The Travel Critic

The luxury hotel game is a tough one. It’s like trying to stay fashionable while married to someone who buys you trousers for Christmas from John Lewis. Keeping luxurious is no mean feat. Fashions and trends change faster than a Love Island contestant’s moral compass. And the second you so much as unlock your automatic front doors, the whole world is judging – not next week, not after they’ve had time to reflect – but immediately, live-streamed, in ultra-high-def 4K, complete with a nauseating voiceover: “Hey guys, I’ve just checked into this insane hotel in Dubai…”

They film every inch of the lobby, zoom in on the oversized modern art like it’s part of a Tate retrospective, tap their nails on the smart tech bedside panels like they’re defusing a bomb, and pan dramatically across the breakfast buffet as though they’ve discovered the lost city of Atlantis sculpted out of cantaloupe.

But the thing that these ring-light-wielding narcissists never manage to properly capture – bless them – is service. Because you can’t film genuine warmth. You can’t tag discretion. You can’t livestream anticipation of your needs. You can have a 120-inch TV the size of a helipad in your suite, or a parking bay full of McLarens out front, but unless your staff know how to read a guest better than ChatGPT on a caffeine binge, it’s all just expensive fluff.

Which brings me to The Banyan Tree, Dubai, which – and I don’t say this lightly – has absolutely nailed it. Service. Real, proper, old-school, no-corners-cut, bend-over-backwards service. The kind of service that can’t be bought off the shelf with a luxury interior designer and a Pinterest board. It’s the sort that comes from leadership, culture, training, and – forgive the sentimentality – pride. It’s the sort I’ve seen glimmers of in the best resorts of Thailand, the best Ryokans in Kyoto, even the most rarified of Maldivian hideaways. But in Dubai? Rare. And precious.

As most of my regular readers know, I’ve been lucky enough to stay in some of the world’s finest hotels. I’ve written enough secret shopper reports to fill a small novella. I’ve been invited to test chef’s tasting menus before they get their star, only to confirm, to everyone’s mild disappointment, that they probably won’t. The thread that binds all the greats is the ambition to offer world-class service. And sadly, more often than not, they blow it somewhere. Not here.

Let me elaborate.

Breakfast, for one, is a peculiar challenge in the 5-star world. You’d think by now they’d have cracked it, but no. As I said in my recent London review – the posher the hotel, the worse the Full English. It’s as though the chefs assume their clientele are all on some new keto-bio-intermittent-fast. You’ve got a crowd of demanding guests turning up at erratic intervals, all expecting wildly different things, all consuming three times the calories they’d normally manage in a week. You’ve got birchers and bao buns, you’ve got vegans and carnivores, cappuccino drinkers and oat milk obsessives. The buffet’s the size of a runway, and half the guests look like they’ve done laps of it just to justify their third helping of smoked salmon.

But at the Banyan Tree, it’s calm. It’s easy. It’s elegant. You’re offered a juice – something green and virtuous with cucumber and despair in it – which I politely declined, but Mrs Travel Critic lapped up like it was straight from Gwyneth’s own gourd. Coffee? Arrived in seconds. Menu? Full of precisely what you want, whether you know it or not. Refills? Encouraged. Clearing plates? Done with silent, almost eerie efficiency. Even the handbag got its own little chair – my wife now insists I do the same at home.

And this wasn’t a one-hit wonder. It was consistent. Every. Single. Morning. Which is so rare I nearly wept into my pain au chocolat.

Then there’s the room situation. Small hiccup, nothing scandalous, a minor issue, but by the time I’d shrugged it off, I’d already been contacted (via an absurdly efficient WhatsApp concierge system) with an offer of an upgrade. Not just “hey sorry” but an actual, proactive move to make things better. Not necessary, not expected – which is what made it genuine. They care. And it shows.

By the pool? Service like you’re some sort of visiting monarch. You’re shown to your sunbed like it’s the bloody coronation chair. Ice water refilled without asking. Towels placed with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. The whole thing just purrs.

Even the check-in had that rare touch – escorted to your room by the same person who welcomed you at the desk. Continuity. Personalisation. Not being passed around like a hot potato between departments who all call you “Mr. Guest.”

I could go on – and you know I usually do – but you don’t need me to wax lyrical about the pools (lovely), the rooms (lavish without being lurid), the restaurants (you can read my separate, gushing reviews elsewhere), or the spa (you’ll want to be buried there). That’s all on the website, and anyway, it photographs well.

What doesn’t photograph well – what no influencer can capture with a slow pan and a sickly filter – is heart. And this place has it. A rare, beating, heartfelt soul in a city often accused of style over substance.

Dubai, like it or not, is growing up fast. It’s turning into something more than flash. And The Banyan Tree is one of the prime reasons why. It’s not just beautiful – it’s brilliantly run. And that, my friends, is the true luxury.