It’s a seductive, almost out-of-body experience staying at a place where the likes of singing queens lurk.

Hotels have struggled long and hard to get non-guests to support their restaurants, with varying success.

Unless you’re forced to go, that is.

Not long ago I did a trek through five southern African countries – a joyous journey. Until I had calamari in the middle of a landlocked country, that is. Troubled as both my head and my nether regions were as a result, to the South Luangwa Park we had to go the next morning. I had as my oracle a travel guide which declared the Chipata Hotel close to the southern point of the Park as the place in town (actually, the only place in town). We arrived in Telkom-like darkness in the small town of Chipata at about 8pm, and eventually found the motel.

The reception area sported neon-blue wash ‘n wear walls and a television in the corner with dirty snow on its screen and blasting a pounding rhythm through its blown speakers.

The bar, to which we repaired with haste almost as indecent as the place, had velveteen sofas – about thirty of them in a room the size of my bedroom – a television, and a bar.

I placed my order with what I definitely thought was my last gasp. But no gin. No tonic. No ice. No fridge. I opted for vodka and lukewarm coke.

We had chicken which would have bounced back to the ceiling had we dropped it, with reasonable pap and quite tasty chakalaka. The chilli dealt with my ailing stomach. Our neighbours were all brightly painted females with their trucker-clients.

Around the world the clever way of promoting a hotel via its dining room is to find a suitably marketable chef and turn him – in the case of Bruce Robertson who until recently was at the Cape Grace’s onewaterfront – into a celebrity. Bruce fit the bill and wooed his audiences with his engaging personality. But were his food not equal to his vavoom, the whole thing would have dissolved into chimera. (And by the way, Bruce continues to make his mark on the Cape’s culinary landscape at The Showroom. It’s a modern classic).

Craig Paterson, who trained with food guru Matthew Gordon at Haute Cabriere in Franschhoek, has neatly stepped into Bruce’s soup ladle at onewaterfront. Although quieter in personal appeal, his menu is more approachable and well, friendly, while still maintaining a delicious designer-edge. Not that the Cape Grace is begging for guests. Their list of awards almost equals my weight in numbers.

Although I love both the design and the location of the Arabella Sheraton in Cape Town, they’ve never managed to tingle my tastebuds. Miscommunication happens, but when I stayed there during the Cape Town Book Fair I walked into the dining area for an early supper at 5.50pm, only to be told I couldn’t sit down as the restaurant opens “at 6pm only”. At 6.10pm I approached the aforementioned messenger who clustered with other waiters on a corner. “The dining room opens at 7pm. For a private dinner party.” No apology. No prize, either.

Bepearled people with glistening bank accounts favour the Mount Nelson but try as they may, the dining room doesn’t sizzle. I do love the Nellie for is history-infused walls and beds, but it lacks bling. Having said that, colleague Hilary Prendini Toffoli (who always has an entertaining twit in her tales), gave their see-and-be-seen Planet Bar a nod in this very publication last month, and I agree.

Anne Francis, marketing director of the Park Hyatt in Johannesburg manages to promote Zafferano with the magnum-sized charm. Along with the lounge, the place is always full of what someone recently described as BEEllionaires.

I recently stayed at the ‘finest hotel in the world’ with friend Susan Russell from the Sunday Times - the Cipriani in Venice, where the rich and fabulous go hanging out (or in) when they want to be incognito. It’s a seductive, almost out-of-body experience staying at a place where the likes of singing queens lurk.

We were met by charismatic Managing Director Natale Rusconi who made us feel like royalty. Apart from speculating about the identity of the bespectacled and hooded woman at the vast pool, the high point was dinner in Cip’s Club, with its views across to the city.

Almost giddy with self-congratulations we crossed the lagoon back in the direction of St Mark’s square in the Cipriani’s private mahogany water taxi, to be dropped off at the private jetty of the Bauer Il Palazzo.

Let’s face it; there is a certain je ne sais quoi about sweeping down to dinner, or up to breakfast. Their gourmet De Pisis restaurant was full when we were there and no wonder, the award winning chef, Giovanni Ciresa is creating what is probably the most remarkable food in Venice. Breakfast is served on Venice’s highest terrace, il Settimo Cielo (Seventh Heaven).

Sun City (think Lost City and the lot) has never got it right. Speaking of which, I recently visited Kuala Lumpur and stayed at the Valley of the Golden Horses (dubbed City of the Lost Horses by food writer Lannice Snyman’s husband, Michael because of its tortuously ersatz design). Our version might boast stuffed-to-capacity profits, but I have yet to have a memorable meal there.