Getting to the point at the new Ritz-Carlton
by Beth Teitell

Tuesday, September 4, 2001

The press kit for the new Ritz-Carlton, Boston Common, landed on my desk the other day. It was filled with facts about the hotel's architects, its million-dollar contemporary art collection, the in-room amenities - including a bath butler - but it didn't answer the one question that's been bugging me for years:

What's the point of the point at the end of the toilet paper roll?

Putting aside my bitterness on behalf of Boston's old, oh, excuse me, ``original'' Ritz-Carlton, I arranged an interview with several members of the housekeeping staff, among them the director of housekeeping, the immaculate Lewis Ware.

I was nervous to be in the presence of so much cleanliness, but I reminded myself that Ware and his people had never seen the area underneath my desk, the place where I store shoes on their way to Goodwill, boxes and plastic bags that might come in handy some day, and the pan I used to make a sheet cake for a colleague who left the Herald in the mid-'90s. (I'm taking that home today. I am!)

Ware allowed himself a chuckle at my question, and then explained:

``It makes the bathroom look as if no one has been in there but you,'' he said simply.

If you're like me, you probably point your own toilet paper at home, but never achieve that same pristine hotel feel. Now I know why. Even Charmin sharpened into the deadliest stiletto can't erase the toothpaste on the faucet.

I had my answer, but it was a hot day, and I didn't want to leave the Ritz-Carlton's soothing lobby, with its jade plants and earthy colors, especially not after I learned that one of the housekeepers sitting in on the interview, Mary Williams, had just won a bedmaking contest.

Knowing how much I hate it when people ask me to write a column just for demonstration purposes, I hesitated, but I couldn't help myself. I wanted to see how a true pro works.

We went up to one of the hotel's rooms, and Williams got to work. I watched her tucking techniques with professional interest, jotting down notes about hospital corners and smoothing, but when she got to the duvet and duvet cover, I put down my notebook. It was starting to get personal. I have a duvet and duvet cover at home, and let's just say the relationship has not been an easy one.

Here was a woman who could not only put a comforter in its cover solo, but who could make it so that the beast is actually distributed throughout the entire cover.

I don't know about what happens in your house, but in mine, the duvet is a two-person job. One stands spread-eagled holding aloft the cover and two corners of the comforter, while the other frantically pulls down the rest of the comforter and the holder says, ``hurry, my arms are getting tired.''

After half an hour, we end up with what appears to be a large Tootsie Roll lying in the bottom of the cover and acres of empty cover, providing no more warmth than a sheet on a cold winter night.

I watched Williams' hands while she worked, but it was like trying to spot the secret to a Penn and Teller trick: impossible. The only thing I can tell you is to remain calm.

Meanwhile, the hotel opens Thursday, and, I've learned, will have fortune cookies instead of pillow mints.

Prices for the rooms range from $495 to $4,500 and at press time I still hadn't learned any of the cookie messages, but how about this? ``This presidential suite is costing you a fortune.''