Oscar Wilde uttered his final witticisms at L’Hôtel, and it’s fittingly decadent. Given its glittering guestbook (Salvador Dalí, Frank Sinatra, Princess Grace), you might expect a palace preserved in aspic, but a Jacques Garcia revamp put it back in the limelight in 2001. The ambience is discreeter than during its naughty 1970s heyday, but the visuals are wonderfully OTT, with ornate fittings, sumptuous drapes and a lavishly decorated series of intriguing ground-floor spaces, including a major gastronomic restaurant, which holds its own among the top-drawer eating experiences of the city. Each of the 20 bedrooms has its own theme: Marco Polo offers elegance à l’Asiatique, with porcelain lamps and a pagodaesque, wood-panelled bed; Mistinguett is all art deco and mirrors, with a bed and chest of drawers that used to belong to the long-legged queen of the Paris music hall herself. Literary pilgrims can stay in the Oscar Wilde room, though we couldn’t enjoy the private terrace and peacock mural without weeping for Wilde’s less luxurious last days. The final trump card here is the subterranean, stone-walled plunge pool/hammam, which you can book by the hour for candlelit trysts.