New arrival hits right buttons

Until a few years ago, most of the five-star hotels in Tokyo were fusty affairs. They were institutions that prided themselves on tradition, in some cases a dedication to history that ensured they had kept the same carpets for decades. They were not Japanese to the extent that many ryokan outside Tokyo are: set kaiseki meals served in a barrack-style dining hall and communal bathtubs, loincloth provided. But they did have a stiff, parochial air that was not to everyone’s liking. Even if the lobby and restaurants were grand and spacious, the rooms were all too often pokey and old-fashioned.

In the past few years, all that has changed. Modern, luxury international hotels have opened one after the other, with the Roppongi Grand Hyatt, the Conrad in Shiodome and the supremely elegant Mandarin Oriental perched above Nihonbashi among the slickest offerings. The latest to spring up is the Peninsula, a hotel with arguably the best location of all.

Roughly halfway between the Imperial and the Palace hotels, two of Tokyo’s fading institutions, the Peninsula is set just a little way back from the pea-green moat and medieval walls of the Imperial Palace. That puts it close to Ginza, the swishest of Tokyo’s shopping districts, and not so far from Tsukiji, far-and-away the world’s biggest fish market.

There is fine Japanese and international dining aplenty, in the hotel itself and within easy walking distance. But if you want something a little rougher, you are also near Yurakucho’s outdoor yakitori chicken restaurants and plenty of fish, noodle and beer joints.

That is if you ever leave the room. After I was shown to mine, I temporarily lost all desire to step outside. The decor was what I would call Asian-Swedish, lots of slatted wood and minimalist furnishings. There was a woven mat on the ceiling and a piece of modern sculpture in a hollow in the wall. There was a sofa, an espresso machine with slate-grey coffee cups, and an enormous flat-screen television. Best of all was a heavy, irregular-shaped wooden door that slid shut, separating the bedroom from the hall, closet and bathroom.

The walk-in closet, as large as many a Japanese hotel bedroom, was fitted with a movie star’s vanity mirror and – a must in twinkle-fingered Tokyo – a nail polish drier fixed to the wall. Would a double room without nail drier, I wondered, have cost me any less than the roughly £290 with breakfast my wife and I were paying for this deluxe room?

My favourite, though, was the bathroom. The bath was long enough for a basketball player. I counted at least 30 buttons, not including those for the TV, with 19 alone on the space-age toilet. You didn’t need one for the lavatory seat itself, which reared up automatically like an obedient puppy when you approached.

The bath was filled at the side through a large slit in the stone wall. The best feature was a button marked “spa”, which lowered the light to near darkness and played mournful, rather lovely Chinese music. The worst were marked “line one” and “line two”, which allowed you to take two business calls simultaneously while lying in the tub.

Bath over, I took to fiddling with other buttons and knobs in the bedroom. One swished the curtains open and closed, to reveal a lit-up view of Tokyo Tower, a red version of the lesser-known one in Paris. (Call me Asia-centric). In the foreground were huge flashing advertisements and a pink Christmas-cake building that is home to Takarazuka, an all-women theatre review. Another button was for humidity. As soon as I adjusted that one, it began to rain heavily outside, though this could have been coincidence.

Time to leave the room, though not the hotel. Outside the elevators, the view into the centre of the hotel is an art installation: large sculptures, like Dr Seuss socks, hang eerily in the dark. I kind of liked it.

The lobby is the hotel’s least satisfying feature. Cramped, cluttered with tables and hung with an overly garish chandelier, like a swooping silver porcupine, the walls are wooden slats that make it hard to focus. A friend said he felt nauseous on entering and predicted it would be changed within months. Because of lack of space – and staff – it had taken longer to check in than one might expect in such a luxurious hotel.

The rest of the hotel’s facilities, though, were splendid. We ate in Peter, a European restaurant on the top floor with panoramic views of Tokyo’s diamanté skyline. All black lacquer and chrome, it might look too much like a nightclub for some people’s taste but it had quite a buzz.

The pool was the nicest part of the hotel, outdoing even the room. I went at around 9am, before a late breakfast, and had it to myself. Called the vitality pool, everything about it was a pleasure: the muted browns and glass of the walls, one with a cascading waterfall; the green of the pool’s tiles; the space-age lighting; jungle sculptures; city views and tantric music.

Breakfast in the circular stone-decorated Hei Fung Terrace, the sister of The Peninsula Hong Kong’s Spring Moon Chinese restaurant, was almost as healthy. I had rice, pickles, smoked fish, miso soup and fruit, but Chinese and international cuisine was also available.

After breakfast, I experimented with some more buttons in my room. This time the humidity switch must have broken, producing no sudden rain storm.

Reluctantly, I headed down to check out. That process, even more than check-in, took far too long. If I had been busy, I might have been annoyed. As it was, I didn’t really want to leave.

David Pilling is the FT’s Tokyo bureau chief

Luxury suites

Rooms range from Y60,000 ($533, £253) for a superior and Y80,000 for a deluxe corner room, all the way up to Y850,000 for the Peninsula Suite.

The Peninsula Hotel, 1-8-1 Yurakucho, Chiyoda-ku,Tokyo 100-0006,Japan, tel: +81-3 6270 2888; tokyo.peninsula.com