water Club stands on its own with 12,000 square feet of meeting room space and two of the prettiest conference rooms I can remember.
I asked Drew Schlesinger, vice president of Borgata and general manager of the Water Club, if there were any “cows” in the house. Oops. The term for the highest of high rollers is “whales.” The sources of the “whale” tag that I know are Martin Scorsese's masterpiece Casino, with Sharon Stone and Robert De Niro, all of whom I know, and the Steven Soderbergh/George Clooney Oceans franchise, none of whom I know and about which I share Rupert Everett’s (whom I do know) evaluation that they (Ocean’s Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen) are a cancer on our society. He might have said “pox.”
Drew Schlesinger says he does not use the word “whales.” Others I’ve overheard do.
Drew wouldn’t show me any of the secret rooms where the whales swim, probably afraid I’d call them cows, but he showed me plenty and knew the answer to every question I asked.
Let’s stop here and make it clear that I think this is a wonderful hotel in so many ways. Nice rooms. Super gracious staff. (I felt sad leaving.) Comfy slippers. There were a few flaws—one glaring—which, don’t worry, I’ll share.
But my real reason for being there was the food. There is no giant Geoffrey Zakarian-branded restaurant. Instead, he approached the whole hotel’s dining needs strategically. The result is what all four-star hotels should look to.
I knew Mr. Zakarian had a restaurant at the Carlton Hotel (where I once escaped to during an apartment renovation), but what I didn’t know is that he had overseen the room-service menus himself.
Hallelujah!
When you spend 50 to 100 nights in a hotel every year, you become Jekyll and Hyde. Dr. Jekyll puts on his smartest jacket and stiffest collar and greets the hosts, clients, and press, hands out biz cards, accepts biz cards, makes plans to talk again soon, real soon. Mr. Hyde goes back to his room grumpy and starving. He doesn’t allow Dr. Jekyll to sample the lovely hors d’oeuvres because he knows his gnarly hands and unkempt napkin skills will draw attention. But he does drink. So by the time Dr. Jekyll returns to the room, he lets Mr. Hyde take over—grubby, dressed only in a towel or bathrobe, dialing for dinner like crazy.
But so often it is such a disappointment.
I always give as an example to this theory the Shutters Hotel in Santa Monica. Hipsters and trendsters try to give her a run, but if you want to stay on the water in Los Angeles, Shutters is head and shoulders above the crowd. (Ask for a corner double waterfront; they charge more for them and it is worth it.) But the room service is so miserable. Tough gray hamburgers on chewy brioche bread. Dry eggs for breakfast.
So back to the Carlton, where as I was trying to review the restaurant, Country, as an event space (one room prettier than the next), I became fixated on trying all the items on the room-service menu.
It was this eggs-in-a-jar thing (I’m sure I’m mangling it) that made me realize that this was a room service created by someone who really cared about providing tasty, interesting, real food.
At the Water Club there are all sorts of things to recommend in the realm of room dining.
The crudités are the best I’ve had in the world. Crisp yellow carrots as crunchy and satisfying as Doritos. Weird curly lettuces that hold yummy dipping sauces (you get four), like the classic “bagna cauda” headliner, which I think translated means hot bath. If I had a vendor who would make this for lunch every day for $14, well, I might not be single.
Margaret pointed out the food prices were reasonable. And they were. But some were a steal. For breakfast you can order pork cheese grits for $5.
If it arrives while you are in the shower, don’t worry, the mini enamel cresset keeps it piping hot, and this breakfast-side offering is a perfect meal in itself. If you order an omelet, they wilt tarragon and chervil on the plate and when the lid is removed you are somewhere else. Somewhere better. Somewhere verdant. It’s a nice somewhere.
Geoffrey did a demo of a savory strawberry dish that I intended to reprint here, but something tells me I am already too long. But I will write it up and email it to interested readers one at a time.
The one problem with the Water Club that caught my eye is that the fabulous outdoor pools have a dearth of deck chairs. Does anyone remember that story by a Hollywood wife (Gigi Levangie maybe?) that ran in Vogue (was it?) about the deathly competition for chaise lounges at the Four Seasons in Hawaii? There were ladies getting up at four in the morning or worse, sending their nannies to claim their day’s settee. Last weekend I heard lots of grumbling about not enough recliners. (I smoke and sat on a ledge where it was allowed, which suited me just fine.)
But don’t worry. Super-diligent Drew is on top of it and even showed me a little lawn that would be converted into deck space. It may already be done before you read this. Isn’t luxury living wonderful?
