As the sun set over Kings Cross, the “red pill” elevator shot up and down The Standard, London like a tiny spaceship, rocketing guests to the grand opening of the hotly anticipated tenth floor. The elevator doors slid open like a director’s clapperboard, everyone was handed a Casamigos Negroni, the cameras flashed, and we were plunged into a Shawn Hausman-designed, sky-high wonderland, a lush setting that would be the restaurant Decimo by day. Planted with cacti, with whorls of rattan decorating the ceiling, the room transported guests to a dimension that was equal parts Mexico City and Palm Desert — until they looked out onto a dizzying panorama of London, of course.
At first, people lounged together, taking in the uninterrupted views all the way to the Shard. But as Mark Ronson appeared behind the decks, the pull of the dancefloor became irresistible. “You know, I never used to think of London as a particularly warm place,” said Ananda Everingham, who had flown in from Bangkok for the party — his mind soon to be changed by the bubbly crowd and intensifying dancefloor. Ronson went back to back with his longtime collaborator, Q-Tip, spinning old-school hip-hop, disco deep cuts, and modern pop bangers that kept the crowd enthralled.
Those who could bear to tear themselves away found their exploring rewarded by Decimo’s darker twin, wrapped around the opposite side of the building. The entrance to the long, sunken bar is marked with a tasteful, luminous phallus, the complement to Decimo’s monumental vulvar sculpture — and catnip for flash-only selfies. There, guests knocked back back Mediterranean G&Ts made with Villa Ascenti Gin as Louie Vega lined up soulful house hits, grooving amid mirrors that reflected the glittering city lights.
More drinks circulated, from dusky, fruity Casamigos Palomas, to a classic Tommy made with Don Julio Blanco, agave, violet and lime - fresh as an English garden. Peckish partygoers were treated to a selection from Decimo’s Spanish and Mexican-inspired menu, from croquetas de jamon to Baja tacos, lush with the heat of the live coal fire they were cooked over. “I’m such a maximalist,” said creative director Angela Dimayauga, sampling one of Peter Sanches-Iglesias’ already-famed caviar tortillas — in bite-size form, it resembled one of the many medallions decorating her cropped tailcoat.
Maximalism was the order of the day, it seemed, as the fashion week crowd spilled in, filling the room with big furs and raucous patterning. Sita Bellan prowled past in a leopard-print catsuit, while Peggy Gou repped an all-over pattern of knotted revolvers, arriving after launching her brand, Kirin. Paloma Faith sprung for a princely chartreuse ruff, while Edward Enniful provided the contrast, ever-elegant in a classic suit. More than one cowboy rode through on the wave of yee-haw culture, while another figure dressed for the theme of climate apocalypse in a vinyl jacket licked with orange flames.
For a breath of fresh air, we spilled out to the rooftop smoking terrace, illuminated by the harvest moon. It was gone 2am; a group of young artists were debating their next move. At his friend’s suggestion, someone said, “Nah, I don’t wanna do that. Let’s stay here forever instead.”