In an era of the ever-more-exclusive members’ club luring the black-card-carrying wolf pack, Robert De Niro’s hotel makes privacy feel refreshingly effortless. Built more than a decade ago in a cobblestone quarter of Lower Manhattan, it creates the sensation of stepping into the actor’s own salon. The lobby is hung with abstract paintings by De Niro’s late father, and beyond it more inner sanctums await: A book-filled drawing room merges into a pocket garden, where topiaries cast an Italianate charm.

Each of the 88 rooms is idiosyncratically arranged with antique silk rugs, the odd vintage table, and marble bathtubs, while the Tribeca Penthouse is earthy and minimalist. But the enduring revelation is the Shibui Spa, where the lantern-lit pool glimmers under the beams of a 250-year-old Japanese farmhouse. A festive din still kicks up at Locanda Verde, which serves rustic plates of duck orecchiette, and New York fixtures such as Yoko Ono and Jay-Z go pretty much incognito, but things settle down early. The wolf pack can go elsewhere.