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.

A Review of Porthault Sheets

How close can you come to the rich? Can you come close enough to touch their sleeping faces?

Holly Golightly might have dreamed of D. Porthault. Poor Holly: You'll recall Truman Capote never even let her get to Tiffany's for breakfast. She was born on a dirt floor in Arkansas, moved to an army cot off Fifth Avenue, and, as far as we know, vanished into a bedroll in a tent someplace in Africa. But if there had been a happy ending, it might have involved a private chambre with Porthault sheets. Capote supposedly said the real difference between rich people and everyone else is their champagne and their D. Porthault linens. Audrey Hepburn herself surely napped on them.

Jackie Onassis loved them; Catherine Deneuve has them; also Gwyneth Paltrow. And, guess who.

"That's so much merde."

No, Holly, it's true.

(Miss Golightly would have loved the tech geeks!)

To see these sheets for yourself, take the 6 train uptown and ring the buzzer of the small, silent shop on 69th, just off Madison. Through the glass door, down the few white-carpeted steps, you'll find the linens and coverlets coveted by — well, not many people yet, owing to their price ($2,400 for a queen set, to start), the fact that you only hear about them via whispered confidences, and, surely, their... ugliness?

"Très fou!"

Listen, Holly, I am just not feeling it.

I squinted hard at the scatterings of pink hearts, the lurid, but not quite lurid enough, flowers. I love Billy Baldwin. I get Dorothy Draper. But I can't make sense of this. Maybe a Lilly Pulitzer dimmed by decades of four gimlets every afternoon of middle age?

It's impossible to imagine sleeping, napping, or even passing out on these sheets. They are as stiff as new thousand-dollar bills. They feel like they would crack if you lay down on them.

The heart softens at the idea of the orders for custom sets of linens ($4,000 and up) for palaces, chateaux, the White House, Balmoral, all handwritten in smudged pencil on yellowing tablets and sticking out of ancient file cabinets. Porthault is one of France's Entreprises du Patrimoine Vivant, or companies of living heritage. Its looms, in a tiny northern town, in humid toil, somehow manage to produce these sheets of unsurpassable smoothness and amazing hideousness!

And yet: K-mart, is what they bring to mind.

"Darling, you need a more expensive imagination!"

No, I don't. But anyway this tiny artisanal company has been bought by Brazos*, a private equity group headed by a coupla Americans. "Porthault," principal Bernard Carl says, "is one of the most massively underexploited brands out there." (Quel cowboy.) The seamstresses who embroider those yawny scalloped edges will soon be filing into a shiny new factory in Rieux.

Brazos wants to take sales from $7 million to $75 million in seven years. So get ready for sheetsploitation, Frette-style: "hospitality" quality linens at boutique hotels, sample sales with made-in-China Porthault baby bibs, which by the way already exist. "You have no idea how much people are willing to pay for the `Made In France' label," says Bernard Carl.

What do you think about that, Holly?

"Be anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest heart. Which isn't being pious, just practical. Cancer may cool you, but the other's sure to. Oh, screw it, cookie — hand me my guitar."

I knew, in the end, that she wasn't the private equity type.

The irony of it all is that maybe Porthault will wind up with some better designs. Until that day, the verdict here must be: Fluff.

*In an odd twist, Brazos Group also now owns this writer's student loan.

A Review of Sheet Suspenders

We all know Sleeper is against a fussy bedroom. Yes, my waking life is entirely dedicated to the art of sleep. But that has not necessarily to do with thread count and certainly nothing to do with senseless accessories.

It just happens to turn out that one of those items hanging among the blister packs of batteries, poster putty, sour gummies, and light-up keychains at Bed Bath and Beyond is impressively useful. I would never have tried sheet suspenders were it not for Alanna, who posted in response to my rant about waking up in in the midst of bunched-up sheets, which is not unlike finding yourself in last night's clothes after sleeping at your departure gate in Newark.

Yes, your sheets are chosen with care — Yves Delorme. But because they are a little too big, they gather into flabby rolls by dawn even if you don't toss and turn. You may as well be lying there in the middle of a giant diaper.

Sleepers, it is not your fault. Linens makers have ceded to the demand for sheets with deep pockets, owing to the craze in recent decades for extra-fluffy, superthick pillow-top mattresses. If you are savvy and have bought a great standard-thickness mattress, because you know that a pillow top wears out before a mattress does and so is a poor investment, I pet your head.

But we're off the subject. You can buy the $14.99 brand-name sheet suspenders or, Alanna says, the $3.50 generic kind. Those are your options. Your bottom sheet will need just a few seconds of smoothing to be perfectly flat in the making. Now turn your hospital corners, and you're set.

If you have any idea how to cope with morning-after-in-Newark syndrome, let me know.

Needless to say, Sleeper says sheet suspenders are definitely Not Fluff.

Memorable Sleeps: Up So High

Are the pleasures of sleeping far up in the air, above earth, all that great? Speaking from experience, the best part is the possibility: the moment you realize you can do it, and then, after that, when you know you will.

The next best part is going up there. You climb the steps to your roof or treehouse (this one, in France, featured in a recent New York Times article, costs $15,000, which would only be be worth it if you're planning a life of high sleep with the co-sleeper, kids, and the stray duck) (thank you, Vincent Thfoin, for the photos). It's daylight, or twilight, so you can see the thrilling new juxtaposition of bed + horizon. And then there you are, for the first time, in your pajamas — let's hope you're doing this right, the way people picnic with elegant baskets and nice wineglasses, because t-shirts and shorts are the sleepwear equivalent of paper plates — listening to the wind in the leaves, or looking at the stars. It's nifty, but here's the truth: it's a novelty, not the ne plus ultra of sleep.

Waking up in the sky has serious drawbacks. Think for a second about your early-morning routine. I don't have to explain this, right? Moreover, you probably have slept out in the open before. In your topless aerie, you are no less covered with dew, seeds, and flotsam, as are your down pillows. This is especially true of city rooftops. Our French executive has a staff hoist his Hästens bed into the sky. What are you sleeping on?

I'm not saying sky sleep isn't fun, only that the sweet part is in running away from the house, the ground, the received notion of "bedroom." It isn't a lifestyle choice. Pretty soon, on Night No.3, you'll be lying there thinking about your nightstand, your beautiful dry sheets, and the clear calm air of the bedroom you've taken such care to assemble. Even kids abandon their backyard sleeping bags before morning.

It's like flying dreams. The most amazing situation isn't zooming around up where the air is thin. The dreams where you can float just a few feet above the ground, where your perspective changes subtly but also somehow immeasurably, are most thrilling. Likewise, sleeping in a bed that's a foot or two higher than your usual bed, and with a roof over your head, is much more compelling than sleeping in a treehouse. Aren't you relieved?

The offical word: Sleeping in trees is Fluff.

No! Don't Buy These Frette Sheets

You've been waiting for the results of the Frette test. Should anyone with sense shell out for these linens? That depends, as Bill Clinton might say, on what you mean by "these linens."

Out of the package, the Brio sheets I purchased from Bluefly were silky, but oddly sheer and lightweight. I had expected a hefty bundle. Still, ever faithful (pessimism does not make for good sleep), I laundered them. Nice snowy whiteness going around in the dryer. Lovely anticipation. What would they be like?

The linens dried quickly, even on the recommended low setting. Ironing is suggested, but that wasn't going to happen — nor is it ever going to happen in my household, however much I actually like the idea of sprinkling sheets off the line and giving them a good steam. Still, the wrinkles aren't bad. They give the bed a we're-off-on-holiday look. Very back-from-the-beach-in-an-hour.

Strange to say, though, the sheeting reminds me of the tissuey, disposable headrest covers on airline seats. There's a whiff of hospital gown about them.

Could they be fakes? I wrote to Bluefly, who said the company "guarantees the authenticity of products available on our site." They maintain strict control of the supply chain, they insist, to be sure all their goods are the real thing.

Could there be a different explanation? I spoke with Frette, who said products from the Hospitality Division are made for major hotels and are of a "different quality" than the Home line. The Hospitality sheets are made in Italy, as are the Home and Couture lines, but Frette couldn't confirm that they were loomed at the same place or made from the same cotton.

Here's how it works: Third parties (like Bluefly) buy these sheets from liquidators who coordinate with hotels that, say, ordered too many sheets. Discounters may even buy them from Frette, if Frette discontinued a pattern or made the sheets a half-inch too narrow or for some other reason couldn't sell them to the hotel.

If you slaver over brands, you may be seduced by the Frette name because upscale hotels, and even major chains (such as Marriott) with boutique properties, claim Frette linens on their Web sites and in ads by dint of these "different quality" sheets. So if you thought your honeymoon suite came with $1500 linens, you were probably wrong. Sorry for the wake-up call. (Were you really thinking of sheets on your wedding night?)

How did they feel? Not terrible. Pleasant, even. A dry hand that would be nice on a summer night. Were they transportive? No. Were they in any way worth the money, even at less than half price ($250)? No. Sheets from Frette's actual Home line might be, but who knows? Maybe you know. The Hotel Collection, a percale (as opposed to the far more expensive sateen), is $360. I'll get back to you on those if I ever try them, or if I am seduced by a Frette sample sale back home in New York.

The official verdict: Frette is Fluff.

There's no call to be sad. Dwell sheets at Bluefly are excellent for summer — papery and crisp — and only about $100 for a set.

Looking out for your well-being,
Sleeper

A Review of Frette Sheets

If you're interested in sheets, you cannot have escaped the propaganda about Frette, the linens hugging beds at the Ritz Villa Padierna, W Hotels in New York, and on and on. Renee Claire, founder of Bedhead pajamas, told me she sleeps only on Frette: "I love the design and silkiness of the cotton." (Fair enough, but the latest darling Bedhead PJs, a Liberty of London print, cost $249.)

Yes, the company, based in Concorezzo, Italy, designed the Tablecloth of the Holy Virgin for the altar at St Peter's, in Rome. Fine that its weavers have been weaving away since 1860. But should betrothed couples be herding to Bloomingdale's to register for the sheets, which can cost more than $1000 for a set? Isn't it one more pernicious instance of the luxurification of domestic life? Is it just wrong?

A great sleep needn't cost the moon, as we have seen. I have slept a fine sleep on a wood floor in shabby yoga clothes. But what if, for conoisseurs of sleeping, these sheets are transformative? Notwithstanding the odd idea of napping on the Holy Virgin's tablecloth, maybe — just maybe? — there's something to Frette. Sleeper took advantage of Bluefly's recent deeper-than-deep discount and ordered a queen set.

Will this Egyptian cotton be different from, say, Dwell's? "Air dry recommended," the site cautions. Air-dry? We live in a Brooklyn apartment, not a lavender field. It's hard to imagine W hotels have miles of clothesline in the basement somewhere. Then again, you know hotel sheets see a lot of, eh, use. Could be these sheets last for a generation in the average household.

Most important: What effect does a black dachshund have on white linens?

Expect answers to these and more questions soon. Frette sheets: just one more sacrifice Sleeper is willing to make for your comfort and peace of mind.

Yes. Buy a Featherbed.

Sleeper has spent the last icy nights of the season curled up on an L.L. Bean featherbed ($129), a classic model filled mostly with goose feathers.

The fabric is quite soft and the color of frozen custard, nice in itself but something to consider if you believe, as you should, that sheets are clothes for your bed. You have the option of buying a special cover or having one stitched up by your dry cleaner — easy enough — but that'll take the edge off the fantastic sinking-into-bed effect.

Sleeping directly on top of the thing is best. In fact, it's so good you'll hardly give a thought to the hairs left behind by your sweet little dog. It's almost like floating.*

So it is not silly, after all, to put a bed on top of your bed, if you live in a cold climate and have (as you should!) a non-pillow-top mattress. The question is economics. The L.L. Bean has some drawbacks: it's heavy, sort of like an old-school down jacket. You need to fluff it every day, which is not a task to take lightly, especially if, for some reason, you have a kingsize bed. If you don't get to the gym in winter, this might really work out for you.

You can feel the feathers, the way you can feel them in a pillow that's not 100% down. No danger of quills poking through this particular cotton, with its thick nap. I didn't mind one bit. But what a down-filled bed must be like! The mind reels.

I have this figured out: We just have to cooperate. It's the Internet age, after all. We simply timeshare featherbeds with Sleepers in the opposite hemisphere. I'm ready to brush aside the exchange rate for one of these. Or maybe even buy one of these ($493). I'll coordinate the whole thing. Let's hear from you!

*The co-sleeper, for his part, felt like he was in the middle of a queensize lettuce-and-tomato sandwich.

Featherbeds: Fluff? or Not Fluff?

Why would anyone want a featherbed?

You know, one of those puffs noblemen four or five centuries ago in drafty castles used to put between themselves and their straw-and horsehair mattresses?

One of those things John Denver sang about?

(Granted, that song was redeemed by the Muppets.)

They exist, though. They're still in use commonly in certain cold climates. On Apartment Therapy, a few people casually refer to their "beds," as in, "In winter, I use a down bed..."

If you have a great mattress, do you need a bed on top of your bed?

One Sleeper reader squirms at the idea of a mite-filled fluff that you can't wash coming between you and your clean sheets. You can buy featherbed sheets. Could it possibly be worth it to have to manage yet different-size linens?

But what if featherbeds are little-known source of pleasure? Like down pillows your whole body can sink into. If that's the case, would you then be tempted to crawl into an eiderdown-filled nest and stop eating and die? I think that's what happened to the mice introduced to the Scandia Contessa pillow.

But seriously, what if featherbeds are like mother's love?

Sleeper has just unpacked a featherbed — an old-school model, since she's a purist — and is about to get to the bottom of the matter.