Carcosa Seri Negara

Lounging on our colossal four-poster at beautiful Kuala Lumpur boutique hotel Carcoca Seri Negara, the Malaysian afternoon sun streaming through French windows and glinting off the golden chandelier above us, I can't help wondering whether Mrs Smith and I are in the wrong suite.

Now, we’ve stayed in our fair share of generous hotel rooms, but to call our suite here ‘rather large’ is akin to describing international relations as ‘a trifle tetchy’. The living room alone could comfortably envelop our entire East London apartment with breathing room to spare; and at last count we tallied 22 seats (chaise longues, sofas and armchairs variously), two marbled bathrooms and a pair of enormous private verandas with, yes, even more seating. And who’s to say the furniture hasn’t multiplied since? I even managed to misplace my beloved twice while we were exploring (though perhaps that had a little more to do with the complimentary minibar).

Everything about staying here at either Carcosa or Seri Negara (the hotel consists of a pair of neighbouring colonial mansions) makes one feel regal. No wonder their inaugural guests were the English monarchy. And it’s while Mrs Smith and I are putting together a plan to infiltrate the KL social elite on a more permanent basis that the phone beside the bed rings.

‘Mr Addie? I’m very sorry, sir, but we appear to have run out of pink guava juice. Would you prefer maybe fresh kiwi? Apple? Pineapple? Orange? Mango…’

I nip the fruity monologue in the bud. ‘One kiwi and one mango would be perfect,’ I say.

‘Very good, sir.’

Though my British, middle-class, post-colonial guilt kicks in every time I say it, Kimi – the juice encyclopaedia on the phone just now – is our butler. And scarcely five minutes after we hang up, there he is in person, knocking gently at our door before gliding in, juice-laden silver tray in hands. Despite my unease at referring to the chap as our butler (I’m toying with ‘our man, Kimi’, but that sounds worse), my inner Bertie Wooster is in awe and wants desperately to smuggle him back home with us.

It’s the Carcosa Seri Negara way, you see: he comes with the room, each suite getting their own personal butler. And while I may have moaned about the socio-historic implications of the practice and my left-wing distrust for it all on the way over, I’m soon taken in by Kimi’s charm, desire to assist and inherent appreciation of when to give us space.

For example, there is no sign of him when Mrs Smith and I decide to spend a beautiful afternoon lounging around our verandas together. It’s impossible not to be taken in by the hotel’s romantic, colonial grandeur, and even harder not to let that go to one’s wardrobe. So when she decides to go for a jog (Kimi then reappearing on cue to point her towards the path, before vanishing once more into thin air), I dig out a pair of crisp linen slacks and a little Fitzgerald, and settle into one of our chaise lounges outside (which I’m quite sure wasn’t there at first count), the chirruping crickets serenading me from the lush palm fronds beneath.

After my better half has returned from her adventure and filled me in on the grounds’ other features (the remarkably British lawn, for example, or the cream Rolls-Royce parked beside it), we share a bottle of wine over an afternoon Jacuzzi (well, it would be rude not to) before strolling downstairs for tea. Here, despite the fact we have yet to actually see any of the other guests, the regular afternoon session of cucumber sandwiches, tea and rather splendid scones is surprisingly packed with, Kimi quietly informs us, influential local businessmen, expats, old money and media types. It might just be the incredible setting, but I tell you this: tea at Claridge’s will never be the same again.

Every evening, over at Carcosa, the opulent main restaurant is regularly filled with diners revelling in the Michelin-starred cuisine on offer. Which is exactly why Mrs Smith and I stick around at Seri Negara and give its chef here free rein – a ploy which yields a veritable explosion of delicious Malaysian cuisine. Gastronomically content, it’s over to Carcosa for a relaxed wind-down to our oh-so-stressful day with several Campari sodas in the quaint, wooden shuttered bar that has the feel of Sam’s Bar in Casablanca.

Kimi, once more popping his head up at the end of our gentle, somewhat tipsier saunter back, bids us a goodnight. And, as we slip through the double doors into the enormity of our suite, Mrs Smith spots the large martini glass on the table beside one of the countless sofas. Beneath it is a small envelope containing a neatly written note from Kimi, thanking us for being such wonderful guests. No, really. And within the glass, a delicate arrangement of hand-made truffles. Beats those trite mint beasts on the pillow, no?