The Poon Choi Club and the Lacerated Hand

Saturday was an eventful day. One of the two things for which I'll long remember it is because my friend Joy coordinated a Poon choi dinner in the New Territories—and was gracious enough to invite me along. The second reason is because I almost had to skip out on the dinner and swap it for a visit to the ER, as I seriously hurt my hand in a household accident. 

Poon choi is a traditional Hong Kong dish, tracing its roots back over seven centuries to the old walled villages of the New Territories in the far north of the Kowloon peninsula. Some say the translation is "Chinese casserole," while others claim it means "big feast in a bowl." Both would seem to make sense to me, but I can offer no further comment onto which is more accurate. 

In the New Territories, communal meals were once common, so Poon choi became closely associated with the region. It was a natural choice for major feasts, rituals, weddings and other celebrations, and to this day, the dish is tied in with the traditions of the old walled villages of Kowloon. 

Many of these communities still organize an annual Poon choi feast, normally during the winter months of the year, due to the hearty nature of the food, which would be less enjoyable on a typically sweltering Hong Kong midsummer's day. One such village is San Tin, near the Chinese border in a remote stretch of the New Territories. And as luck would have it, my friend Joy—while not from San Tin—has a connection that occasionally gives her the opportunity to attend the festivities, and on rarer occasions still, to bring along some of her friends. This year, I got tapped to join in the fun, and for weeks now, I'd been looking forward to it. 

So, at about 2pm on Saturday afternoon, I started getting ready. I filled a bag with dirty clothes to take to the cleaners downstairs, planning to drop it off on my way out. And I selected a warm wardrobe—three layers: polo shirt, sweater and overcoat—to combat the current cold streak that's been tormenting me of late. We'd be dining in an ancestral hall, you see, technically "indoors" but with a section of its ceiling thrown wide to the skies above and with its enormous front doors permanently cast open onto a small square. 

As I was pulling my right arm through the sleeve of my blue polo shirt, I felt a strange sensation. I knew instantly that something was wrong, and when I looked down, my heart sank. The part of my hand between the pinky and ring finger was stuck deep into a piece of broken glass on the lampshade of the cheap Ikea light beside my bed. 

The culprit!

That blasted lamp! It cracked at some point during my thirtieth birthday party, when I had brought it  upstairs to the roof to provide a little extra illumination for the gathering. While tidying the next day, my dad pointed out that the lampshade was badly damaged. For some dumb reason, instead of throwing it away, or at least making an effort to render it less dangerous, I simply plugged it back in beside my bed. Well, for nearly thirteen months, I've been eyeing it with suspicion and cautious trepidation. I knew it was a disaster waiting to happen, but not being the most proactive of human beings, I never did anything about it. 

Pulling my hand out of the lamp, I knew this was a potentially serious injury. Inspecting the wound, I could see far into the inner cavern of my hand. The skin was wide open, and the gash was profound. Instantly, I ran to the kitchen and grabbed three or four paper towels, stuffing them between the two fingers and clenching a tight fist, while I tried to calm down and rationally decide the best course of action: skip the dinner and make a bee-line for the emergency room, or proceed as normal with my participation in an indulgent Poon choi feast. 

Common sense did not win out. The rarity of a gweilo being invited to an authentic Poon choi dinner felt like a one-in-a-million opportunity, and I had little intention of missing the meal. I kept my hand firmly gripped, and the paper towels seemed to prevent any massive bleeding. Surprisingly, in spite of the truly terrifying image burnt into my eyes upon first looking between my fingers a few moments before, I wasn't really in much pain. So I gamely finished dressing, pulling on my sweater and then zipping and buttoning my overcoat. Forgetting the bag of laundry, I descended the stairs, caught the tram to Wan Chai, hopped on the MTR, and made it to our meeting point in Kowloon Station slightly ahead of schedule. 

When Joy saw me, and I told her my predicament, she immediately instructed me to visit the MTR customer service desk, where, she assured me, they keep a first aid kit. As promised, they did, and from that kit, I was given gauze and antiseptic alcohol wipes. While we awaited the appearance of the rest of what Joy had dubbed the Poon Choi Club, she cleaned the wound and wrapped it tight. 

My hero, Joy, dressing my wound

Just outside Exit B, the other members of the group began to gather. Joy was the only one I knew, so everybody else was meeting me for the first time with a bloody, bandaged hand. So much for first impressions. First up was Abishek, from India, who was actually with Joy when I arrived. Then came Vicki, from Germany, followed by Zoe and Jens. Andreas, the only guest besides Joy who had participated in the Poon choi ritual previously, came next, then Emily—from Shanghai—and Chris. A few moments before the official meeting time of 3:30pm, Abishek said, "In two minutes, we'll see if my prediction for R&R to be late will come true." 

I didn't quite understand what he meant, but with seconds to spare, a young lady showed up and introduced herself as Rachel. "Regina is taking a taxi," she said as she caught her breath.

"It's OK," Joy reassured us all. "I told you guys 3:30 but I told the driver 3:40, so we're all good." Soon enough, Regina, too, turned up, and it was 3:42 when we were all seated on our pre-arranged private bus to San Tin, the Man Clan village in the New Territories where we'd be dining that night.

It took a good fifty minutes or so to arrive at our destination, meaning we were about as far away from Hong Kong Island as you can get without having crossed the border into the Mainland. And as we disembarked, I realized that San Tin was the old village I had visited back in the summer of 2014—which I described last July in The Lost Blog Post—with its impressive mansion, Tai Fu Tai, and neighboring ancient structures. 

Most of the others hadn't been to Tai Fu Fai before, so on our short trek from bus to dining venue, we took a moment to explore the gorgeous house. Seeing it for the second time, I was as equally impressed as the first by the fusion of East and West. Make no mistake, this is clearly an Asian home, but one whose owners displayed their enormous wealth and immaculate good taste by imbuing certain design features with decidedly European embellishments. 

The Poon Choi Club at Tai Fu Tai

A few zig-zags later, and we found ourselves at the village's main ancestral hall, where we'd be feasting in a little while. It was chilly inside, as expected, and I was glad I wore the coat, sweater and shirt. Since the event was BYOB, we had a nice assortment of beer, red wine, white wine and bubbles, and it didn't take long before we cracked open a bottle. My hand was starting to hurt a bit, so I filled up a glass and explored the upper floor of the building. 

Upstairs at the Ancestral Hall

Shortly, the villagers began filling the room, and all the other tables were soon occupied by the garrulous residents of San Tin. Apparently, ours was the only table of visitors, and Joy explained that although the clan puts on this festival every year, it's only on special occasions that they extend the invitation to outsiders. "One of my old primary school friends is part of the organizing team," she told me, "so I get the offer of a table from time to time." 

I had met Joy only on a couple of occasions before, first on a junk about two years ago and then recently at my New Year's Eve rooftop party, and maybe one or two other times in between. My good friends Toby and Anne were back visiting from Germany, and I decided to host a gig at my place as opposed to paying a stupid amount of money for an overrated bar night. I extended the invitation to friends of friends of friends as well, and Joy wound up coming along. While there, we got to chatting, and she mentioned this upcoming event. Of course, I immediately expressed interest. (Toby and Anne had gotten to participate in an earlier installment.) I had nearly forgotten about it when she followed up with me a few weeks later, and I feel very lucky that the stars aligned so that I could experience such a special happening, even if that benighted lamp did try to ruin the fun!

New Year's Eve on the Rooftop!

The first signs of celebration came in the form of firecrackers. These were deafening, and if you didn't know what was happening, you'd have surely thought a war had started. Thankfully, as this is a village-wide celebration, it seemed like the whole town was in attendance, so there was nobody unaware of the festivities.

Lanterns hanging in the Ancestral Hall

Then came the obligatory lion dance, more intricate than most of the others I've witnessed over my time here. In each corner of a sunken platform in the middle of the hall, four place mats were set down with a Chinese character printed upon them. Atop these mats was dropped some cabbage (choi in Chinese, which sounds like the word for luck, as Emily explained to me) and a mandarin orange (the symbol of Chinese New Year, as Joy explained to me), which the lion had to pick up and consume. He—they, really, since it takes two people to make up a lion—had to finish it all off by unfurling a banner, which was then displayed to the whole crowd to rapturous applause and confetti! 

The conclusion of the Lion Dance

Afterwards, was the food, which just kept coming. The first course was a double boiled duck soup, absolutely delicious, deep and complex in flavor, and with fowl so tender the ladle was sufficient to separate meat from bone as you served yourself from the communal bowl. I had two—maybe three—helpings. 

The start of the feast!

The second and third courses came in concert: a heavenly chicken cooked in yellow wine and another duck dish. These were quickly joined by braised mushrooms—unforgettably perfect—and fresh pineapple curiously marinated in ginger. Surprisingly, this second dish was a nice addition to the assortment, although it seems like the winner of "Which one of these things is not like the other?" 

Chowing down!

There were also fish balls, which I tried but did not love, and pork belly, which I tried and tried and tried again, because I loved it so much. Standing out among the rest, however, was a perfectly fried fish, its crisp and crunchy coating hiding succulent fresh meat beneath. After everybody at the table had a piece, there was only one left over. I did not hesitate for an instant to snatch the morsel for myself (after asking, of course).

At last, on top of all of this, was the Poon choi itself, covered in tin foil when it arrived and then placed atop a burner in the center of our table. The layers of pork, pig skin, stew, and tasty white radish had all been lovingly simmered all day before it arrived before us. They say that because the feast is held in the town's most sacred spot, it would be disrespectful to use anything other than perfectly fresh ingredients in its preparation. The result was truly delicious. 

Suffice it to say, more food was consumed at that table than I normally eat in a week, but, oh, what a meal! As we ate, the young children of the town were running about, picking up handfuls of confetti and throwing them at their friends; others were playing with dragon heads on sticks, chasing nobody in particular as they giggled with delight. There was even a gift-giving ceremony, where each toddler received a boxed toy. "It's like Cantonese Christmas," one of our group observed.

Towards the end of our meal, Jens popped open a bottle of champagne he had brought, as if this event hadn't felt celebratory enough! It was a perfect conclusion to the feast. Around 8pm, it was already time to leave, making it a short but undoubtedly sweet occasion. We grabbed a few unopened bottles for later, and most of us took our flutes with us to finish the bubbles on the bus ride. 

Cheers!

Although it felt like a full night, it was still early by the time we had returned to Kowloon Station. Having crossed by train to Hong Kong Island, Vicki re-dressed my hand with new supplies, again courtesy of the MTR customer service counter. Without a scissor, she had no choice but to continue wrapping it all the way down to my wrist. It turns out, her semi-professional wrapping skill is because she has experience as a horse doctor! What are the chances? "The horses react the same way," she told me as I winced while she cleaned the opening with the alcohol rub. I told her I wanted to employ her skills come Halloween, as my hand looked just like a mummy's. 

Abishek suggested cocktails at Foxglove, a somewhat hidden bar with live jazz near Duddell Street, so in we went. They mixed a fantastic Manhattan, but my second drink, a Gibson, was so extraordinary that I had to indulge in another. "Please tell the bartender it's the best one I've ever had," I implored the waiter. 

"Oh, sir, I made that," he told me. "I'd never heard of it before, so I just looked it up." For all the talk of mixologists and ritzy bartenders—which I normally love—it just goes to show you that the classic cocktails simply require the ability to pour and stir. 

Post jazz, Joy and I caught the tram back to Happy Valley. By this point, I'd have forgotten all about my hand had it not been for the ridiculous bandages! The pain was numbed by the progression of wine, champagne, whiskey and gin, and, of course, the fabulous memories. 

The Mummy's Hand at Foxglove

Sunday was a quiet one, as I nursed my wound and relaxed in Happy Valley. I brought that bag of laundry down, and I spent some time hammering the glass off the lampshade, so now it is just an exposed bulb with no jagged edges sticking out to trouble me. And all seems well with my hand. The gash is fully scabbed over, though you can certainly tell it must have been a nasty injury when it first occurred. I have most of the function of my fingers, though typing is a little slower than normal and my chopstick dexterity has temporarily gone downhill. But I'm oh-so glad I didn't forego my chance to experience Poon choi in favor of a trip to the hospital. And I suppose, on the upside, I'll always have a little reminder of my glorious induction into the Poon Choi Club—in the form of a permanent scar!