The 'Nova Connections

Happy Saint Patrick's Day from Dubai! It's a bit surreal to be typing those words, but it's just after 9:00pm here on the evening of 17 March. I landed early this morning after taking the red eye from Hong Kong last night. I've already spent a memorable stretch of hours getting my first real introduction to this Middle Eastern megalopolis, courtesy of my friends Romain and Janet. Expect a full chronicle of my adventures once I've returned home. But, in the meantime, I wanted to pause for a moment to recap some of the high points in my recent Hong Kong life, which has been chock full of fun since I returned from my Chinese New Year extravaganza on the East Coast. 

First off, while I was back in the States, an old Villanova friend found her way to Hong Kong for a ten day sojourn. Danielle and I got to know one another junior year when we were in the same Communications class. When she reached out to me a few months back to say she was potentially coming to Hong Kong, I leapt for joy. Although I missed her first few days out here because of my own trip home, we hit the ground running upon my return with a fantastic Monday lunch at Crystal Jade, where I introduced my old friend to dan dan noodles and xiao long bao, among some of my other favorites.

That same day, 26 February, also happened to be the one hundredth anniversary of the devastating Happy Valley Race Course Fire of 1918. Over six hundred of the nearly ten thousand people who had gathered to watch the Chinese New Year races lost their lives that fateful day, and the city erected a beautiful memorial in their honor a few years after.

The memorial is one of my favorite "secret spots" in Hong Kong, and even on the major anniversary, I was all alone when I stopped by that afternoon to pay my respects. A quartet of white flower arrangements had been placed on the site earlier in the day, so I was happy to learn the date didn't pass completely unnoticed by the community.

The next day, I met Danielle for a couple of cheeky beers post work at the Beer Bay, a low key hole in the wall with a great selection of brews, hidden near the Discovery Bay ferry pier. As dusk set in on Hong Kong, we caught up further. 

I must be honest, I wasn't the only reason Danielle came to visit Hong Kong. One of her best friends, a fellow Wildcat from the class of 2009, Ellie, was doing a six week work stint out of her firm's Hong Kong office. That was the catalyst for the trip. Funnily enough, although I was also friends with many of Danielle's closest pals, for some reason, Ellie and I had never crossed paths before. We met that evening for the first time, for a delicious dinner at Michelin-starred Din Tai Fung, many an expat's favorite dumpling chain in town. We ordered scores of delectable little morsels, including the black truffle variation of the xiao long bao Danielle and I had feasted on the previous day at Crystal Jade. 

That Friday, my firm relocated offices, shifting from the twenty-second to the twentieth floor in our building. So the company could properly move all of our electronics and furniture, my colleagues and I were allowed to work from home that day. I took the opportunity to squeeze in a much needed haircut—at the Barber Shop, of course—and wound up meeting Danielle and Ellie for drinks later that night.

Neither had been to Lan Kwai Fong yet, so it proved a perfect opportunity. Although we met in SoHo, we soon descended into the mayhem of Hong Kong's most notorious party street. You can bet it wasn't long before the Jell-o shots had been ordered. 

Club Seven and Geronimo's also featured in what turned out to be quite a fun, memorable and, undeniably, late night. The repercussions were felt by all three of us, so much so that our planned Saturday feast had to be pushed back another twenty-four hours, as we all took the following day to fully recover from our hangovers. When we finally did meet again, for Danielle's last evening, it was a meal to remember, and one that was well worth the wait.

My classic go-to venue for big Chinese feasts, American Restaurant, is currently closed for renovations, so I had to find a substitute this time. Red Pepper Restaurant is another expat favorite in Causeway Bay, a place that's been dishing out popular bites for nearly half a century. Most restaurants don't last half a decade in Hong Kong, so it's a testament to the quality of an establishment like Red Pepper that it truly stands the test of time. Although the place is touted in my beloved Frommer's guide that I used as a blueprint from day one of this journey—and although it's been mentioned by friends for the last eight years and I often stroll past it's endearingly Chinese façade when I'm making my way to or from Causeway Bay MTR station—for some reason, I'd never had the good fortune to actually dine here until that Sunday. I can assure you, my first meal at Red Pepper will not be my last. 

It was a relatively short but incredibly sweet reunion with Danielle, and it was so nice to have a familiar face among the Hong Kong crowds. It was equally nice, however, to get to know Ellie, who would be sticking around for work for a few more weeks. 

Right on Danielle's heels was the next of the 'Nova connections to come to Hong Kong this year, Peggy and Sohail, whom you may remember from a previous post two years back. Peggy was one of my favorite professors at Villanova. Not only did I take her course in international comparative management my junior year; she also coordinated the summer abroad program I did in London during the summer of 2006, which I often site as the first taste I had of living and working in an international setting, and which surely paved the way for all the good times that have since followed, from Paris to Hong Kong and beyond! 

Peggy was back leading another group of about twenty-five VSB MBA students around Vietnam and Hong Kong, and her husband Sohail, who is also a VSB professor, again came along for the wild ride.

The first year Peggy and I met up in Hong Kong, I took her to Shatin Inn for Indonesian food one night. She has never forgotten it, and she always insists on a repeat visit when she finds herself in town. That night, Peggy, Sohail and I were joined by Zung, a friendly Vietnamese-born Czech who worked with Peggy on putting together this itinerary.

The next night, I got to meet the students themselves, as we cruised about Victoria Harbour on the red-sailed Aqua Luna, watching A Symphony of Light. In spite of the light rain and chills, the skyline always dazzles, and it was a mercifully clear night. I don't think anybody walked away unimpressed. 

Post cruise, a small subset of the students plus Peggy and myself migrated to nearby Star House for a Peking feast, including roasted duck, chili prawns, more xiao long bao and braised vegetables. 

However, it was the next day, Friday, to which I had been looking forward for months. During the earliest planning stages of this trip, Peggy asked if I would moderate a panel discussion in the third floor ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton, titled What You Don't Know About Doing Business in Hong Kong. Zung got a couple of participants to join, and I strong armed my friends Christina and Matt into sharing their knowledge, as well. Being another member of Villanova's Class of 2009, Christina was pretty easy to convince. Matt, however, was another story. I literally had to trick him into coming, by telling him he would only be staying for a lovely, free lunch at the Ritz. When he turned up and saw his name plate on the table in the front of the room, he shot me a look and new he was stuck. In the end, he even confessed that he had a great time. 

What started as a very formal discussion covering things like taxes, business registration and local etiquette quickly delineated into a passionate free-for-all about the reasons we all love Hong Kong so much and have chosen to base ourselves there for a significant portion of our lives. The MBA students peppered the conversation with their own questions, and the whole thing went off without a hitch. 

We continued the discussion in a much less formal setting one hundred and fifteen stories higher, at Ozone, Hong Kong's highest bar, a portion of which was reserved for our group, who were entitled to freely flowing drinks for the ensuing three hours! Even Ellie, whose firm's Hong Kong office is located in the same building, turned up to mix and mingle with the MBA students!

Of course, 8pm on a Friday is no time to end a big night out. So we all hopped in taxis across the harbor to continue the fun in Lan Kwai Fong. With more Jell-o shots and great conversations, it was a third great installment in the MBA programs' visit to Hong Kong. I hope it becomes a dependable mainstay of my March. 

Saturday was a free day for Peggy and Sohail, and after all the work they had put into the program, I thought they were entitled to a full day of self-indulgence. They met me in Happy Valley, where Fredric joined us for a leisurely coffee at my favorite local cafe. We had to leave the little pooch at home afterwards, because I really wanted to take Peggy and Sohail to Aberdeen for dim sum on the Jumbo Floating Restaurant.

Even just strolling the colorful waterfront made for a memorable afternoon, but when we mixed in a plethora of perfect dumplings, spring rolls and sesame balls, it was elevated to perfection.

On Peggy's last trip, we had ducked into the tony Peninsula Hotel in Kowloon for a quick look-see, and, in the process, stumbled upon a cute little jewellery shop selling reasonably-priced jade necklaces. So after a return visit during which Peggy truly stocked up on green goodies, a celebratory interlude in the hushed, dark bar was obviously in order.

Although our dim sum lunch had taken place relatively late in the afternoon, I was still bent on taking Peggy and Sohail to Man Mo Cafe for dinner, as planned, that evening. We pushed our reservation back from 7:30pm to 8:30pm, and nobody was particularly hungry upon our arrival, but we still powered through. Sohail is a rice enthusiast, and while I normally stick to the tried and true dumplings, we indulged in one duck fried rice. It was so undeniably tasty that we ordered a second helping! In addition, we sampled the fois gras xiao long bao, burgerbuns, lamb kebabs, and truffle brie dumplings... I am just in love with this place. And I think I made believers out of my guests, with Peggy exclaiming, "If I lived in Hong Kong, I would come to this place at least once a week."

As we were heading out, the staff informed us that they are potentially opening up branches in London and Paris. A delighted Peggy, who spends her summers in London still coordinating that same program in which I had participated twelve years ago, was beside herself as we stepped through the doors!

They say things often come in threes, so with Danielle and Peggy having come back into my life for these delightfully endearing episodes, it was only a matter of hours until the next return visitor. On Sunday, just after noon, I ventured to Sai Ying Pun to meet up with Bernadett, unquestionably one of the best friends I've made throughout the past eight years. Although sadly departed from Hong Kong and having returned to her native Germany, Bernadett, too, returned to her old stomping grounds this spring, and the reunion was pure bliss.

Bernadett graciously treated me and some of her other friends to a gluttonous brunch at Zuma, the Japanese icon in Central's Landmark. There was a lot of reminiscing throughout our two allotted hours—Zuma is quite strict with their timings—and we continued the fun at an early Saint Patrick's Day party in Tamar Park.

Sunday brunches are known to stretch in Hong Kong, and this one may or may not have gone on until the wee hours of the morning. But, oh, what a great way to celebrate the multiple reunions of so many great people coming back, albeit briefly, into my life.

Bernadett jetted down to Boracay the next day to spend some time with Sonia, Motez and Kareem, but—never fear—she returned to Hong Kong last night, just in time to join for my own rooftop Saint Patrick's Day feast, the seventh annual installment!

You see, because of this Dubai trip, I couldn't actually host my event on the big day itself. However, I figured transposing it from Saturday to Friday evening would be an appropriate compromise. With my flight scheduled to depart at 1:30am, I knew we would have ample time to quaff enough green beer while donning those trusty leprechaun hats to make the event worthwhile.

I'm not going to lie, it was so tempting to just skip the flight and continue drinking on my roof with a great conglomeration of amazing people. But I knew I didn't really have a choice. A few last sips, a few last looks, and, well, here I am...

I'm popping down to the hotel bar now, to meet my boss—who's just arrived—so we can map out our objectives for this trip. And squeeze in one (or two) final obligatory Guinness(es), commemorating a slightly offbeat but nonetheless unforgettable Saint Patrick's Day! Cheers!

NYC for CNY

Happy Year of the Dog, everybody! I hope you all had a fantastic Chinese New Year celebration, and I wish you a healthy and prosperous run over the next twelve months. As you've probably come to expect by now, my Chinese New Year was not spent in Hong Kong, but rather, overseas. For every year since I arrived here—save for 2014—I've used the multiple public holidays that come along with Chinese New Year to travel to countries like Thailand (2010), the Philippines (2011), Vietnam (2012), Malaysia (2013), India (2015), Burma (2016) and Laos (2017). Indeed, some of the greatest trips of my life have been over the Chinese New Year holiday. And 2018 has been no different!

Chinese New Year—often abbreviated CNY—is commonly compared to Christmas, in terms of its importance in Hong Kong culture. It's not quite a perfect match, but it does come close. And, so, while I've only spent that one Chinese New Year itself in Hong Kong, I still get to experience snippets of the celebration each year, even if I'm jetting off somewhere. It's sort of like if you spent the three weeks leading up to Christmas in New York, but then departed on the 22nd of December. Sure, you'd miss Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, but you'd get a solid dose of American Christmas culture, including the decorations, music, holiday-themed television shows and festive food, even if you miss out the big days themselves. It's the same thing here. Although I leave a few days before Chinese New Year, I still get to enjoy the aesthetic beauty it lends to the city, most notably in the florist shops all around town, peddling the iconic CNY plants and flowers.

As you know, the Winter Olympics in Pyeongchang, South Korea, have just drawn to a finish, with the Closing Ceremony taking place earlier tonight. Yes, it's long been a goal to experience these Winter Games, especially after having gotten to take part in London's 2012 Summer Olympics. Back in 2014, Sochi seemed a bit far to go, so it never really entered my periphery. But Pyeongchang is just around the corner, so it seemed to be a good bet. Thus, years ago, I put a mental "save the date" in my mind, and when I saw that the timing of this Chinese New Year and the Winter Olympics would be coinciding nearly perfectly, my mind was made up. I mean, why not, right? It all just seemed so easy and logical.

As the date drew near, I was still telling people about my plans, although I was hesitating to book  tickets. First, I realized what the temperature would be in South Korea... I mean, I always knew it would be cold. It's the Winter Olympics, after all, and I have loved the games since I was a kid, watching athletes sliding down snowy slopes, or skating on ice. But the glamour of it all—plus the warmth of my own viewing locations—distracted me from the bitterly chilling truth, which hit me all of the sudden when Hong Kong's own temperature dropped to a mere 50° in early January, which had me busting out the heaters. As a spectator at mostly outdoor events, did I really want to endure sub-zero temperatures for sustained periods of time? 

I think stopping me even more than the weather, however, was the logistics of coordinating a trip to the Winter Olympics. I learned that Pyeonchang is at least seventy-minutes by high-speed rail from Seoul, where the friends with whom I'd most likely be staying live. That would mean I'd have a good three hours per day spent on trains just to get back and forth from the venues, not to mention the fact that the various arenas and slopes seem very spread out once there.

Looking back, I also realized that I was so immensely fortunate for the convenience of my summer experience in London. Having Alex and Amy to do to the bulk of the legwork made my life so easy. Basically, I just showed up at Heathrow and everything from that point on was taken care of.

Even more than this, though, the nature of a Summer Olympics being held mostly within a major city while the Winter Olympics is spread across mountainous countryside means it's much more tricky to attend a Winter Games. I mean, think about it... Where are Summer Olympics normally held? In world capitals.... Just look back at the last five: Rio de Janiero, London, Beijing, Athens, Sydney.... How about the last five Winter games? Sochi, Vancounver, Turin, Salt Lake City and Nagano.

Summer games are always going to take place in a major metropolis, but it's a crap shoot with the Winter Games. Yes, maybe you'll get them somewhere like Vancouver, or Turin, or Salt Lake City... But the other options are random ski resorts like Sochi or Nagano (or Pyeongchang), which I'd never heard of until they won their Olympics bids. And in these types of places, the venues tend to be spread out, with many events not only far from any semblance to a 'downtown' but also significantly far from each other, without a major city's thorough public transportation network to shuttle you around. 

Still, it was a major international event; I had the days off work; flights weren't entirely unreasonable.  But I was finding it difficult to take the plunge and book. Who knows what would have happened if it hadn't been for an unexpected Dubai trip appearing my on work radar.... I might be in Korea right now, on the heels of having just attended the iconic Closing Ceremony...

But appear it did... A corporate client with whom I work very closely expressed a need for me to visit their Middle East office before May. Then, another client happened to mention that she might be in Dubai the week of 18 March, and, if so, suggested my boss and I join for some meetings. Suddenly, the relatively flexible "any time before May" became the very specific "week of 18 March."

This would potentially throw some other plans of mine for a loop. You see, I had been thinking to fly home on 16 March for two weeks. But now, it seemed, I might be in Dubai instead. The main reason I was going to fly to New York in mid-March was to take in a rare performance of my favorite opera, Semiramide, at the Metropolitan Opera House in Lincoln Center. There were only six performances slated to be given, spread over a span of about four weeks, and March 17 would be the final one. A week or so later, Denzel Washington is opening in a new production of The Iceman Cometh, one of my father's favorite plays. So I thought I'd buy tickets as an early birthday present for him. And the next week is Holy Week, culminating in Easter Sunday, which is always nice to spend with family. It seemed to be a perfectly timed alignment of several stars. I crossed my fingers I'd get to keep my trip as planned, but it just wasn't to be.

The dates for the Dubai trip got confirmed with certainty two weeks ago come Tuesday, so my March trip home just wasn't meant to be. With my own work schedule, mixed with some friends coming to visit Hong Kong, the only Semiramide performance that plausibly fit in with my agenda was the first one, on 19 February. That was the second of the two Chinese New Year holidays this year. With the news, it became a duel between Pyeongchang and NYC. And, compounding the dilemma, these were mutually exclusive events.  It came down to either the Olympics or the opera... If I wanted to catch Semiramide, I'd have to skip the Olympics; if I booked flights to Seoul, I'd miss the first Semiramide at the Met in twenty-five years, and who knows how long until the next one?

I guess it sounds weird, but Semiramide was a big thing for me. The next day, I found myself on SkyScanner playing around with flights. To my absolutely delighted surprise, a round trip, direct flight to New York over Chinese New Year was ridiculously low-priced, in fact, only slightly more expensive than the three-and-a-half hour flight to Seoul.

On Thursday evening, I was on the phone to my sister Danielle to see her thoughts... I also called Heidi about seeing Semiramide. Both responses were positive. On Friday evening, I left work and visited the Flight Centre, officially booking and paying for my itinerary. In less than four days, I'd be on the plane!

I celebrated with Pizza Hut's Chinese New Year "Fortune" pizza special, one of the most delicious ways possible to celebrate my last minute flight! I also called Heidi again, and we booked tickets for Monday's performance, the first in a quarter of a century.

Needless to say, I was ridiculously excited over the next few days...

As my travel plans were taking shape, I also spent a fair amount of time—three nights in a row—at the Chinese New Year Fair in Victoria Park. I've only been to this major event a handful of times in the past, but as you may recall, a former AirBnB guest of mine, Jenny, recently opened a German goods shop near HKU station, and she also rented a booth in the fair to sell some items and raise awareness of her shop. I spent all evening there Saturday and Sunday helping out, and even popped by on Monday night after work, to say goodbye to Jenny and her husband Gert, and to pick up some CNY snacks they prepared for me to take back home to family and friends.

Shockingly, like that it was Tuesday, and it was already time to fly. What a last minute trip!

It was literally the smoothest airport experience ever. My flight had landed almost two hours ahead of schedule. I was one of the very first through customs, and not having checked a bag, I made an immediate beeline for the SkyTrain, which pulled up a few moments after I arrived on the platform. Two stops later, I was at  Jamaica Station, where a New York Penn Station-bound express train would be arriving in six minutes! I bought a ticket and descended to the platform. Once in Penn Station, I got to the 2/3 line just as an uptown train pulled into the station, so I was disembarking at 72nd Street in no time. In the end, I even beat Heidi to her own apartment, as she was still heading back from work!

A few years ago, I booked flights into JFK instead of my standard Newark, which is only about a twenty minute drive from my family's home in Central New Jersey. It was such a horrible experience that I vowed never to fly into JFK again. As I recall, it took me hours to get from airport to apartment. Now, I'm a firm convert. This all went so smoothly, and I was on a major travel high!

"What do you feel like eating?" Heidi asked me as we caught up in her apartment.

"Boneless chicken wings," I answered. I'm not sure why, but I was craving them.

So we headed about ten blocks north of her apartment to Blondie's, a wing specialist and sports bar, with beer and plentiful televisions. We ordered hot and barbecue varieties of the wings—and both bones and boneless versions—as the Olympics pair figure skaters twirled about the rink. I had an IPA, while Heidi sipped Carlsberg. And it was so nice—if a little trippy—to be back! Augmenting the the surreal vibes, although figure skating was playing on the tvs in the restaurant, the sound system was broadcasting a basketball game being shown in the bar area. So the combination of basketball commentary and the sound of squeaky sneakers in conjunction with graceful jumps and twirls kept me giggling as I wolfed down delicious crispy wings, and, of course, a second round of beer. 

The weather was cold but gloriously so. With a warm coat, I wasn't at all bothered by the temperature. The last time I was home in winter—in Christmas 2015—I was shocked by the cold, and hated being outside. I guess what I realized this time around is that somewhere between 15° and the mid-30°s is the threshold between unbearable and manageable. And, for some reason, 35° in New York City doesn't feel nearly as cold as 50° in Hong Kong!

It was also the first time I've experienced February in the United States since moving overseas in 2009. That's right, over eight and a half years, I've spent time at home in every single other month except for this one. It felt like some sort of special cycle had been completed. 

Back at Heidi's there was more Olympics, mixed in with arias from Semiramide on YouTube, photos from Heidi's recent trip to Sicily, and, eventually, a late night pizza run. Welcome home, Parisi! 

My sister's idea was not to tell my dad about this last minute trip, but rather to hatch a plan to surprise him. So after Ash Wednesday mass with Heidi on Wednesday morning—and a quick lunch with my pal Rusty in Midtown—I was Matawan bound on the New Jersey Transit, pulling in to the home station a little after 3pm. 

When we got home, my sister told me to wait outside while she went in to see what dad was up to. "He's on the couch watching television," she excitedly told me. "Here's the mail. Walk in and give it to him. He's been asking me to bring it in all day."

I quietly tiptoed up the stairs and turned towards the living room. "Here's the mail, dad," I said.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he exclaimed with a huge smile! (He might not have used the word, "hell," but I'm keeping this blog PG-13.) 

Over the next eight days, we all just enjoyed spending time together. And ate a lot of food! I always love coming home to binge on the goods I just can't find in Asia, and this trip was no exception. Chief among these is the incomparable bacon, egg and cheese on a bagel, the best way to start any day. Ironically, every visit home always also includes a pit stop at McDonald's for breakfast, because biscuit sandwiches just don't exist in Hong Kong, and I have to get my fix when I can. Entenmann's  donuts, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Cocoa Pebbles, and Pop Tarts also regularly figure in my trips, which they did again.

The days just dissipated, and most of them—though individually phenomenal—seem to blur together, with the Olympics on television, trips to the supermarket, watching Jeopardy! or Wheel of Fortune, even meeting my sister's new boyfriend for dinner at the Pine Tavern one night. But there were, of course, the standouts. 

Saturday was pretty unforgettable. My Aunt Barbara and cousin Michael drove out to our house from Staten Island. We went to the Buttonwood Manor for lunch (I had boneless chicken wings again) and afterwards, they came back to the house, where we had a nice long chat with my dad. Snow had been forecast for that evening, and I was unbelievably excited when the white stuff started falling from the sky.

That night, the Olympics was on NBC, and I switched on an artificial fireplace a few feet away. I guess it sounds like a small moment, but I simply relished every minute of that evening, until I fell asleep. 

In fact, I watched a ton of Olympics over this trip, and it was fantastic. I don't think I could have followed the Games any more closely had I made it to Korea, and I definitely wouldn't have caught nearly as much coverage had I stayed in Hong Kong. And though I know Team USA didn't do as well as many had predicted or hoped for, to me, the whole shebang was still an incredible display of sportsmanship and culture. And I loved every minute of it.

Sunday in Brooklyn was another great day, celebrating my cousin Julian's birthday with family and complete with my Aunt Paulette's famous mocha cupcakes. 

But Monday was the day I had been waiting for, and, in a sense, the reason behind this whole trip. Having stayed at my cousin Vicki's house after Julian's birthday, I was simply able to hop the R train into Manhattan the next morning. After dropping my cousin Georgianna off at her school, Dad let me off at the subway stop in Bay Ridge. I took a few moments to walk around the streets where my grandmother once lived before getting on the train.

I spent that afternoon with my friends Rusty, Kim, Jackie and Ivan at an Upper West Side bar called DTUT, where we played Jenga and laughed an awful lot. It's so great to know that every time I come back, such good friends are willing to rearrange their own schedules to spend a few precious hours catching up. I could have lingered over our pints for many more hours.

But I was very mindful of the clock, so I wouldn't be late to meet Heidi at the old Cafe des Artistes—now called the Leopard at des Artistes—for a fantastic pre-opera dinner surrounded by the restaurant's gorgeous, historic murals.

That night, we saw Semiramide from phenomenal balcony seats in the storied opera house. The first Met performance in a quarter century, and the most amazing bel canto singing you've ever heard. "It's like the vocal Olympics," Heidi leaned over and told me during a short pause.

The few precious days left after the performance were spent with family back in Jersey, savoring the joy of being home. I ventured back into New York on Thursday afternoon, to spend one last night in town and make for an easy segue to JFK the next day.

I woke up around 5am on Friday morning, switching on the Olympics one final time and watching some exciting short track speed skating as I got ready to leave. Heidi came out to join me for a little while, before I headed out at 6:15am.

Flying out of JFK was just about as smooth as flying in had been. The subway took me from Heidi's to Penn Station in a jiffy, it was less than ten minutes until the next express LIRR to Jamaica, and the AirTrain was just about to depart when I stepped through the doors. 

As for my Olympics ambitions, well, fear not, the next Winter Games are in Beijing in 2022, and I've pretty much made up my mind that one way or another, I'll be in attendance. (In two years' time, the Summer Olympics will be taking place in Tokyo. Maybe I'll be there, too.) As for these games, I'll never forget the experience of savoring such a memorable extravaganza back home. In the end, perhaps it wasn't mutually exclusive. I got my Olympics, and I got my Semiramide. And I sure as hell added another unforgettable installment to my litany of Chinese New Year extravaganzas!

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! 

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.