This meal cost more than my salary

Eating my way through St. Moritz.

Some say it’s the year of slop. Others insist it’s the year of yearning. Me? I think it’s the year of shacking up in fabulous hotels in gorgeous countries, all while being absolutely, violently unwell. My immune system has taken a real beating lately. My taste for luxury, however, remains unscathed.

In Seoul, at The Shilla, I came down with a gut-wrenching stomach bug. In Paris, at the Crillon, I unravelled quietly at the tail end of fashion month. In London, at Claridge’s, I nursed a migraine that refused to leave, like an overstaying guest with bad vibes. My latest adventure, a trip to St. Moritz to stay at the storied Kulm Hotel, arrived hand in hand with London’s super-flu. Did this stop me? Of course not. My poor boyfriend Will, however, was less resilient. Practically bedridden. Me? I rallied. As one must, when one intends to sing for their supper on a press trip. #Comped.

We arrived in Zurich on a crisp winter morning, the kind of clean, alpine cold that tricks you into thinking your sinuses might finally clear. They did not. Our group was a chic little constellation: Harry from Purple PR, who had kindly organized the trip; Joerg founder of 032c; George from AnOther; Kin from T Magazine; Laura, one of Berlin’s most astute freelance writers; and Will, my beloved plus-one-slash-patient.

The three-hour train journey to St. Moritz was increasingly snowy, increasingly picturesque, increasingly smug. As the landscape transformed into a literal snow globe, my flu symptoms escalated dramatically. A gentle reminder: I had already been sick for days and thought I was getting better. I was wrong. Thankfully, no longer contagious. Spiritually? Still very infectious.

We arrived at the Kulm Hotel and were greeted by old-world warmth and full Christmas fantasy. Pine, brass, polished wood, twinkling lights, and that very specific kind of luxury that doesn’t check price tags. Think legacy wealth. Think wintering Europeans. Think “we’ve been coming here since 1892.” Within minutes, I’d clocked four Birkins. Four. And those were just the obvious ones.

First stop: the spa. We submerged ourselves in the heated outdoor pool as steam rose around us like a Franca Sozzani-era Vogue Italia shoot. Then dinner at Sunny Bar & Grill: Oysters paired with Black Velvets (Guinness and champagne, which I regret to report was giving flat beer). A lobster Thermidor so luscious it briefly cured my illness. Roast chicken with a smorgasbord of sides. Soft-serve ice cream for dessert. A dirty martini to finish, because obviously.

I woke up feeling like absolute shit. Enter Serena, my Italian masseuse, who beat the fuck out of my back in a way that felt both violent and deeply loving. I emerged bruised, aligned, and euphoric.

Will and I ventured into town. St. Moritz itself was sleepy but gorgeous. The cheapest brand around was United Colors of Benetton. No Uniqlo in sight. Loro Piana for thermals, I suppose. I wondered, briefly, who was the wife and who was the mistress. Then I checked myself. Maybe they’re self-made women.

Lunch: a giant veal sausage perched proudly atop potato rösti, swimming in onion gravy that cost extra (sorry to the marketing team). A Hugo Spritz on the side. Swiss bangers and mash, basically. Perfect.

Back to the room for what became a four-hour nap. We woke up peckish and ordered penne carbonara and fries via room service. Dinner loomed. I went alone.

At the Pizzeria restaurant in the hotel (yes, an hour after my pasta in bed—whatever), we embarked on a multi-course feast: cured meats with a creamy dressing, tuna tartare atop arancini, sliced steak cooked to perfection, mushroom ravioli (not for me), eggplant parmigiana (also not for me, apologies to vegetables everywhere), and then four giant pizzas. The cheese pizza was transcendent. Panna cotta arrived. I accepted my fate. More martinis at the bar. Then bed. And for once, I slept like a baby.

The next day I knew I had to experience breakfast in the Grand Restaurant, so I dragged myself down solo to let Will rest. Reader, it was insane. Ten cheeses. Raw ham. Cooked ham. Cured tuna, salmon, mackerel. Cornflakes. Organic muesli. I chose scrambled eggs, sausages, and potato croquettes. When it comes to breakfast food, I am a basic bitch.

Before lunch, I interviewed Carsten Höller. The actual reason for the trip. We sat in a quiet corner of the Grand Restaurant to discuss his new installation for the hotel: a hot pink mirrored carousel planted boldly in the middle of the ice rink. He spoke about the project, the importance of fun, the awkwardness of being watched. He told me about the 30 songbirds that live in his house in Sweden. They don’t have names. He identifies them by color. He skis in jeans. Icon behaviour. Exactly what I’d expect from Mrs. Prada’s bestie.

Lunch followed at the Kulm Country Club with Carsten and his wife Kajsa. Pâté and crusty bread. Grilled lamb. Roasted trout. Truffle mash, which nearly ended me. Dessert was declined. A rare act of restraint. I hopped on a Substack Live with my team while absolutely zooted on flu medication. I remember nothing. I’ve not been canceled, thankfully.

Dinner was back at Chesa al Parc, this time fondue-focused. Carsten and Kajsa were there with their daughters Alva and Ingrid, both divine. Local legends. My trip mates. Will, once again, bedridden, ordering a cheeseburger to the room. The fondue was a blend of Gruyère, Emmentaler, and Appenzeller, with a touch of Kirsch. Lactose intolerance? Don’t know her. Dessert arrived in platter form. I managed a bite of the almond tart with white chocolate ice cream. Worth it. Nightcaps at the Altitude Bar followed. Dirty martinis flowed. I was half-fever, half-olive brine.

Then back to the room with Will and a bottle of Chablis. Nothing says romance like mixing it with cough medication.

In the end, we didn’t ski. We didn’t ice skate. We didn’t do half the things one is meant to do in St. Moritz. And yet, somehow, it was perfect. A fever dream of luxury, observation, indulgence, and restraint. A first visit spent cosplaying a wealthy oligarch’s daughter while sounding like a Victorian chimney sweep. Plus, one gets a lot of work done when one is too sick to chat. There were silver linings.

Would I go back? When I’m rich, of course.

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Rosie Campion, our associate global business director, reports from the i-D Christmas lunch at Mr. Nice (which I’m gutted to miss):

“The i-D Xmas lunch at Mr. Nice felt less like a festive sit-down and more like a sultry night out that accidentally served Christmas lunch. It was dark, sexy, and dripping in vibes, with plates of unreal food and cocktails strong enough to make ‘just one’ a complete lie. Between the low lighting, loud laughs, and dangerously good drinks, Santa would’ve absolutely stayed for dessert and probably another martini.”

Sounds lit.

Different cities. Same spirit. See you at the bar.

PS. Sorry for coughing on you!