The Spectator Hotel

See and be seen, the Spectator Hotel’s name proclaims, and who are we to argue? This is Charleston, seat of the South’s historic capital, and a quick look at the hotel’s environs — where the French Quarter and Market Street districts come together — proves as much with a series of stately, pastel, pillared façades. Tradition counts, in other words, though not always in the high-Antebellum sense; here, you step lightly past varicolored brickwork, clean Modernist awnings, period lanterns, and a neat battalion of glossy windows into a four-story structure with a debonair, avuncular bearing. With a little renovation, the Roaring Twenties are in fine fettle for a victory lap in the Twenty-Twenties.

It could easily get stuffy, without some thoughtful decoration — hence the Art Deco flourishes in the 41 rooms’ lines and fixtures, still mostly conservative but by no means unsplendid. Fantastic turns of architectural millwork never go out of style, of course, but here they’re joined by up-to-date details like contemporary artwork, flatscreens, directional lamps, Bluetooth radios, and Nespresso machines. Each room comes with a personalized butler for a genuine touch of old-time hospitality, and the bathrooms in particular play on the theme of excess with stretches of Carrera marble, C.O. Bigelow amenities, and oversize vanities.

But let’s get down to brass tacks: the drinks, here in Jazz Age throwback mode, a chummy space replete with buttoned sofas, illuminated bookshelves, and dapperly vested bartenders. The latter are the type to lend an ear to your story and whip up a personalized concussion on the spot, floral and just sweet enough and overbrimming with subtle speakeasy vibes.