Gone are the days when Dan & Andy were forced to cruise the seedy, dangerous bars of Bangkok to ruin their livers on a budget. Due to a favourable lotto win the boys can now mingle in the highest circles of society and culture, where they discovered that money can buy love, but not class.
Jester’s
Peninsula Hotel, riverside, 8pm
Dan: A fine night it was, and I felt like Lord Jim as I paddled my canoe up to the pier, my pockets bulging with cash. Uptown had better look out tonight! We had been invited to the Peninsula’s restaurant and bar by Andre LePiné, FARANG’s restaurant reviewer. A fat bastard if I ever saw one, he wouldn’t shut up about all the meals he’d eaten or all the women he’d screwed as he twirled the end of his faggotty-looking moustache. The room was quite an intimate affair, with subdued lighting and a lounge feel. I tuned out Andre and soaked up the Blaxsploitation-themed music (“In ‘da ghetto, my man”) as I closed my eyes and sipped the first bevy of the evening, a Singapore Sling – another fine cocktail wasted on my battered palette. Of course there was only one thing missing, the touch of a beautiful lady. This wasn’t the place for it though; most of the patrons were old duffers on holiday, no entry without a bald patch I guess.
Andy: High-rolling, money-clip bulging hipsters that we are, Andre and I immediately slipped into the groove. Dan, on the other hand, was left cleaning the mud from his work boots in the lobby. Taking him to a place like this was rather like being accompanied by a moronic, gold-toothed American rapper. You know what they say, you can take the boy out of the ghetto… cocktails slipped down a treat, as did the wine and the beer and the whiskey.
Shangrila Lobby Bar
Chao Phraya East Bank, 10pm
Andy: It’s a shame I didn’t bring my Noel Coward smoking jacket and monocle. I’ve always fancied myself as a man of more civilised times. Dan obviously didn’t appreciate the sumptuous décor and impressive sculptures. He did, however, feel more at home once we saw the delegates of the McDonald’s Leadership Convention – the scent of a Big Mac obviously doesn’t wear off. A couple more stiff whiskeys dulled the senses though.
Dan: I had splashed Andy with some water while paddling the canoe over the river and we pulled into the Shangri-La so he could clean up. We decided to stop for a drink in the cavernous lobby, all chandeliers and arm-chairs. Andy silently sat, wet, sulking and stinking on the couch and I merrily ordered my second Sapphire Martini. It’s a nice bar for a hotel lobby, better then our usual haunts. Not a single lobby-loiterer in sight. It’s the kind of place to bring a lady after the first outing, quiet enough to chat her up but light enough so she doesn’t feel threatened. Of course the atmosphere was ruined when two busloads of McDonald’s managers turned up, filling the lobby with noise and sporting McDonald’s tattoos on their pimply faces. More commodious surrounds were required.
Bamboo Bar
Oriental Hotel, 11:20pm
Andy: I’ve always wondered where jazz begins and where it ends. Now I know, the Bamboo Bar. A jolly, spiffy bar with authentic old-school (that’s old-school colonial, not hip-hip) style, a rarity amongst hotels these days. While Dan slouched in his chair I stoked my blunderbuss in preparation for the following day’s tiger and slave hunt.
Dan: Now this is more like it! Bamboo and leopard-print chairs, low ceilings with fans, the smell of cigar smoke in the air. Sounds tacky? Maybe, but the Bamboo pulls it off, giving a Far East colonial feel, reminding me of my days on the rubber-plantation. Cool jazz was the main attraction, provided by a baby grand, baritone sax, drums, double-bass and a huge lady covered in thousands of sequins. As I sipped my sixth gin & tonic I sucked in the atmosphere and for a few drunken minutes I felt like a renaissance gentleman, rather than a nouveau riche lottery-winner.