Aman Nai Lert Bangkok

Bangkok doesn’t so much welcome you as engulf you. The humid air is thick and syrupy, fragrant with fried garlic, durian and diesel fumes. And the heat, the relentless heat. I soon realised that my body's temperature-regulation system works to a very strict clock in Thailand. I could manage precisely nine minutes walking outside before I required an emergency air-con break. Even within moments of stepping off the plane, my brow began to glisten as I braced myself for the usual hour-long immigration assault course, but Aman Nai Lert had other plans. It turns out Aman doesn’t do queues, or perspiration for that matter. 

Barely out the door of the plane, I was spirited away by a man in an immaculate suit, past the sweating crowds at immigration, through a secret lane, and cosseted into the back of an electric BMW before most passengers had found their luggage. Chilled towels, handmade candied ginger — to settle the stomach — and artisan Aman chocolates awaited. Outside, Bangkok howled. Inside, in my silent cocoon, I was nibbling confectionery and trying to figure out the in-seat massage options. 

Nestled within seven acres of lush Nai Lert Park gardens, tucked away down a heavily guarded driveway, this Aman outpost has the initial impression of a fortress, and is discreet to the point of conspiratorial. Step through the doors and the endless thrum of the city vanishes into a vacuum of calm, anchored by an astonishing 12-metre-tall brass and gold-leaf tree sculpture, which pays homage to the existing century-old rain tree rising up majestically through the centre of the building — to the extent that its expansive canopy is still visible at the lofty heights of the 10th-floor swimming pool and spa. 

My suite was larger than most two-bedroom city apartments. It was all teak and marble — quiet luxury that whispers rather than shouts. A private butler appeared, promising to ‘curate my stay’. I usually curate my own days, generally around meals, but having someone else orchestrate your whims is disarmingly addictive.

Dinner at Hiori, the hotel’s teppanyaki jewel, was equal parts theatre and restraint. Only Aman guests and residents may enter. The other diners and I were seated around a crescent bar, watching chefs slice, sear and sizzle with monastic precision. Each course is presented with genuine passion by the head chef, with as much or as little explanation of the produce as you wish to hear. Afterwards, I drifted into the Aman Lounge, where a live jazz trio played beneath Bangkok’s skyline, the pulse of the city slowing to match the tempo of the double bass. 

As seductive as Aman’s cocoon is, the delirious patchwork of chilli, lime, fish sauce and smoke that is Bangkok’s food scene waits for no one. So each morning I plunged out into the chaos. I ate incessantly. And while I did not have a single disappointing meal, there were a few standouts. 

At Soi Polo, chicken is served deeply golden and crispy, then buried under a landslide of fried garlic. Cash only, plastic tables, sweat pouring down my back — simple and glorious. At Som Tam Jay So, I watched as the matriarch held court over a giant mortar, tossing in peanuts, chilli, herbs, pomelo and green papaya, fish sauce and whole limes — a few pounds of the pestle later and the dish was in front of you. I love spice, but this was something else altogether. A heat so terrific I briefly reached Nirvana and for a few moments was convinced my heart had stopped. And yet, somehow, it seemed in balance with everything else, the heat of the outdoor setting, the billowing smoke from the grill, the melody of the glorious Thai language sung out by locals on every side of me — surely the greatest testament to the authenticity of this thrilling food stall.

At Zao Ekkamai, there is serious intent and funky spice, bringing the flavours of Isaan, the cuisine of north-eastern Thailand, to the centre of Bangkok. For mango sticky rice, Mae Varee reigns supreme: queues worth giving in to for this golden fruit of the gods. I soothed the chilli burns with coconut coffee at Local Boys, all hipster concrete and graffiti. Breakfast at Ega Sathorn was a revelation: rice noodles with a southern curry, smoky sai krok sausages from the north-east and herbal tea.

Between meals, I strolled down Song Wat Road, where Bangkok’s old soul still lingers in weather-worn wooden shophouses; lost an afternoon to ATT 19, a gallery full of bold textiles and installations; and explored the glorious Jim Thompson House Museum too. For balance, I submitted myself to the massage school at Wat Pho: no spa oils or whale music here, just elbows and thumbs rearranging my muscles for the price of a short taxi ride.

Each evening, scorched by chilli, I’d return to my room to find a different exotic fruit waiting for me. The longan was the most fitting of all; its translucent, perfumed flesh beneath a manila-paper skin, a gleaming black seed at its heart, almost designed to echo Aman’s quiet elegance.

You come to Bangkok to eat until your tongue fizzes and your heart races. You stay at Aman Nai Lert so you can survive it all in silk pyjamas. It is as close to perfection as a greedy traveller could hope for.