Cincinnati’s Gwynne Building is about to reopen as a luxury hotel and restaurant, but this isn’t just another real estate story. It’s a collision of history, identity, and the relentless march of gentrification. The building, once a Procter & Gamble headquarters, now houses a hotel that’s less about luxury and more about storytelling. The question isn’t whether this will succeed—it’s what it says about how cities choose to remember themselves. Personally, I think this project is a masterclass in selective nostalgia. They’ve preserved the Beaux-Arts facade, sure, but the interior? A blend of modern comfort and regional cuisine that feels more like a curated experience than a living relic. What makes this fascinating is how it reframes Cincinnati’s identity through food. The Ohio River Valley isn’t just a geographical feature; it’s a cultural crossroads, and the menu at Gwynne feels like a love letter to that messy, hybrid heritage. But here’s the rub: when you turn a historic building into a boutique hotel, you’re not just saving architecture—you’re reshaping the neighborhood’s soul. How many local businesses will be priced out to make way for this kind of ‘authentic’ experience? That’s the unspoken cost of progress.
Let’s talk about the food. Chef Brad Bernstein, a Cincinnati native, has created a menu that’s equal parts Appalachian and European. Fried green tomatoes with sassafras cream? That’s not just a dish—it’s a rebellion against the idea that Southern cuisine is monolithic. But I can’t help wondering: is this a celebration of the region’s roots or a sanitized version of it, tailored for tourists? The cocktails, like the Losantiville Confluence Old Fashioned, sound like they were designed to tickle the Instagram feed. What many people don’t realize is that this kind of culinary branding is a business strategy. It’s not about preserving tradition; it’s about creating a narrative that feels ‘local’ enough to attract visitors but ‘exclusive’ enough to justify high prices. The Ohio River Valley’s food culture has always been a melting pot, but now it’s being filtered through a lens that prioritizes aesthetics over authenticity. That’s not necessarily bad—but it’s worth questioning who gets to define what ‘authentic’ means in the first place.
And then there’s the broader context. Cincinnati’s downtown has been a battleground for decades between preservationists and developers. The Gwynne Building’s reopening feels like a victory for the latter. But what does that mean for the city’s future? If every historic building is turned into a boutique hotel, what happens to the neighborhoods that once thrived around them? I’ve seen this pattern before: a landmark gets saved, but the surrounding area becomes unaffordable for the people who made it vibrant in the first place. This isn’t just about bricks and mortar—it’s about power. Who decides which histories are worth preserving? And who pays for it? The answer, more often than not, is the same: those with the most capital. That’s a truth that’s rarely acknowledged in these kinds of stories.
There’s also something unsettling about how this project frames Cincinnati’s identity. The restaurant’s name, Gwynne, is a direct nod to the building’s namesake, but it’s also a calculated choice. By focusing on the Vanderbilt family’s legacy, the hotel is emphasizing a particular version of Cincinnati’s past—one that’s wealthy, European, and, frankly, white. What this really suggests is that the city’s history is being curated for a specific audience. The Ohio River Valley’s true story is far more complex, involving Indigenous peoples, African American communities, and working-class immigrants whose contributions are often erased in favor of more palatable narratives. This isn’t just a missed opportunity—it’s a deliberate omission. If you take a step back and think about it, the Gwynne Building’s transformation is less about honoring the past and more about selling a carefully constructed present. The real question isn’t whether this hotel will be successful. It’s whether Cincinnati is ready to confront the uncomfortable truths that come with its own reinvention.
