Few cities can claim hotels as iconic as The Savoy, which merits a visit even if you, like most people, cannot afford to stay there. From the shimmering gleam of its Art Deco porte cochere to the palatial receiving rooms off the lobby, the Savoy has vibrated with high history, half Edwardian and half Jazz Age, since 1889. The American Bar has been a hushed laboratory for upscale cocktails for a century. A small museum about the Savoy’s history, open to anyone, reminds you how much happened here: Churchill puffing, Chaplin mugging, Wilde and Bosie dallying, Gilbert and Sullivan pattering in its theater, Monet and Whistler painting the Thames from their windows. Your every need, from floral to gourmet, will be addressed with abject elegance and for a dear price, but would you be surprised to learn that the hotel, run by Fairmont and owned by the nephew of the King of Saudi Arabia, now tackily exploits its Hollywood past by hanging paintings of movie stars in its Thames Foyer and placing photos of them on nightstands? Good night, Burt Lancaster.