Snob Diaries: On the I.C.E. in St. Moritz With Justin Kendall
Snob Diaries is a personal recap of seasonal fashion and cultural events around the world, told through the lens of our staff and close friends. For The I.C.E, Highsnob's own Justin Kendall takes us on a journey into the mountains to St. Moritz.
There’s wealth, there’s elegance, and then there’s St. Moritz. Last week The I.C.E. (or, International Concours of Elegance St. Moritz, for the uninitiated), invited me for a five-star, no-expense-spared trip to one of the world’s most luxurious ski resorts for two days to see some of the world’s most exclusive cars take to the track.
Now, I’ve never been to St. Moritz before—and as someone who tends to move in what could be dubbed ‘alternative’ Berlin circles, the prospect of trading New Rocks and Club Mates for Patek Philippes and Veuve Clicquot was as daunting as it was thrilling. What’s more, my favorite pair of boots (Zara, 2018) were broken.
But I’m resourceful. I grab an enormous fur jacket from one of my chicest friends, patch up the bottom of the boots with a bike-puncture repair kit (a foolproof, if not snowproof, plan), and head for the airport. (Okay, full disclosure, I’d actually spent a decent chunk of my salary on a new pair of vintage Gucci sunglasses a couple of weeks before—you know, the Georgie-Shore-meets-’70s-mafia-boss type—so I wasn’t entirely unprepared. But I digress.)
A few hours later, my Swiss Air flight (somewhat disappointingly operated by the more German, and decidedly less chic, Eurowings) touches down in Zurich. It’s my first time in Switzerland, and I promptly pay my respects to the local culture by dropping five million euros on an oat flat white and hurrying to catch a ferociously on-time train.
After a spectacular train ride through the Swiss Alps, I’m in St. Moritz. Refreshed and rejuvenated from the mountain air, I hop naively into the first taxi that presents itself outside the station. The driver, seeing me in the aforementioned fur, distressed denim jeans, and with nothing but a tote bag (read: lost Berliner), obviously has a little giggle to himself before whacking the meter at an immediate twenty euros and presumably on double-speed.
Lining the streets are beautiful people in beautiful clothes, and beautiful clothes in beautiful shops. There are also beautiful cars—lots of them. Pulling up at Suvretta House, there’s a group of Koenigseggs parked outside, revving their engines. The owners stand around chatting to automotive paparazzi, beaming at the prospect of their favorite multi-million dollar toys attracting some attention.
Suvretta House is one of, if not the, classic St. Moritz hotels. The service here is truly spectacular; so much so that my first view on entering the lobby was that of a bellboy assisting a woman with a photo shoot of her chihuahua in a Birkin. This place has been going since 1912 and somehow still manages to be the only ski-in, ski-out hotel in St. Moritz, complete with a private lift that gives you direct access to the slopes. And don’t get me started on the spa.
The next day, after bravely liberating myself from a bed so large I’m surprised Donald Trump hasn’t asserted a territorial claim over it, the time came for the main event. I get myself down to the frozen lake in St. Moritz at a cool 10:30 am, and am greeted by quite a spectacle.
Now I might not be a huge car person, but these cars even I had heard of. Fifty masterpieces of automotive engineering stood on the frozen lake, intermittently started up and revved. To name the best-in-class winners, there was a 1976 Lancia Stratos in full rally bravado, a razor-thin 1949 Maserati 4CLT, an improbably futuristic Jaguar XJ220 (a true nineties time capsule), and a 1955 Ferrari 750 Monza—built purely for speed and sunburn. There was even a 1937 Talbot-Lago Teardrop—more sculpture than car—serving as proof that elegance existed long before carbon fiber.
In the Drivers’ Lounge, endless champagne flowed and a white-tablecloth buffet lunch kept the hungry humming. Outside, Aperols were served by tailcoated waiters on ice skates as engines whined in the distance. Visitors crowded into tents from Pagani, Maserati, and Buggati, and posed with their cars outside.
In the afternoon, the cars took to the track, glinting in the winter sun as collectors proudly showcased their rarities around The I.C.E. course. To top it off, the Swiss Air Force’s Patrouille Suisse put on an impressive show, sending six jets twisting in perfect formation over the frozen lake and Engadin mountains.
In the evening, the pace didn’t let up. The crowd—car journalists, automotive industry heavyweights, and a handful of renowned wine merchants—drifted from cocktails into a private museum tour before settling in for a three-course, silver-service dinner in suitably decadent surroundings.
Post-dinner and with a healthy spectrum of Valdostan wines briefly encouraging a night out on the town, I decided my small continent of a bed was calling. By morning, St. Moritz would carry on exactly as before—immaculate, extravagant, and entirely unapologetic. As for The I.C.E., it proved itself not just a concours, but a perfectly choreographed fantasy—one in which I was more than happy to play along.
