Regent Beverly Wilshire
Los Angeles Luxury Hotel

Detailed Review

The Beverly Wilshire is an oasis of elegance, warmth and impeccable service at one of the world's most famous intersections - Rodeo Drive and Wilshire Boulevard. Its splendour is further enhanced by an impressive renovation - perfectly blending tradition and trend with a dignity that only comes with experience. The hotel features spacious guest rooms with luxurious appointments, award winning restaurants, lively entertainment, unparalleled meeting facilities, and a complete health spa. With its European charm, 21st-century technologies and the Four Seasons ethic of attentive care, The Beverly Wilshire is this enchanted destination's preferred address.

Press Quotes

“My 700-square-foot suite in the Wilshire Wing, complete with an Oscar ballot and special-edition People magazine, angled toward the masculine with a tufted leather headboard and upholstery in rich amber shades...The long marble bathroom, outfitted with L’Occitane potions for the tub and separate shower, is big enough for bowling.” LA Times 07

Independent Reviews

Regent Beverley Wilshire
By Henry Shukman

At the Regent Beverley Wilshire, aka the Pretty Woman Hotel, the first surprise is its lobby – it doesn’t look the way it did in the movie. That ocean of marble across which the manager heads off Julia Roberts, somehow it seems… smaller, less oceanic. It may be because of the eye-befuddling explosion of blooms occupying the foyer – tulips the size of fists, spiralling tendrils of orchid as tall as a man – but it may also be because not an inch of the film’s footage was shot here. The suite, the bar, the lobby, that jacuzzi, all were reconstructed at the studio. Which doesn’t deter honeymooners and such from renting the “Pretty Woman Suite,” even from renting the dress she wore in the movie. One thing the movie did faithfully record is the level of service. There’s nothing like proper down-and-dirty brown-nosing. I appear to have been assigned my very own keeper (with a staff to guest ratio of about 5 to 3, not too implausible), a spruced young Mexican called Diego in a traditional British barrister’s outfit. When he fails to secure me yesterday’s Times immediately, he calls up to let me know the state of his search. “Fine, fine,” I murmur into the phone. And not two minutes later he’s pealing at my door bearing the very paper in his arms, wrapped in a tasteful grey ribbon. And when he asks me what time I’d like my laundry delivered in the morning and I say, “Oh, eight, nine, whenever, ten,” his response of, “Yes, very good, Sir,” is delivered with such firmness that I can’t help believing that my vagueness is precisely what’s called for. Pretty Woman really got going at the bar, when Gere first sees her in her Rodeo Drive finery, so in my quest for the core of the Regent’s glamour, this is where I begin. I’ve been installed not long enough for the head of my cerveza to settle when in comes a rather wellworn but wellmade lady in a leopardskin hat and matching mini. She fixes me with a pair of oversized eyes and sidles onto the next stool. “Are you Abe’s friend?” So this is how they operate. No longer out on the boulevard, they get right on with it and come straight to the hotel. “No I’m not Abe’s friend. I don’t have a friend called Abe,” I retort. “Oh.” She shakes her head reproachfully. “Abe tell me come here to meet him. I come but he’s not here. Why he not here?” she asks in an accent as exotic as the rest of her. She looks at me. “I from Argentina. Abe take me here to meet a producer, he make movies…” She breaks off. “I feel very bad. I don’t have no money for the taxi home.” Her voice begins to break. This is a far cry from the movie. I’m witnessing the last shard of a dream, the story of a pretty woman as it happens off-screen. I pull out a few bills for her cab and she practically melts on the spot. The hotel seems to have attracted a lot of odd women tonight. In comes another lady of questionable career, equipped with a mane of flaming red hair and a black denier body. “Where’s my pocketbook?” she snarls, stomping along the bar, peering under the stools. “Who stole my pocketbook?” The barman has a few quiet words with her and she exits. But she’s to be seen a little later sprawled on, or rather in, the lap of a rotund fellow in a far corner of the dining lounge, offering him a big slice of tongue to dine on – a serving that does not go unobserved by management. Over they send a svelte young assistant-manageress, who asks, “Madam, would you mind please staying in your seat?” She would mind indeed. “What? Do I need her opinion? Ha!” Her tonguee tries to calm her down, but to no avail. Bouffing up her mane, she’s off at a brisk lick into the lobby, whence echoes a litany of mezzo profanities. Back she storms, plumps herself down and crosses her arms, waiting. She knows what she’s waiting for too. Back comes the svelte 23 year-old, followed by two gents in black suits. One by one they bow briskly before her and offer their profoundest apologies for the misunderstanding. O.B.N.’s all round! My room, a standard, is nothing short of magnificent. The idea of a room like this seems to be to map out graphically the elegant life. Here’s a big antique desk with a ten-pound leather blotter for you to work on. Then there’s a deep sofa beside the minibar where you have your drink. Next a little escritoire for, say, writing a postcard or perusing a magazine. Next the tremendous oak armoire at the end of the room, with a set of voluminous drawers and a mammoth TV hidden within. The leatherbound TV pages are held open to today’s page by a special TV room-service menu: chips, chicken wings, popcorn. Snacks to lie down with on that pile of big cushions while giggling at your favourite old comedy shows. (Where have I seen this before?) Then through French windows into the marble emporium the size of an average walkup, otherwise known as the bathroom. The only problem is the lamps. Turning lamps on and off is the hardest thing in a fancy hotel room. Where the hell is that switch? By the bulb? On the flex? At the base of the vase? On the wall? By the door? Turn this thing off, I wanna sleep! The solution? A quick tinkle down to Diego. The Regent Beverley Wilshire is enough of an institution to have its own “Ambassador,” the DeVito-like Ron Howard. “I’ve been here 27 years now. I’ve had every job except GM. I was planning on being the owner’s daughter’s husband but that didn’t work out. But hey, I’m jazzed,” he exclaims, whisking me up and down and round the hotel on a lightning tour. “We get all the heads of state because the Peninsular’s too small and the Beverley Hills has so many entrances, it’s a security nightmare. Our clientele,” he whispers, “is preeminently quality. And get this, I’ve installed special dishes on the roof so I can bring in every TV station in the world. The Middle Eastern heads of state like that. We’ve had everybody here. King Hussein of Jordan, Emperor Hirohito – when he came we cut through a wall so he could have two of our townhouse suites, one for living in and one for dining.”

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• "A glamourous Beverly Hills wonderland that channels the uber-chic Italian Renaissance - definately not one for the shy and retiring!"