THE AUTHOR'S LOUNGE AT THE MANDARIN ORIENTAL BANGKOK
- by T.E. Whitaker
Dual staircases—white balusters with polished wood rails—ascended from either side, and I fantasized I might climb them one day, each step taking me back in time until I reached the small balcony at which they met, where I would happen upon Somerset Maugham or John Le Carre, and we’d decide to return to the lounge and talk sentence structure over oolong and finger sandwiches.
“Having one of your colonial literary fantasies again?” Sydney asked, bemused.
“I figure if I fantasize enough—”
“And wish hard enough, and click your heels—”
“—they’ll become like memories.”
We shared a grin while the hostess led us to our table in the Author’s Lounge Tea Room of the Bangkok Mandarin Oriental, presented our menus, and returned to her post to quietly resist colonial rule. “It’s just so civilized. I’d live here if I could.”
“Couldn’t you?”
“Not in this wing. I wouldn’t be able to afford your biweekly shoe binges.”
She played at considering. “Maybe there’s a less expensive room in a distant wing.”
A tasteful gift stand dominated the lounge’s center—teas, tea utensils, a book about tea, a polished silver press, arranged amongst white bursts of plumeria and jasmine.
“Have you made a choice?” our server asked. She wore a muted, elegant silk dress.
“The Oriental afternoon tea set,” Sydney said, “with the Golden Swan tea.”
“Excellent choice,” our server opined.
“Just wait until you hear mine,” I said, but neither woman so much as smiled. “I’ll start with the Happy Honey—”
“At least there will be one at our table.”
I smirked at Sydney. “And for my main I’ll have the western afternoon tea—”
“So predictable,” Sydney said, and our server fought a smirk.
“—without the chicken liver pâté or the prawn. Can I just get double the salmon sandwich and the eclair?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And the 1837 black tea, please.”
“Very good, sir.”
“But not excellent?”
She smiled and escaped our table.
“The Happy Honey was a surprise,” Sydney said. “What is it?”
“Espresso, orange juice, and mulberry honey.”
“But I guessed your tea,” Sydney said.
“Did you?”
“Yes. It seemed like the safest choice for a man.”
She held my gaze with an expression impossible to interpret.
“I have no idea what you mean,” I said at last.
“Come now.” She read from the menu our server had left behind. “‘Notes of fruits and flowers from the Bermuda Triangle?’”
“As if that’s why I ordered it.”
“No? All that’s missing is ‘hints of danger’ or ‘stolen from the king’s reserve.’”
“I’ll admit I would have ordered anything suggesting the ‘exquisite fragrance of a Moroccan brothel.’”
Sydney suppressed a smile. “Such a guy.”
“I’ve never given you cause to think I’m anything but.”
“Or beyond,” she said, and laughed with unbounded joy, disturbing everyone in the lounge.
“That wasn’t in the top ten nicest things a woman has ever said to me.”
“Oh darling,” she said, a blooming bouquet of omniscience and humor in her eyes, “am I competing with your past?”
Our server appeared with small cups of sorbet, leaving me with the lingering aftertaste of Sydney’s wit.
“Mango and Thai basil sorbet,” she said, setting Sydney’s sorbet before her, “and lemon and champagne sorbet for you, sir.”
Sydney eyed mine. “Can I try yours?”
“Absolutely. With two conditions. First, I can try yours. And second, if you take more than a sample, I’ll bludgeon you with my sorbet spoon.”
Sydney nodded, her sorbet spoon flashed in the lounge’s streaming sunlight, and we sampled the sorbets, eyes locked, reading each other for the slightest hint of treachery.
“I like yours better,” she said, “and you don’t drink. I want to trade.”
“I like mine, too. It’s sharp, like lemon pie. The mango and Thai basil is sweet, with the basil’s earthiness just beneath. It’s more subtle.”
“Your job is to describe subtleties,” she said, making a face. “And the champagne violates your principles.”
“You weren’t concerned with my principles when you ordered that fireball pumpkin pie at the Bellagio.”
“It was Thanksgiving.” She snatched my sorbet. “You needed to live a little.”
I sighed theatrically, accepting the mango sorbet and her porous reasoning.
Soon our tea sets arrived, tiers and tubs of savories, scones, and pastries on white china with a restrained design of slender tea leaves. Salmon and cucumber sandwiches, chicken satay, something chocolate, and most importantly warm scones with small tubs of jams, cream, and mascarpone.
I tarted up a scone while our server described the feast to Sydney—lemon pie, a black truffle eclair, an egg roll, a strawberry pastry, vegetable rice wraps, fried peanut cookies, mango scones—
“I get one of those,” I said.
“I’ll knife you under the table if you touch them,” Sydney replied.
—palm cake, crispy rice with crabmeat and herbs, pomelo salad, an apricot and mulberry honey tartlet—
“Which is a small tart,” I said, “generally under five feet tall.”
“Which is what in meters?” Sydney asked, maintaining her light smile and attention on the server. “The British never colonized Thailand.”
—something with pistachio I wasn’t going to try, an apple turnover I would, and a small salmon and watermelon salad.
“Thank you,” Sydney said while our server poured our first cups.
“I’d like your watermelon,” I said.
“I’d like your chocolate profiterole thing.”
I frowned. “Could you choose something else? It’s the only chocolate on the table.”
“This is the only watermelon on the table.”
“I’m not asking for all of it, though.”
Without breaking eye contact, Sydney forked a chunk of watermelon and ate it—a feat of peripheral vision—her message clear. I shrugged and finished my scone.
“How’s your testosterone-laced tea?” she asked after a time.
I poured myself another cup, stirred honey in, and raised it to my nose. “A complex bouquet.”
“I bet it is.”
“Burning rubber… barbell chalk… gunpowder… and… what is that?” I closed my eyes. “It’s… yes… dirty vanilla—”
“What’s that?”
“Strip club smell. With hints of yoga pants and a woman’s wet hair.”
Sydney laughed. “Everything a man could want in a tea.”
I toasted her with my cup. “And in a woman.”
“Aww.” She glanced at my phone’s blinking red light. “You say the sweetest things when you’re recording our conversations.”
“I want to get it just right. Could you describe your emotions for me?”
Sydney twirled her fork in the air. “Amusement. Wishful thinking. Suspicion.”
I shot her a questioning glance as she speared the last chunk of watermelon.
“Open,” she said before feeding it to me and sighing. “Oh, baby. Never trust a man on a motorcycle.”
The Authors’ Lounge at the Mandarin Oriental
Bangkok, Thailand
mandarinoriental.com/bangkok
+66 (0) 2 659 9000
RATINGS
Ambience 5/5
Food: 5/5
Espresso: N/A
Bike Parking: 1/5
Biker “Fit-in” Factor: 1/5
