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Bending the elbow in Bangkok

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Times Staff Writer

I boost myself onto a stool along the oval of the Sukhothai Hotel’s classic Zuk Bar, out of breath, a few frustrating minutes past the end of happy hour. In front of me sits a stack of blue matchbox-sized packets called “Wakies” that my Thai drinking companion has brought along for the evening.

Condoms, I guess. Can’t a Western man come to Bangkok without everyone assuming he’s a sex tourist?

But no, they prevent hangovers, says D, a Bangkok law professor. “They’re organic. You can buy them at 7-Eleven.”

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I’ve placed my tomorrow morning in D’s hands because I’m determined to uncover some of Bangkok’s best drinking palaces. The plan is to hit places where people go strictly for the cocktails, bars where the main buzz is the one in your head.

Bangkok has a canon of travel literature on the other stuff: the temples and temptations. There’s no need for another referral to pole-dancing bars frequented by men who can’t get a date. There will be no obligatory stop to commune with Graham Greene’s ghost at the Bamboo Bar of the Oriental Hotel.

No need to be alarmed by political unrest -- the recent coup was about as serene a military takeover as you get. And Thailand has a robust drinking culture, to the dismay of the moral guardians now trying to give the country’s bad-boy image a scrubbing.

Bangkok is a place where whiskey is served by the bottle.

I swallow a Wakie.

I’ve recruited D and Noy, a Thai American journalist, to be my guides. Like most Thais, they have shortened their names to something more manageable for Westerners to pronounce. I later learn they privately call me “It,” a name Thais sometimes use to refer to foreigners. They mean “It” with affection.

My original plan called for a solo drink at the Dome, a restaurant-and-bar complex atop the 67-story State Tower in the Bangrak district.

Never got there. Two of the Dome’s three elevators were out of commission, and the mob for the only working elevator just kept getting bigger.

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I had only an hour until I was supposed to be at the Sukhothai across town, where D and Noy had suggested sampling the $25 all-the-wine-you-can-drink happy hour, so I jumped in a taxi.

It hurtled into traffic on the expressway ramp and came to a dead stop.

After 10 minutes, the only things moving were motorbikes, weaving around the stationary cars like salmon avoiding rocks while swimming upstream. A Sky Train whooshed past on the rails overhead. I was sure I felt the breeze of its air-conditioning.

Cutting my losses, I paid the driver and walked to the nearest Sky Train station. For 40 cents, I was in the heart of downtown in eight minutes. But that first drink remained elusive.

The Sukhothai is set back from the road, a retreat from the madness of the streets and graced by beautiful gardens. I couldn’t find the entrance. The security guard pointed me one way, a businessman the other.

Finally, I called Noy, and she guided me in the last few steps like air traffic control coaxing in a pilot trying to land in the fog. It was after 8 p.m. by the time I settled into the Zuk Bar, and the wines were back up to their usual $15 a glass.

I order a beer. And another.

D and Noy are already in the spirit. D’s drinking a strawberry caipirinha made with cachaca, the sugar-cane liquor that is Brazil’s hippest export after soccer star Ronaldinho. Noy has a vodka-base concoction called “Beautiful Kiwi” that has lime and honey.

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“We invented it,” says the bartender, a beautiful woman nicknamed Tip (really: a bartender named Tip), though it turned out after more investigation that the drink’s creator was a visiting mix master from Bali.

D is trying to firm up the night’s itinerary. He has about 10 places in mind: a few hotel bars, some old reliables and a smattering of new places.

A sight to sip by

“AND then there is the bar at Koi,” D says. “It’s a restaurant. There’s one in Los Angeles too. That would be good.”

Maybe, I think. I’m not really looking for L.A. connections.

“And tonight is Models Night,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah. An L.A. connection would be good,” I tell him.

First, though, D wants to stop at an artsy neighborhood bar called the Phra Nakorn Bar & Gallery, near the Democracy Monument. It’s across the city, and D says a cab is the fastest way there.

“You sure?” I ask, but he and Noy are already in, giving directions. It’s now 9 p.m., and the traffic flows as if we’re on the autobahn.

The Phra Nakorn is on the rooftop patio of a building that looks like a student hangout: no band tonight but reggae on the sound system, framed black-and-white photos on the walls and a pool table on the third floor. The vine-rimmed patio is wonderful. From the terrace, you can see the Golden Mount, the glittering gold spires of Wat Saket lighted up in the distance.

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We try to order Thai whiskey, but the bar doesn’t carry it, so we settle for a bottle of Sang Som rum, a local brew.

“Chon!” says Noy, raising her glass. It’s the Thai expression for “cheers,” but D and Noy struggle for the correct literal meaning.

“Clink?” suggests D.

“No,” Noy says, “more like ‘collision.’ Or ‘crash.’ ”

I’m relaxing at last. D phones a bartender he knows who says he’d be happy to shake us up some specialties later on.

I’m enthused. No time to dawdle. There are places to go.

“Models Night?” I ask D.

But he’s a meticulous man with a plan. We are soon pushing through the crowds on the Khao San Road, the Champs Elysees of backpackers made iconic -- or ruined, depending on your point of view -- by Leonardo DiCaprio’s movie “The Beach.”

It’s a pedestrian mall now and has been upgraded from its scuzzier roots by the addition of corporate coffee joints.

D leads us down an alley to Susie’s Pub. Susie’s looks like the kind of place where Thais go to rub up against foreigners. In every way.

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It isn’t the kind of place I had in mind. People are drinking, but they don’t look very discerning about what they swallow. I want D to focus.

“Models!” I hiss at him.

Yet D has one more stop on the way: an old jazz club called Brown Sugar, amid a strip of bars on Soi Sarasin in Pathumwan. D remembers going there in the mid-’80s when he was about 13, with an uncle who somehow knew someone who was connected with the film “Good Morning, Vietnam.” D ended up at Brown Sugar one weekend afternoon, listening to jazz with Robin Williams.

Noy is impressed by the Hollywood connection. “Was he hairy?” she asks, over her gin and tonic.

The band takes five, and we finish our drinks.

Koi time.

It is, indeed, Models Night. Koi is one of those sleek, pretty bars with plenty of couches. Long-limbed Western women drape themselves over the seats, while young guys with scratchy facial hair and muscle shirts stand over them. Ah, the fashion business.

D knows one of the bartenders here too. May is an enthusiastic young woman who shimmies when she takes your order. It’s like being served by Charo.

D tells May we’re researching a story about drinking in Bangkok, and, even though the restaurant is closing, she rises to the challenge.

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“Oh, I’ll make you a great drink,” she says. “It’s got eight kinds of booze. No juice.”

May feeds various liquids into a mixer. The drink is poured, and I take a sip. It’s radioactive.

I lean on the bar and take another Wakie.

I’m beginning to reel, but D seems energized. He wants us to visit his bartender friend at Syn Bar in the Nai Lert Park Hotel.

Syn has a retro feel, with white lights blinking through the carpets and bubble chairs suspended from the ceiling. I enter feeling like Austin Powers, aim for a bar stool. Just make it.

Behind the bar, is Bennie, a pony-tailed Swede. He will be my assassin.

Bennie starts me off with a Raspberry Tart Meringue, a cocktail that involves chunks of lime, passion-fruit vodka, vanilla syrup and much else I don’t remember. I will, however, recall the blowtorch he pulls out and uses on the drink like a welder. “To give it a bit of a surface,” he says.

I have to concentrate hard to balance on the stool, and Syn’s “Jetsons” motif has me feeling as if I’m bouncing through an asteroid belt. I excuse myself to go to the washroom and get lost on my way back. They find me down a hallway and steer me into a taxi. Hand me my notebook. Press my camera into my hands.

It’s 1 a.m., and Bangkok is closing, at least officially. My original plan had been to find places that served till dawn, but my night is done.

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The next morning, I feel remarkably good. My body feels as if it took a few Gs on a fighter jet. But I have no headache. No dry mouth.

The Wakies did the job, I tell Noy when she calls.

And how’s D feeling? I ask. Surely hurting a bit too.

Noy laughs. “He’s fine,” she says. “But he thinks you’re a bit of a lightweight.”

bruce.wallace@latimes.com

Bruce Wallace is The Times’ Tokyo correspondent.

*(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX)

Worth toasting

GETTING THERE:

From LAX, Thai Airways offers nonstop service to Bangkok. ANA, JAL, Cathay, Pacific, United, EVA, China, Singapore, Qantas and Northwest offer connecting service (change of planes). Restricted round-trip fares begin at $920.

BARS:

The Dome at State Tower, 1055 Silom Road; 011-66-2-624-9555.

Phra Nakorn Bar, 58/2 Soi Damnoen Klang Tai; 011-66-2-622-0282.

Koi Restaurant, 26 Sukhumvit Soi 20 Klong Toey; 011-66-2-258-1590.

FOR MORE INFO:

To learn more: www.tourismthailand.org.

-- Bruce Wallace

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