Inside the Royal
Moroccan SuiteAs part of an expansionist drive overseen by
Arjun’s father, chairman Biki Oberoi (now 91), the
group considered opening in Morocco at the turn
of the millennium. But it wasn’t until 2007 that the
right opportunity arose, via a partnership with prop-
erty developer Abdelouhed “Maître” El Alami, who
had ambitions to build the best hotel in Marrakech.
A sense of space was paramount: “I am claustropho-
bic,” Maître says. “I cannot stay inside most of the
places in the medina.” In 2012 construction began
under Casablanca-based architect Patrick Collier
and included the digging of a 787-foot-long grand
canal, which runs through the grounds. For the
past two years, 250 craftsmen labored: specialist
tilers from Fez, carpenters, and plaster carvers from
the city’s artisan base Sidi Ghanem. “The project
was gigantesque—the scale, the dust, the heat in
summer,” says Maître’s nephew Abdul Salam. It
didn’t help that Saudi Arabia was expanding the
Haram Mosque in Mecca over the same time period,
leading to a world shortage of Carrara marble.
So it has been a challenge: monumental, slow-
cooked, and painstakingly hands-on. “But it’s not
in our DNA to mass-produce hotels,” says Arjun.
What is tightly wound into the Oberoi genes—along
with the mastery of detail and framing of incredible
views of the Taj Mahal and other wonders—is the
idea of hospitality as a high art form. Each year half
a million candidates apply to the Oberoi Centre of
Learning and Development in New Delhi, where the
art of conversation and “guest-reading” are taught,
with only the most impassioned winning one of 100
places. The staff in Marrakech is a mix of bouncy-
stepped, radiant young Moroccans, long-standing
employees, and others handpicked from the local
hotel scene. Both the chef and the concierge come
from Jacques Garcia’s La Mamounia. The latter,
who helps me skip lines and walk free into gardens
and museums, is as calm as a meditation guru. The
spa manager comes from Es Saadi and oversees
the wellness program in a space set on a sparrow-
skimmed, reeded lake and equipped with marble
hammams and therapists from the acclaimed
Oberoi Sukhvilas in Chandigarh. A few of the staff
were even poached from the Mohammed VI–owned
Royal Mansour. “That was very sensitive because,
you know, he’s the king,” confides general manager
Fabien Gastinel, who was transferred from Dubai.
With St. Tropez–bred savoir vivre, Gastinel makes
tireless rounds of guests, delivering packages of
charm like a distinguished courier.
It takes an entire minute to walk across my suite.
More impressive than its size is the mood, exactingly
calibrated, as if controlled by the central switch-
board, which is quite a contrast to the beloved bohe-
mian style of El Fenn or the pasha’s opulence of La Mamounia. Discernment is
apparent in the elephant gray chesterfields, Indian chandeliers, and sugared dates
as fat as juicy cigars. Meanwhile, the mix of Mughal and Berber paintings reminds
me that although I am firmly in Marrakech, I am never far from Rajasthan. The
hotel’s showpiece is fireplace-lit Siniman, the classic Moroccan restaurant with
ruby velvet banquettes and an elaborately painted ceiling. Here chef Salim Mounti,
with his Humphrey Bogart sweep of hair, diligently reconstructs home cooking
with the help of local women, including the sous-chef: “She instinctively knows
ingredient amounts.” Pigeon-and-almond b’steeya precede eggplant zaalouk,
harira lentil soup—as reassuring and garden-herb-scented as my grandmother’s
hug—and argan-oil parfait.
But it’s the transcendental service and minor touches, like the sensation of
walking under arches shaped like four-leaf clovers, that elevate the Oberoi to
the highest echelons of hotel-saturated Marrakech. Plus, the Oberoi has one-
of-a-kind views, and soon the city’s only resident Ayurvedic doctor. In an age
that worships the newfangled and prioritizes speed, the Oberoi Marrakech is a
purist monument to sincerity, refinement, and patience. –stephanie rafanelli
Doubles from about $750; oberoihotels.com