I sneezed at the Lanesborough. Moments later, my butler—everyone has one here—flew to my side bearing a silver tray of hot tea, fresh-cut ginger on a porcelain plate, and acacia honey. And so it should be at one of the finest hotels in which I hope you will ever be so lucky to stay, where guest needs are meticulously anticipated and fresh-cut blooms are delivered to your bathroom counter the moment your back is turned. A recent £80-million renovation tore out every fixture and fully recrafted the interior with gilt, made-to-measurefinery—like a mansion of Wedgwood china, Corinthian leather, and canopy king beds. It’s an English pastiche for the super-wealthy, but a pitch-perfect one, and honeymoon nirvana. At the Lanesborough, intense formality dwells discreetly with new tech: TVs repose behind false paintings ingilt frames. Downstairs, near two portraits that, though unremarked, are actually originals by Sir Joshua Reynolds, moneyed regulars sip glasses of port dating as far backas 1778 and smoke £4,000 cigars in what many consider the world’s best-stocked cigar lounge. Should the tariffat London’s most expensive hotel understandably be out of your reach, at least stop by for the exquisite Afternoon Tea in its magnificent Regency-style restaurant, Céleste.