Another hotel has opened in London's East End. A few weeks ago I reviewed Shoreditch Rooms. Now I'm checking in at Town Hall, so-called because that's what it once was, elegant, Edwardian and rubbing shoulders with the kebab shops and mini markets of Bethnal Green.

Great lobby – marble pillars, sweeping staircase. No slumming it for the councillors. Check in, to the sound of Aladdin Sane. There is no room service, they tell me. Oh. Isn't that the point of paying all this money?

My room, on the top floor, is very cool. Almost all the rooms have a kitchen, mine also has a sitting area and sliding doors to the bedroom and bathroom. I love it up here in my wood and white domain. The third floor has been added to the existing structure and heavy windows open out to a balcony encased in sculpted metal. The kitchen is disproportionately big to desk and wardrobe space.

Whoever designed the wardrobe must have a capsule-clothing collection of five items, none longer than a shirt. There are thief-proof hangers (oh puh-leese) and no full-length mirror (so if I hit the bar with my dress tucked into my knickers, it won't be my fault). The all-white bathroom's a chic Corian cube, but L'Occitane toiletries? Hardly edgy.

I ring down to ask how easy it is for my dining companions to park. The voice, Castillian rather than Cockney, doesn't know, she isn't a driver. I go down myself and a woman from the flats opposite (who is an East Ender) assures me that there's usually a space or two at night, then adds that the hotel management asked one of her neighbours to turn their music down. Hotel complaining to a local resident – bet that's a first.

The pals arrive. We like the commissioned art but it fails to temper the feeling of emptiness down endless corridors. Great bar though.

Many column inches have already been devoted to restaurant Viajante, not least in this paper, so I'll be brief. While tasting menus seem, to me, the chefs' equivalent of fret-wanking, we find we're having a ball, although we don't choose – but are brought by lovely staff – beautifully presented course after experimental course. Nuno Mendes is doing really exciting food – even if some of it goes too far (we say no to milk skin).

Next day, breakfast is in a gloomy room at the rear of the building. The waitress's first words are, "You won't be able to choose from the full menu because that stops at 10 o'clock". I check my phone – it is 10.01am. Tea arrives, or rather boiling water in a cup, with a teabag on the saucer. What a contrast to the Taiwanese teas served in the bar last night in glass teapots. I nibble a bit of £6 buffet fruit and smoked salmon but give in to the urge to leave.

Now I'm feeling the lack of a guest lounge – to kick back with a coffee and the paper. It is as though everyone is meant to hide away in their rooms with iPods, computer screens and private kitchens. There is a fantastic lap pool in the basement, and gym, but I'm not sure this hotel has quite reconciled the buzzy, people-watching vibe of the bar and restaurant at the front with the rest of the building behind it – and surely that's what staying in London is all about.

sally.shalam@guardian.co.uk