Gina had a secret.
She planted her elbows next to the Le Creuset Caribbean Oval Wide French Oven steaming with peasant split pea oh la la, and turned her sultry on.
Our dinner, meant to showcase the St. Regis Deer Crest's Astor Deck, (Banquet seating in rounds up to 250, reception style 295), threatened by rain, had been moved indoors. Wine pairings with prawn this, lamb that, and sorbet the other were beginning to take their toll.
"Have you seen Tod? He's usually by the lobby fireplace. Banquets must have let him out when they moved the furniture for our dinner." Almost winking, bottom lip botoxy: "Those white blankets in your rooms . . . the ones at the foot of your beds . . . were all supposed to be genuine fox-fur throws!"
She paused coyly, waiting for the carnage to sink in: 250 guestrooms, 68 suites, 4 penthouse residences, some of them double rooms. . . that makes 300, maybe 400 beds.
Rolling her eyes, and doing a Marilyn with her shoulders: ". . .But they didn't go with the decor. And knowing how guests get attached, we really didn't want to replace Tod and friends every time one decided to pack a little furry guy home in their luggage!"
Killing foxes for a room accent is dumb.
But why then, did I pine for my own genuine fox fur throw when I opened the door to my room? I'd like to believe that most moneyed Americans would generally be against real fur accouterments. How is it that spending a cold night in a "European Luxury Hotel" in Utah made me want to turn on my remote-control fireplace and snuggle in fox?
We saw the fox throw next morning at breakfast. We took turns petting "Tod" between bites of eggs Benedict.
Wow, was he ever soft.
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