S l e e p e r

A Review of Hästens Mattresses

What kind of company sells a $59,000 mattress? A company that needs buzz.

Hästens isn't saying whether it has sold many, or any, of its top-of-the-line Vividus beds. But sales aren't the point. The point is, they want you to be aghast. They want you to mention it to your friends, the $60K bed. Over drinks (you've maybe just come from getting your hair cut, you saw the ad while flipping through Vanity Fair) your pals will posit which celebrities would buy it, thereby linking Hästens with those personages, the more notorious the better. Fitty, Paris, Pervez Musharraf.

Whatever.

Hästens doesn't even have to make the Vividus; they just have to advertise it — it looks exactly like their other beds. Beyond this mattress, which for some reason style writers have fallen all over themselves to talk about, there's the rest of Hästens' approach, including the blue checked fabric (we get it: you want to be the Burberry of Beds) and the hand-combed horsehair (you, like everyone else in the luxury market, want to capture the attention of the $50-a-bottle-extra-virgin-olive-oil crowd).

It's a dully obvious marketing scheme for such a sophisticated audience.

Now that we've deconstructed the ploy, what about the goods?

At ABC Carpet, in Manhattan, I lay down on the "Naturally" (around $4,000 for a queen). The top pad of the mattress flopped around like a piece of french toast. I found that the soft, medium, and firm pretty much all felt the same. Same for the "Superia" ($8,000) and the "Excelsior" ($12K). There in the middle of the room, on a dais, was the Vividus. Was it comfortable? Yes, but not memorably. Not specially. And I couldn't help feeling like I was in bed with a Blackwater executive who might have bought it.

The bottom line: these beds, with their "beautifully woven Hästens emblems," are Fluff.

At Least, Make the Bed.

Memo to the sleep-deprived (including yours truly) for any reason, but especially if you have chaos in your life: Make the bed. Every day. If you can't keep up with keeping house, just do this one thing.

Advantages:
1. Huge sense of accomplishment. Seriously.
2. At the end of your crazy days, you have a serene and neat place to retire to.

In haste,
Sleeper

The Best Sleeps in Film, Cont'd.

Speaking of the Peabody Hotel, and Memphis, Sleeper just re-viewed one of her favorite films, Jim Jarmusch's Mystery Train. In "Far From Yokahama," the first of the three episodes, Jun makes a beautiful little series of gestures to get Mitsuko to open her eyes in the morning. She murmurs, "sleep is so wonderful..."

When I was very young I used to be afraid that one day I would never wake up. Now the idea that you don't get to sleep, or, really, that you don't get to fall asleep anymore after you die, seems much sadder.

The seedy hotel is the true star of this movie. The rooms with their perfectly distressed gorgeous rotting wallpaper in stripes and whorls and the yellow-and-green coverlets that clash with them so perfectly make me want to swap out my white sheets. That blue bedside radio...

The Best Mattress I Didn't Sleep a Wink On

Now. You're thinking, finally Sleeper will talk about that one thing she never talks about. Not today. The subject of mattresses is uppermost in everyone's mind, judging from the amount of e-mail I get and the proliferation of articles on the subject.

I can't recommend this mattress — a Simmons Felicy — but it's not because of the pillowtop (as you recall, pillowtops are a bad investment because the pillow wears out before the mattress) and not because it wasn't heavenlily comfortable. You see, this is a story about the weirdness of the mattress industry.

One day recently I checked into the grand Peabody Hotel in Memphis. I'd spent the previous night at a dastardly Holiday Inn — noisy, musty, and, worst, my bed was still unmade at 2 p.m. After Sun Studios, a nap is essential.

The lovely gold-and-yellow room at the Peabody featured this Simmons Beautyrest Felicity. Was it our cocktail with the Peabody ducks that kept me up all hours? Was it the bed itself, firm but plush, a bed that seemed to breathe from the depths of its very coils the words "you're safe here"? The hotel experience is too seductive. All the same, I decided to do a bit of research on the Felicity, because I was enchanted by it.

You can order the mattress (queensize, $1,200) from the Peabody gift shop, on whose site it is for some reason called the Peabody Dream Bed, but if you ring them, you get a person in a call center who knows nothing about mattresses. If you call Simmons, they tell you to call a different number altogether, a "department" that fulfills orders for these mattresses, which are made only for the hospitality industry.

The words "hospitality industry" make me cringe. Frette's sheets manufactured for hotels are a disappointment. What is this bed, and why can't you, reader, lie down on it at a Simmons store? "It's like this," the Simmons hospitality bed man said. "You buy direct from us, it keeps the price down. People are going crazy for these beds. We can't keep them in stock." But why can't Simmons simply sell them in stores? "Look," he said. "Any other mattress of this quality, you'll pay twice as much for at a Simmons store."

"So Simmons is competing with itself?" I asked.

"How many people stay at a fancy hotel and want to buy the bed in it? People like you are a tiny percentage of mattress buyers."

"But you just said you can't keep these beds in stock."

Hospitality man had no response to that, but he said he would e-mail a fact sheet about the mattress, which he never did. It's almost, but not quite, enough to dash the memory of the Peabody.

The take-home is this: Buy a mattress from a store you trust, preferably an independent shop not beholden to one or two brands (even if you're at a department store, you'll likely be talking to, say, a Hästens rep, not an impartial source). Ask how long the bed should last, whether it will feel different on a platform (if you're planning to skip the box spring), and how to care for the fabric. If you feel like you aren't getting helpful answers, leave. As you can see, buying a bed can be like buying a used car.

If can't sleep a full night on a mattress before you decide on it, consult fair-minded sources who describe beds with the care that a good wine reviewer would lavish on a good Bordeaux.

A Review of Tempur-Pedic

You've heard the hype. You've seen the cheezy infomercials. What's a Tempur-Pedic really like? Springy and soft. That's rather surprising if, like me, you always imagined that it would feel like a barely defrosted Sara Lee pound cake. Still, is it really crucial that a glass of wine left sitting on the bed (you're always doing this, right?) doesn't tip over when the co-sleeper gets up to, god knows, spear another cherry tomato? That's the question I pondered setting out to investigate these beds.

Beneath the fabulous art and handsome vizsla above is Abby Messitte and Derek Eller's kingsize T-P. "I read Donald Antrim's article in the New Yorker a while back about buying a Duxiana bed* while his mother was dying, and after that I could not stop thinking about mattresses," Abby says.

It took a few years, until Derek, 36, was waking up in knifely back pain, to ditch their college-era relic. They bought a Tempur-Pedic because Derek's 80-something stepfather had slept on one for years and told them how much it helped his own back pain. Actually, they got a memory foam top for their old mattress first, which was like putting a kleenex on a brick. "It didn't work," Abby says. Potential T-P buyers, take heed: I've spoken with more than a few people who bought the mattress overlays, which cost around $800, and were disappointed. I've also talked to people who bought faux Tempur-Pedics that felt great but went to mush in six months. If you're going to buy a Tempur-Pedic, I'd say best to jump right in. If you order it from the company's web site, you can return it within 30 days. Plenty of people do.

Some just don't like the feel of this mattress. Others say it makes them sweat. The bed is made of synthetic foam, which doesn't sound promising for August in the northern hemisphere. But it is covered with a thick terry-velour fabric or, in the "Celebrity" series, cashmere — not that that sounds nice in deep summer, either. At any rate, I sleep hot and tested it on a hot night, and I was very comfortable. On the minus side, one might lie awake nights thinking about the fact that the memory foam is a petroleum byproduct.

Abby's first night on the real T-P was "weird," she remembers. "There was no give. It was unlike any kind of mattress I'd slept on." After night No. 2 she was hooked. Abby describes the feeling of sleeping on a Tempur-Pedic as "body-cradling" and firm.

I would call it a combination of soft and firm. The way I imagined it, the mattress would take an impression of your body, so that if you changed positions you'd be lying in a shallow depression, like you'd rolled over on wet sand. But I discovered, happily, that "memory foam" doesn't mean the bed forgets you're a kinetic being. It springs back when you push on it with your hand or roll around. It's soft to the touch, yet because there are no springs inside, it's entirely missing the bounce of a traditional mattress. It is a little strange at first, but not if you've slept on a natural latex mattress.

In short, I really, really wanted to dislike this bed — products people get fanatic about make me twitch — and I just couldn't. If I had an old mattress or one I was displeased with (rather than our Englander), I would consider a Tempur-Pedic.

Price: $2,100 for a queensize deluxe. Feel: An oddly beguiling combination of springiness and startlingly lush stillness. Velvety. Steady and comforting. Emotionally it's like walking into a familiar room when the power goes off and realizing, with complete calm, that you can do everything you need to by feel. Drawbacks: People who sleep on Tempur-Pedics get addicted to them and can have trouble sleeping on regular mattresses, making hotel and romantic life complicated. (Tempur-Pedics seem to cause a high number of fights between couples.) Doesn't feel the same without its native box spring, so it won't work with a platform bed.

*Antrim returned his Dux bed.

"Hotel" Sheets Claim Another Victim

A reader writes:

Dear Sleeper:

I found sheets I love when I stayed at the Wynn Las Vegas, but they are not cheap: 700 thread count Supima cotton hotel linens, made in India. Is it bad that they are made in India? A fitted King sheet runs about 300 bucks. Is this a rip-off? Am I better going with Sferra or Scandia as far as sheets go?

Stephen

Dear Stephen:

Oh no! You're in the clutches of the Hotel Linens Monster, which is smooth to the touch, deadly on the wallet, and hunts for prey in the gift shops of upscale resorts.

Yet "Hotel" sheets' true allure is the hotel association. You sleep well there, yes. But mostly that's because you've stepped out of your life for a minute and into a very nice world where someone brings you a stirred manhattan when you push a button. The hotel would love you to think the sheets have the power, but in fact you'd probably be let down when you put them on the bed and weren't emotionally transported back to the Wynn. (I'll get to good hotel-style sheets in a minute.)

Supima is a name coined by a group of U.S. growers of pima cotton. It's the same thing as pima, with soft, strong, long-staple fibers. It's good cotton. But unless the package says 100% Supima cotton, there might be only a shred of it in there.

700 thread count? Doesn't mean a thing. These are no doubt soft sheets: The higher the thread count, the more a fabric drapes. But some of the best sheets I have ever slept on had a 200 to 400 TC. It's the quality of the thread that matters, not how many threads per square inch. Not to discredit your good taste — I only mean to decode the marketing.

India has a long and glorious history in weaving fabrics. Sheets made in India, no matter the price range, can be wonderful. They also make wretched pilly sheets in India, and everywhere else, including Italy.

Frankly, I always feel like kingsize sheets are a rip-off. They're one of those mysteriously expensive things on earth, like bras. Still, $300 is up there. Scandia's percale runs $200 for a king. That's better, but still high. It's possible to find terrific sheets for less money at, say, Bed Bath & Etc. if you're up for a hunt. Now that you know the kind of sheet you like, trust your hand in evaluating them.

I like Anichini's hotel sheets. They are soft, thick but not heavy, and just generally delicious. A whole king set will run you about $400, or half the price of those Wynn sheets.

Given how well Scandia pillows are made, I'd be inclined to try their sheets. If you're not ready for the whole investment, buy the pillowcases first and see how they feel and launder. As always, trust the hand, not the brand.

One more thing: hotels press their sheets. You could do that, or pay someone to. It could bring you one step closer to Vegas.

S.

When to Flip a Mattress

A reader writes:

Dear Sleeper,

Do you flip and turn your mattress at measured intervals? I know this is a pretty pedestrian topic, but we’re preparing in our slow way to purchase a new mattress, and I want to do right by it.

Signed,
A Heavy Napper

Dear Heavy:

You should flip and rotate your mattress once a season, because the soft padding around the coils can become compressed over time, and you don't want to be lying there in a trench. It's a fate that can befall the best mattresses — in fact, a higher-quality mattress is more likely to compress than a cheaper one, because it has more padding.

This instruction is for a two-sided mattress, with no pillowtop. You can't flip a one-sided mattress. Hence they wear out faster.

Furthermore: "When you buy a new mattress," says John Moy of Long's Bedding, in Manhattan, "you should flip it every month for the first six months, and then every three months after that." The reason for the initial frequent flipping, he says, is that you want the mattress to wear evenly from the start, before any identations from your body get "set." If you start flipping your mattress after you see indentations, it's too late.

Sweet dreams,
Sleeper

Coton Doux Pajamas, As Promised

It's hard to find good men's pajamas. So often they're an afterthought by women's sleepwear makers, printed with golf clubs or spaniel heads on heavy, disappointing cotton. These French pajamas ($88) are beautiful. Girl sleepers can steal them, too. If you paddle to Nancy Koltes at Home in the middle of a monsoon, as on this past Wednesday, you might be rung up (but not wrung out) by someone wearing them who has hung his trousers in the stockroom to dry.

They're available on the Coton Doux web site, too (click for the English version), but you won't see these gorgeous patterns.

Bringing a Scandia Pillow In for Service

This is Jesus Camacho, one of the ridiculously sweet people at Nancy Koltes at Home, in Soho. After a year of hard sleep, our Scandia Versailles was in need of a little professional attention; I brought the pillow in to Nancy Koltes, where I bought it, so they could send it to Scandia's restoration department. (You can of course mail the pillow in yourself, but then you would miss the chance to discover the Nancy Koltes staff working in beautiful Coton Doux pajamas, having changed into them after getting caught in a downpour on the way to work.) (More on Coton Doux tomorrow.)

Scandia charges almost nothing to clean a pillow ($18), and they can even adjust the loft by adding or removing down. That means you can turn your medium sleeper into, say, a firm. I requested this soft pillow be adjusted so it's somewhere short of medium. If you do that, there's a small charge to open the pillow ($14) and a little bit more for the down.

Scandia first sends a "diagnosis," so you know what you're in for. I hope they don't insist on a beheading. Sleeper is not especially gentle with le Versailles.

I should have the pillow back in a couple of weeks. I"ll let you know how it all turns out.

Meantime, the great advantage — or disadvantage, depending on your time and available cash — to visiting Nancy Koltes is that there is inevitably a new batch of pajamas or a sheet you can't imagine life without. I fell hard for the Suzie matelasse coverlets, from Portugal. They are fine and soft enough to use as blankets, deeply dyed, and light enough for summer. I've been waiting to find a plain-edge matelasse; you always see the traditional scalloping. This one has it, and the effect is sharper, modern. These are exactly like the matelasse covers friends have hauled home from Italy.

Too Dem Hot

Besides the fact that this is a good text to step back from and contemplate on a hot-as-torpedoes July afternoon in New York, when you'd stoop so low, hauling your sweaty self around, as to find a chilly Sleepy's and have a nap, I am amazed and moved that any political candidate, now or ever, would reference Tristram Shandy. A humble citizen reading this witty campaign flier need not necessarily get the joke, which just makes it even more amazing to me.