Welcome to the "Pharaoh of Park Avenue" suite, where more is never enough and "subtle" is a four-letter word. This room is a masterclass in 1980s decorative anxiety: the designer clearly couldn't decide between a funeral parlor in Cairo and a discotheque in Midtown, so they simply chose both.
We have a mirrored pillar that serves no purpose other than to remind you, from every conceivable angle, that your permed hair is losing its structural integrity. Then there’s the wallpaper. It’s not just a pattern; it’s a commitment to a lifestyle involving ancient curses and heavy sedative use. I’m particularly captivated by those velvet floor poufs. They look like giant, over-ripened raviolis waiting to swallow a guest whole after their third Harvey Wallbanger. It’s the kind of room where you’d sit by the fire, gaze at your white roses, and plot how to write off a solid gold sarcophagus as a "business expense."
