I never expected a hotel to flirt with me. But The Standard, Bangkok Mahanakhon practically winked the moment I walked in. Tucked into Sathorn South—dangerously close to the house I grew up in—it had a karmic magnetism. A cosmic full circle, but with better lighting. And more macarons.
I’ve been to The Standard in London—very red, very plush, very “your therapist also DJs.” But Bangkok? She’s the fun, poppy, pastel-splashed cousin. More RuPaul, less nautical sci-fi. Less buttoned-up, more oversized shades. This place doesn’t just lean camp—it does the death drop. Check-in happens on the fifth floor. I glided out of the elevator into a lobby that felt like the living room of someone who definitely owns an Ettore Sottsass lamp. The art was playful without trying too hard and the air smelled faintly of citrus and good decisions.
Then came the elevator ride to the 17th floor. Ears popped. Anticipation built. And then: my suite. Not a room—a suite. With panoramic views of Bangkok’s skyline, a curved yellow sofa that looked like a sentient banana, and a welcome spread so generous I felt seduced. Macarons, pastries, fruit, a bottle of Pinot Grigio all to myself. Reader, I got lit and began my grand tour.
The front room was bathed in soft cream tones—walls and cabinetry alike—a blank canvas for the riot of color elsewhere. There was a glittery painting that read, “Last Night A DJ Saved My Life,” which isn’t my personal truth, but I respect the optimism. A cluster of mismatched chairs in earthy tones surrounded a table just begging for gossip. And in the tiny room in the corner? A Japanese toilet. I gasped. Then I found a second one in another room and gasped again. Two toilets. Both smart. Definitely smarter than me.
The bedroom leaned maximalist in a very chic way. Primary colors, a king-sized bed with cloud energy, a floating TV, and a glowing wardrobe that made me feel like I was prepping for Fashion Week. The bathroom? Massive. Grey with forest green accents. A square tub the size of a Bangkok condo. Jets that could launch a small boat. I climbed in with a glass of wine and contemplated my entire life. And yes, there was a separate, equally stunning shower for when I wanted to feel practical.
First thing I did? Order room service, obviously. Fried chicken wings. Crab fried rice with an egg. Tom kha gai that tasted like a hug. I threw in an espresso martini for good measure—I had a party to get to across town and needed to stay caffeinated. Came back later and ordered mango sticky rice. Because I contain multitudes.
I slept like a baby in blackout blinds and woke up to a view that almost made me forgive Bangkok for its heat. Almost. I missed the breakfast cutoff by 12 minutes (tragic, I know), and The Standard (ever the stickler for structure) would not budge. So, I accepted my punishment and went for a swim instead. The pool was as glossy as a music video and came with iced Americanos and, for reasons I won’t question, Coke Zero on the side.
Eventually the sun turned up the drama and I retreated to the safety of air conditioning, where I made the deeply questionable decision to order a club sandwich. Regret hovered, but the bread was good, so I’ll allow it.
Dinner that night? Forgettable. Let’s not get into it. I ordered proper Thai food via Grab, curled up on my banana couch, and savored every spicy, oily bite like the king of takeout I was born to be. Dessert? Mango sticky rice from room service, again. A ritual now. I had a 3 a.m. wake-up call for my flight, but it was fine. I was full, hydrated, slightly pruny from too many baths, and weirdly emotional about a Japanese toilet. Would I stay here again? Let’s just say: next time, I might not bother packing a return ticket.