For all the traveling we’ve managed to weave into our lives, not too many hotels exist where we muse, “We could live here.” The Mercer, however, has us considering that taking up residence there would top the reasons to relocate to New York. Seriously.

The SoHo landmark strikes that frail balance between the kind of impeccable service expected from a luxe hotel and the fashionable spirit so many pretenders strive to emulate but fall short of all too frequently, and to the woe of those of us who expect better.

Here, it's backed by authentic substance, from the selection of CD's and films from the library (and delivered to the room) to the FACE Stockholm beauty products in the bathrooms to the well-dressed, well-mannered, sincere staff. Of course, the bunch of pink peonies, bottle of red and handwritten note are an elegant touch.

Consistency is key here. It's not simply the front desk team, but every member of the crew who stay on message. This isn't the status quo at all top-tier hotels or restaurants, mind you, so whomever is inspiring the ranks here should write a book.

The lobby, as frequently chronicled, is a scene of the bold faced and beautifully faced, and to keep it that way there's a no-camera policy that is totally welcome. Owner Andre Balazs witnessed what happened when unsavory visitors to sister hotel Chateau Marmont in Hollywood sneakily photographed famous guests there, unflattering snapshots which turned up in tabloids. So both places now uphold the oft-neglected ideal of privacy. To those of us who needn't worry about such breaches, it's a welcome policy since it fosters comfort and consideration, which is really what one wants from a sanctuary like a hotel.

(In the interest of full disclosure, we're friendly with Andre. I met him a decade ago when he opened The Standard in downtown L.A., and I profiled him and the new venture for WWD. But as he and anyone who knows me knows, no amount of friendliness influences my outlook.)

Just as the no-photo rule impacts the mood, admittedly, it makes for great people watching when the odd design or art or hip-hop star camps out in a club chair. We took the same corner for our nightcaps, and usually after a quick chat with friends also staying there who we'd run into (Loree Rodkin and Jenny Holzer one night; Courtney Love at several other times since she has been living there). If there was any disappointment to report, in fact, it would have to be the menu we tried late night a few times in the lounge. Given the delicious offerings in the Mercer Kitchen downstairs, we expected more of our nightly snacks. They were fine. But there's no reason for a "fine" pizza in New York. Ditto the salads. Again here, though, the service shined.

Of course, we tended to gravitate, and fast, back to our room and the mammoth marble tub and spongey, 400-thread-count covered sheets--and both with plenty of stretching-out space for Andy and me.

We holed up at the Mercer during our recent week-long trip east for ICFF, and enlisted any excuse to leave long after breakfast or sneak back early evening to our suite. I spent the better part of the Tuesday after the design show, nestled at the wall banquette against the dining table inside our room, banging

Like Coltrane or Davis, a dozen years after the Mercer opened, the place maintains an understated style that is so cool it doesn’t have to try. But it's because of all the effort that it hits the right key.