Even for a hotel, the Drake comes with a lot of baggage. Ten years ago, the dot-com entrepreneur Jeff Stober spent $6 million, what seemed a crazy amount, renovating a flophouse on a nasty block of Queen West. He talked big—he wasn’t opening a mere boutique hotel but “an adult multiplex” for bohemian culture, whatever that meant. He hired an art curator and a social-convener-in-residence (the literary agent Sam Hiyate, who took meetings in the café in his bathrobe). The grimy basement was converted into a venue for experimental concerts and one-woman plays about gender dysphoria. On weekends, the place turned into a nightclub with a velvet rope, the narrow sidewalk blocked by bachelorette parties.