Mr & Mrs Smith

There’s a delicious aroma wafting through the lobby. Even harried and edgy, our spirits start to lift. We glance about and notice sinful tables of treats arranged in the Salon. We’ve arrived in time to feast on the weekend Chocolate Buffet. The temptation is definitely there, but for the past hour all we’ve wanted to do is head towards the sanctuary of our room. It took us some time to inch the mile and a half up Sathorn Road. Then, at a point tantalisingly close to the Sukhothai, a Mercedes-Benz blocked half the road. The driver, slipping off to buy noodles, simply left his car unattended.

That the Thai drivers around us took this in their stride, waiting with fatalistic patience for the noodle-buyer, was both charming and infuriating. My less-than-Buddhist response was pointless and, in its own good time, the traffic moved on and we turned into the hotel’s tree-lined drive. Security guards ushered us through with a sharp salute and an oddly out-of-place Prussian heel-click. At once, where there was chaos, now there is calm. And chocolate.

The Sukhothai is named after the ancient northern kingdom ruled over by Ramkhamhaeng, Thailand’s answer to King Arthur, a monarch who united the region’s warring factions after the fall of Angkor and ushered in a golden age of order. It is an apt comparison. Where Bangkok’s best hotels often fall victim to over-the-top gilt and ostentation, the Sukhothai’s designers have shown admirable restraint.

Externally this pared-down style has been taken to extremes – the façade is perhaps a little too austere – but it comes into its own with the interiors, which are all muted tones and clean lines. It’s where traditional Thai meets art deco head on in a pleasing, soothing mix. The atmosphere is hushed and unhurried, and our traffic-frayed tempers begin to cool under the gentle smile of the woman who greets us in elegant Thai silks.

We check in and are led to our room, all olive-toned silk walls, teak furniture, floors and trim. Though it’s a very Western rendition of the Asian ideal, it does draw deeply on the best of Thai decor to deliver deceptively simple luxury. We walk out onto the generous balcony, overlooking the pool, and take in a lush tropical view punctuated by the Bangkok skyline.

Our bathroom is more of a mini-spa, packing the full range of fab fittings into a relatively small space. Two vanities ensure there will be no squabbles over basin space, the bath is deep and wide enough for two, and the separate shower cubicle comes with massage showerhead – one that actually works for a change – combined with a wall-jet system. The leaf-toned shower tiles scream tropical-rainforest grotto.

The Sukhothai’s rooms have three defences against the outside world: a sliding glass door to keep out the noise; a roll-back insect screen to hold bugs at bay; and silk-lined teak shutters that tell the whole damn lot to keep a distance. After a well-earned wallow in the tub, Mrs Smith and I choose the final option and settle into the fluffy pillows of our stylish self-contained retreat.

When morning comes, heralded by a superbly laden breakfast tray, our thoughts turn to how to make the most of cool-season Bangkok. A trip to Chatuchak Market, perhaps, to winkle out some Burmese antiques? A jostle in Chinatown to find the best yum cha this side of Hong Kong? Or a ride in the lift down to the pool for a morning of bone idleness?

Lounging by the pool is a very special experience. The Pool Terrace Café & Bar, with its awning of canvas and box-hedge borders, may be more resonant of Cap d’Antibes than Thailand, but that’s not a complaint. Riviera chic meets Thai charm in the shape of a platoon of khaki-clad boys, who scurry to meet your every need. Throughout the hotel service is cheerful, discreet and efficient, but it noticeably shifts up a gear when you’re beside the pool. As this is the haunt of a large, glamorous and gregarious gay contingent, Mrs Smith and I can’t help but wonder whether the two occurrences are related.

After a punishing morning lying in the sun, devouring club sandwiches and drinking rosé prosecco, we retire to our room to consider our options for the afternoon. I suggest a game of tennis, but Mrs Smith is far more interested in a spot of Thai massage in the spa. We decide to compromise, and pull up the drawbridge – well, close the shutters – for a siesta. We doze deliciously to the sound of gentle splashing from the pool below.

Refreshed, we head to dinner. There’s a choice of three restaurants at Sukhothai: La Scala, classic northern Italian with Asian twists; the Celadon, a Thai restaurant surrounded by lotus ponds; or the Colonnade, a serene space in the main building. As we’re planning to indulge in the Colonnade’s sumptuous brunch the next day, and the most authentic Thai food is to be found on Bangkok’s streets, we opt for La Scala. Visually delightful with a laid-back ambience, the eatery proves an excellent choice. The food is a pleasure and the wine, in a town where prices are generally eye-watering, is very good value. In fact, it’s such good value that we order a second bottle. It turns out we can’t finish it, but the waiter arranges for it to be sent to the room as we’re settling the bill. It arrives before we do. These people are good.

The Sukhothai is a wonderful pit-stop in the rat race of Bangkok. And apart from the bathrobes (though the hospital-issue designs hanging in the bathroom during our stay have since been replaced by stylish waffle-cotton numbers, I hear) it’s pretty well faultless. But even those robes can be happily overlooked. Perhaps the hotel was just toughening us up to face the real world, and the nightmare of the Sathorn Road beyond the chocolate-coated cavern of the Sukhothai.