Perfecting the Art of the Long Lunch

I started this year out, as many of us often begin new years, with a list of resolutions. As you read through the paragraphs that follow—I’d ask you to note—you will find no mention of healthy eating, or of exercising, or of any such related nonsense. I gave these up long ago.

And I’m certainly not participating in the travesty that is dry January. If ever a month needed an injection of booze to lend it a dash of jollity, this is the one. I’d be open to experiment, possibly, with a dry July or maybe a dry September. These are effortlessly magical months, where glorious weather is the only motivation necessary to take full advantage of nature’s gifts. I don’t want to sleep through a gorgeous summer morning, or struggle with a hangover through an otherwise perfect autumn afternoon. What do you miss out on, though, if you snooze away a dark, cold, gloomy, drizzly Saturday in January, or squander a similarly miserable Sunday curled up on the couch binging on back-to-back screenings of whatever it is you like to waste your miserable Sundays binging on? Make mine drunk January, thank you very much. I’ll save sobriety for an indefinite month in the future.

Still, I normally do think up a handful of levelheaded resolutions towards the end of each December; in terms of following through, my track record is pretty shaky. I’ve often thrown in the towel by the time February rolls around, but at least I have four weeks where I’m at least pretending to make an effort. 

It’s become a sort of running joke that first among these every year is to finally learn Cantonese, which by that, I mean, to formally study the language, so I can manage more than a simple jou san or ho bao after living in this place for nearly eight-and-a-half years.

Nearly as high on my list this time is to make good use of the decade-long China visa firmly affixed to page eighteen of my passport. It’s not quite as embarrassing as my abysmal Cantonese, but the fact that I’ve spent only a handful of days exploring the mainland is certainly the more baffling realization, considering Hong Kong’s proximity to—and, thus, the relative ease of—venturing into one of the world’s most fascinating cultures. Twelve months, twelve visits to different locales in China; that’s the goal for 2018.

I also want to buckle down and complete my application for permanent residency here. It’s a one-time act with lifelong benefits, and I have no defense for this delay. I’ve been eligible since last March, so it’s really just due to my own slothfulness that I’ve not gathered the required records and submitted the necessary paperwork.

Last among my official 2018 resolutions is, generally, to read more, and, specifically, to read more fiction. The first tome I pulled off the bookshelf a few days into January was Between Meals. I’ve read it before, of course, but A.J. Liebling’s poignant, elegant memoir of time spent in Paris at various stages of his life is perpetually ripe for rediscovery. Because early January marks the anniversary of my own arrival in Paris back in 2007 to study abroad, it is an appropriate time for me to relive the great New Yorker writer’s sharp and witty reminiscences, and, through them, my own.

I suppose it’s an indication of the seriousness with which I approach my resolutions that this first book was decidedly non-fiction. (Then again, to appraise my devotion, you probably didn’t need to look much further than my Cantonese proficiency, the lack of new passport stamps, or that fact that the PR application is still not submitted.) Still, you may be happy to learn that my second selection is a bona fide novel, furthermore one I’m reading for the first time: Memoirs of Hadrian. And I’m engrossed. It’s like poetry dressed as prose, or philosophy masquerading as autobiography.

In spite of having set four objectives, I’m now wondering if it’s permissible to add a retroactive fifth resolution to the list. Sometimes you just realize you’re admirably en route to some lofty height, even though it wasn’t an ambition—at least not a conscious ambition—to embark on the journey. Yet you want others to think it was a goal all along. I may have one of those.  

Perhaps I’ve been subliminally influenced by Liebling’s rapacious appetite and the passionate way he writes about it in Between Meals. But nearly a month in to this new year, it seems I’ve enjoyed an inordinate number of incredibly indulgent lunches, those fabulous mid-day meals that linger on into the late afternoon. And it got me thinking: if I fine-tuned this practice to a high art, I’d really just be embracing a latent opinion I’ve held for years. In fact, that might not be a bad title for my own memoirs—à la Liebling—if ever I sit down to write them some day: Perfecting the Art of the Long Lunch.

I’ve heard that it’s healthier to feast under the noonday sun and reduce the size of your evening repast, though I’d be lying if I said that that has any bearing on my decision. No, I have always harbored a somewhat clandestine conviction that if one must determine the superiority of either the lunch or the dinner, I’d have to side with the former. That’s not to say that I haven’t had my share of unforgettably fantastic dinners—indeed some of the best meals of my life have been dinners—but simply that, in my humble opinion, if given the choice, I’d rather have a bang-on, ten-out-of-ten, marvelous lunch than a bang-on, ten-out-of-ten, marvelous dinner.

Part of that must be because when I look back on the notable meals I’ve had the good fortune to enjoy over my thirty plus years, the best lunches of my life form a tableau of even more sublime memories than do the top dinners. That is to say, the finest lunches not only rival the finest dinners, but to me, they have the clear advantage. The list is replete with veritable feasts: great food, great friends, great times.

Some of my earliest recollections are of going into New York City with my family, more often than not to see a Broadway show. Of course, when my sister Danielle and I were young, we normally caught the matinee, always followed by lunch at a ritzy Manhattan steakhouse, like Angelo and Maxie’s or, my mom’s favorite, the Palm.

Matinees were on Wednesday afternoons back then—I’m embarrassed to say I have no idea if this is still the case—so my mom took us out of class on these special occasions. And I loved knowing that all my friends were stuck inside Memorial Elementary School, while I delighted in the joys of playing hooky in one of the world’s greatest cities.

Our family vacations provide many of the other early installments of my life’s great lunches. Looking back on them now, memories are unleashed upon my brain like a flood: the strong Chincoteague sun and discovering hush puppies at Kelly’s Dockside Fish Fry; the recreation of Hollywood’s iconic Brown Derby in the Disney-MGM Studios, complete with its unforgettable grapefruit cake and movie star caricatures; Brasserie Les Halles on one of many trips to Washington, D.C.; the Bull and Finch Pub, the inspiration for Cheers, in Boston; Jamie Kennedy’s exquisite dining room at the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto. These were preliminary episodes that ignited in me a profound affection for lunchtime that has not abated but rather grown as time’s gone by.

Of course, for me just as it was for Liebling, the time I spent abroad in Paris in 2007 was an enlightening primer to the culinary treasures of France. That semester was the only sustained period in my life during which I maintained a daily “diary.” So, in addition to my own memory, I also have a written log of many of the great meals I ate throughout those precious months.

When my mom and sister came to visit me that spring, we spent a particularly remarkable April afternoon at le Jules Verne, the famous restaurant on the second terrace of the Eiffel Tower. I saved the receipt and pinched a napkin, both of which are still in my “Paris shoebox” that has travelled with me to Asia and now sits in my wardrobe in Happy Valley. (I periodically open it up, less frequently that I used to, to relive the magical moments.)

"Souvenirs" from the Paris Shoebox

About a week later, my dad also arrived in France, and our quartet soon set off for Normandy where, one day, we ventured to Honfleur. I wrote that it was “the cutest town I’ve ever seen.” Lunch that day—mussels and white wine enjoyed en plein air along the quaint harbor at a restaurant whose name I didn’t bother to record—was pure perfection. As I recall, we lingered at that table for hours.

Back in the States, there once was a lunch at the Russian Tea Room with my friend Mary Catherine—from Missouri—who visited New York for the first time in the midst of a summer break during our Villanova years, enlisting me as her tour guide. Another lunch that week was at the iconic Tavern on the Green in Central Park, a fairy tale restaurant if ever there was one, where the setting overshadowed the food in the most delightful way possible.

The legendary Russian Tea Room

That same summer, my mother, sister and I spent a sunny mid-July weekend in Philadelphia, celebrating my mom’s birthday lunch at our favorite spot, Le Bec-Fin, which, although now sadly closed, will always have a special place among the important restaurants of my life.

I still remember ordering my steak that day—as I always do—rare. When it arrived, it was just a touch more cooked than I would have liked, but after one bite, it was so delicious that I hardly cared. (I would never even consider sending a dish back at this kind of an establishment unless there was something seriously wrong, like the steak arriving well done.) Simultaneously, master chef Georges Perrier emerged from behind some drapery and circulated among the small, impossibly elegant dining room surveying his beloved patrons. Spotting my beef, he angrily spoke to some of the wait staff, apologized that the meat was overcooked and whisked away the dish. A few moments later, a perfectly rare steak—indeed even more delicious than the one before—was plated before me.

How many of the chefs of the world are so entirely devoted to their art that they are aware of the precise order of every single customer in their dining room to the extent that they’d notice a particular steak was medium rare instead of rare? I’ve never forgotten it. And this is exactly what made Le Bec-Fin such an endearing spot to so many Philadelphians for so long. Of the half dozen or so meals I was lucky enough to enjoy at Le Bec-Fin during its waning days, this and a Mother’s Day brunch in 2009 are the most enduringly beautiful memories, though my sister still thinks waiters uttering, “Pardon my reach,” as the staff here did often, is a bit over-the-top. We still laugh about it, and whenever that phrase is spoken in other restaurants, a rarity these days, I’m transported to Walnut Street.

For a brief spell in the summer of 2009, just before I moved to Hong Kong, my dad, sister and I all worked out of the New York office of the same company. I would be moving to the newly-christened Asia location presently, my sister was testing the waters for a career in the back office of a finance firm, and my father had made both of these happen. I still remember the three of us traipsing around the corner to lunch at the legendary Delmonico’s. In my mind, this was a habitual recurrence, but it may in fact have only happened once. My sister soon decided corporate America wasn’t for her; I moved to Hong Kong as scheduled; then my dad began working out of the firm’s New Jersey offer, closer to our home. But those were brief yet glorious days.

Of course, once I started my professional career here, I began working more seriously on perfecting the art. In the early days, there was little supervision and lots of wiggle room. There were many great days when Kevin and I would pop out of the office for a three course meal and forget to go back. Weekends were spent discovering the culinary treasures of the region, with seafood feasts on Cheung Chau’s waterfront praya, or in Macau, lingering at Nga Tim Café with a warm breeze, the church of Saint Francis Xavier all pastel yellow in the background, and the chatter of friends filling the air.

More recently, I only need look as far back as last January, when Courtney and I went to Wat Phou in Champasak, Laos, over Chinese New Year. After an unforgettable morning exploring the ruins of the Khmer era temple clinging to the side of a precipitous hill, we settled down at the Kitchen, a simple but delicious restaurant in an old colonial house—now the Indira Hotel—about a mile or so down the road. It was peaceful save for the sputtering tuk-tuks that occasionally skittled past. I remember the cat who jumped up on my lap and the hot sun of Indochina. But I also remember the fresh spring rolls, cold beer and perfection of the not being in any rush, of pure relaxation. That was quite a lunch.

The Kitchen in Champasak

On my last trip home, that afternoon spent in the dimly-lit Bar Room at 21 with Heidi, Edouard and Ines undoubtedly makes the cut. For me, the meal quickly took its place among the all-time greats. I had to rush to an important meeting afterwards, from Fifth Avenue to Third, but the vestiges of that discussion—what we talked about, who was there, how long it lasted—have already faded. The lunch, on the other hand, could have taken place yesterday. I remember every detail. Heidi had skipped out on work altogether that day, Edouard’s office was nearby, but Ines had ventured across half of Manhattan. It was the first time I’d seen them since their wedding, they’d never met Heidi before, and the whole thing felt like a true celebration. Of course we snuck in a round of cheeky cocktails. It would have been boorish not to.

Lunchtime libations

Leisurely meals when you having nothing to do, either because you’re a student, or on vacation, or between jobs, or it’s the weekend, are great of course. But mid-week meals like the one at 21, when you should be at the office and instead linger for three hours over oysters and champagne? For me, that’s when lunch truly approaches the divine. And, boiling it all down, this is precisely the art I want to perfect in 2018.

For some reason, it feels just a little bit extravagant pampering yourself with a veritable feast mid-way through the day. Everybody agrees that dinner is the principal meal in our society, so to transpose it to lunchtime feels slightly against the rules, a little madcap, and a lot of fun. Of course, at dinner, it’s appropriate to gorge oneself with multiple courses—starters to share among the table, a rich soup, your hearty main course, then a dessert and maybe some cheese, with coffee and a digestif—but for so many, lunch has been reduced to a plain sandwich eaten at one’s desk, the crumbs tumbling between the letters of the keyboard.

Thus, upon further reflection, I guess my preference of lunch over dinner is not entirely based upon the litany of examples from my past—as marvelous as they are—but also, to some extent, from a quasi-philosophical angle that has captured my imagination. That’s because everybody knows that dinner is supposed to be outstanding; lunch is just supposed to be lunch. So on those occasions when it somehow elevates itself to the sublime, the discrepancy between general expectation and particular reality is so remarkable that emotions whisk me away to another realm.

I suppose most people take advantage when there’s a good excuse to break the rules. Perhaps as the holidays draw near, and the world of business has quieted down, you can steal a stretch of hours to indulge. Or when, simply, the boss is out of town and you can get away from your desk without drawing unwanted attention; or when it’s a genuine business lunch, so everybody has a good excuse to stay out for hours on end.

It remains to be seen which of the inordinate number of long lunches I’ve lingered over during the month so far will, in time, find their way to the permanent roll of honor, like the ones I outlined above. But I have a few that I think are certainly contenders.

First up was Zuma, on New Year’s Day itself. I’ve been to the renowned Japanese eatery on three or four occasions over my Hong Kong life, but this was the first time I’ve actually been impressed. I guess it was a combination of decadent fois gras and lots of champagne. Happy New Year to me. They insist on calling it brunch, though we weren’t seated until 1:30pm and lingered at the place until after 4pm. In a way, brunch is really just a trendy synonym for lunch, at least the manner in which it is practiced here in Hong Kong. Growing up in the northeast, “brunch” always meant a rather extravagant breakfast. You ate French toast, or omelets, or eggs Benedict, and washed it down with a mimosa or bloody Mary. Brunches here can start well into the afternoon, and normally consists of heartier fare, like steak or burgers. It’s just the term for a long Sunday lunch complemented by a free flow drinks package. And it’s wonderful.

The real standout of the young year, however, was a business lunch at Gaddi’s at the Peninsula a few weeks ago. My colleague Mike and I rode the Star Ferry across the harbor to savor the full experience. It was a glorious day, warm and sunny. In eight years, I’ve spent many a happy hour in the Peninsula, indulging in afternoon tea, or grabbing a drink, or just passing through to show off the lobby to visitors. But Gaddi’s always eluded me. It’s a real special occasion kind of a place, and I guess I’d never had an occasion quite special enough to warrant such extravagance. Perhaps when my PR application is finally approved, I’ll coordinate another visit.

Waiting to board the Star Ferry after lunch at Gaddi's

Gaddi’s is one of Hong Kong’s classics; in fact, if only one place gets to wear the crown, Gaddi’s is the classic. They say that Clark Gable and Ava Gardner once twirled across the polished dance floor; it doesn’t take much effort to imagine it. Time stands still at Gaddi’s. An original self-portrait by Chinnery looks out over the scene, alongside a seventeenth-century Chinese folding screen whose twin sits in the collection of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. (Both are on perma-loan from the Kadoorie family.)

I’ve never experienced such dazzling service at a Hong Kong restaurant, from the simultaneous unveilings of every diner’s dish—often requiring multiple waiters to coordinate in a true voila moment—to the intricate verbal descriptions of each course, detailing the most specific ingredients.

I started with a parsnip velouté, poured tableside over a base of sweet onion custard. Next up was Iberian pork secreto, drizzled in a delicate caramel sauce and served alongside potatoes au gratin and “stuffed lettuce,” basically fresh vegetables wrapped as if it were a spring roll. Of course, a platter of French cheese finished things off. The waiter implored our group to return one night for dinner, tempting us with the promise of cherries jubilee and live music.

The very next day, an insurer took me to lunch at Dot Cod after a morning member briefing. There’s no better way to end a work week than by indulging on a dozen oysters (and I could have had a dozen more), lobster bisque and what I’m convinced—having tried many iterations—is Hong Kong’s best fish and chips. A Grand Marnier soufflé for dessert? I don’t mind if I do…

Yes, I’ll probably gain a few pounds in 2018, but I think my fifth resolution will be the one that imbues the year with the greatest amount of pleasure. I mentioned before that I usually lose interest in my new year’s resolutions around this time, but perhaps I’ve finally found one that will hold my attention for the whole twelve months. Then again, I guess I’ve really been perfecting the art of the long lunch much longer than I’ve realized.