“I mean, it’s like a chair, in the shower?” No comprehension. “She’s got a busted foot and can’t stand up in the shower?” It’s not easy to get across but Mrs. Sachi picked up a broken ankle from a hippopotamus bite at KL zoo and can’t stand bathing. I mean, can’t stand up to bathe. Doesn’t stop us staying in a fancy hotel though.
The calendar entry “Muse” had been added so long ago that I was confusing it with the band. “Are they coming to Bangkok? Obviously. Did Graham get us tickets? I don’t even listen to them!” but Mrs. Sachi reminded me that it was in fact our visit to Hotel Muse and that I’d better get there early or we would miss the club lounge happy-hour at 4pm.
Hotel Muse is a new entry to the Marriott group and is part of their Autograph collection, like Madi Padi, and Mrs. Sachi has been keen to try it out. The rooms don’t go on special very often but we got a cheap rate this sunny Saturday, which found me huffing and puffing in their doors at five to four.
The sun on Langsuan is bright but it’s dim inside. As one’s eyes adjust there’s old wood, antiques and a late-Art Deco vibe. The bar on the roof is called The Speakeasy and the theme is Prohibition-era/Gilded Age. Could be Noir, at a stretch, but there’s no time to for that! It’s bolt up to the room (the lifts are modern and swift, not some Meccano contraption with a cage door) to collect Mrs. Sachie and her wheelchair, an accessory provided by the hotel fir said broken ankle, and roll up to the lounge.
But there ain’t no lounge, it’s Babette’s Steakhouse, which is why they start boozing at 4pm. They need to get us freeloaders out before the paying public belly up to the bar and start passing solid coin for the cocktails that I’m about to denigrate. The lounge staff were a little alarmed by Mrs. Sachi in her wheelchair but I explained that she was as my poor little retarded wife and no harm to anybody.
It’s at the lounge we tried to sort out Sachi’s shower-situation. Hotel staff probably deal with odder requests than a plastic stool for the bathroom. Baby-oil and cocaine spring to mind. How about twine, a chopping-board and a knife as sharp as the devil himself? I recall that my first-ever room in Bangkok didn’t have a power outlet and the guesthouse wanted to charge me to use one in the common area, but that was a long time ago and standards have gone up.
It’s not a bad restaurant, with big purple velvet Willy Wonka chairs and there’s a little buffet that’s fairly fancy, if not very filling. Pre-dinner drinks are a generous three hours, until 7pm and there’s wine, beer, cocktails and spirits. No sparking, to Mrs. Sachi’s disgust, and they ran out of beer Singh and only had Chang. Must be a tourist place.
In fact, there was a group of vulgar Australians, my countrymen, sucking down bottles of Chang and loudly boasting. Being of better stock, I started working down said cocktail menu.
My bladder has had thirty years of training but we all have our limits. Mine is one beer, two glasses of wine and two cocktails. So it was time for a pee to inspect the sanitary facilities for you good folks.
Urinals, clean and functional. Sinks tidy but no cotton napkins to dry my hands on. Can’t have everything. Mirrors, disappointing as ever… what’s that? That heavy wooden door? I peeked in the door’s window to the sauna. The hotel tower is on a small footprint so they have to make do with the space they have, but this is a first and a bold decision. What happens when the drunks get confused and pee on the hot stones?
“Yeah, it’s weird to have a sauna in a restaurant bathroom,” made me jump. The early-middle age American went on, “I was in there buck naked and a little boy walked in.” I must have looked a little dumfound. “I was going to apologise to his parents but that would have made it worse.”
I had a vision of this curly-haired chap waddling into Babette’s and apologising to a family over their dessert, clutching a towel about his waist, sweat streaming off him and leaving a trail of wet footprints while the boy blushed dark as a cherry. Would be pretty awkward and probably would have made it worse. Much worse. Weirdness achievement for this trip: unlocked.
I ordered a double-vodka orange to steady the nerves but got a whiskey double instead and things go hazy after that.
Mrs. Sachi and I had to appear at a friend’s place for a moving-out party that evening, it went on a bit longer than it should have so we almost missed afternoon-tea the next day. This was part of the Marriot Platinum entitlement and I was looking forward to it as I’d slept through breakfast.
Afternoon tea is in the little bar on the ground floor and you have to book a in advance, which is a little odd. Also disappointing as they obviously were not expecting us and we had to wait around for the food. OK, let’s look around this 1920s-styled bar-cum-cafe.
Typewriter, check, old phone, check, ship’s telegraph? Oh well, this old-timey look doesn’t call for accuracy, just a battered old globe, some binoculars and a couple of fake leather suitcases. Like many of these places the books are old mail-order encyclopedias but they did have a three-volume set of The Life and Times of Queen Victoria. I was halfway through when the food arrived.
Yep, that’s it. Three tiny tasters, for two people and a coffee each. I have no idea how much this costs in real-life but it’s too much. It tasted OK but this is strictly food for Instagram, not tummies.
Am I moved by the Muse? Well, I’m glad I tried it and I’m glad Mrs. Sachie paid. Muse is unique in its styling and feeling but, like the W or Madi Padi, it’s squarely in the sector of hotels to be envied by your peers than enjoyed for their own sake. Service could use a bit of polish but it is an impressive and worth recommending to visitors.
And a final note on that service: it could be hit-and-miss and perhaps the staff are still getting used to being part of the Marriott family, but on returning to our room from the lounge, a little plastered, I tripped over a brand-new plastic stool in the bathroom while looking for the light switch. Fed, drunk and accommodated in every whim. Can’t ask for more than that.