Happy New Year from Hong Kong!
I know many of you were delighted to see 2020 exit stage
right, relegating the past twelve months to the trash heap of history. But I
must be honest. Aside from the enormous caveat of not being able to spend time
with my family, my own 2020 was a lovely little year. True, there weren’t too
many major international extravaganzas, owing to COVID. I wasn’t even able to
slip past the boundaries of the SAR following my return from that work trip to
Bangkok at the end of February.
But, in the last analysis, I spent an amazing amount of
quality time in a place I love so much, and I fostered many strong
relationships with friends both old and new. So, as we collectively move
forward into 2021, you will not find me jumping on the bandwagon of 2020
haters. Still, I have high hopes for this new year, and I pray that as
countries around the world roll out their own vaccination programs, our ability
to once again interconnect will improve the global situation—and
everybody’s morale!
Speaking of boosting morale and continuing the litany of
surreal COVID-related experiences, my friends Alexandra and Jonna, who are twin
sisters, organized a virtual Zoom marionette circus to celebrate their birthday
earlier this week. Yes, you read that correctly. Virtual. Zoom. Marionette.
Circus. Understandably, they wanted to mark their joint-birthday and revel with
their besties. With the ongoing pandemic making group gatherings in their home
city of San Francisco all but impossible, they turned to Zoom for their celebration.
But instead of a simple meet up where everybody drinks and
chats in front of their webcams—because, come on, that is so 2020—they
instead invited us to a live performance which we could all watch. The puppeteers
deftly controlled each veritable work of art, presenting an immaculately choreographed
extravaganza that left me both ineffably entertained and often awestruck. A
Q&A afterwards with the team from Bob Baker’s Marionette Theater, who made
it happen, was the icing on the virtual birthday cake!
Well, I know I just began by wishing you a happy new year,
but, as hard as this is to believe, the first month of 2021 is already ending!
It was, as you must have come to expect by now, a full one for me. Full in
every sense of the word. With Hong Kong’s dining restriction still in place
from 6pm every evening—and public gatherings capped at two people all the time—the Blind
Tiger (the affectionate nickname I’ve christened the bar on my roof and, by
extension, my apartment in general) became one of this city’s hottest
nightspots.
In addition to the obligatory rip-roaring New Year’s Eve bash I
was just getting ready to throw when I uploaded my “year in review” photo
summary post, I’ve held no fewer than thirteen events—ranging
from the impromptu to the meticulously-planned—with anywhere up to twenty
revellers. Among these was a continuous stretch of five consecutive nights! (And,
no, for the record, I don’t count nights spent only with Simon and/or Fredric
as parties. To qualify for my shindig tally, at least one non-resident guest
had to be present!) But I adore playing host, and I rest easy knowing that I
can provide a convivial space for my friends to cut loose in these difficult
times, especially with the shoeboxes that double as apartments for most Hong
Kong residents.
A few highlights?
Well, to mark the Feast of the Epiphany on 6 January, I picked up
two sumptuous galettes des rois from international French bakery Maison
Eric Kayser and Simon and I both put out a general alarm. This is a tradition I
knew little about before moving to Hong Kong, but my French amis quickly
introduced me. Basically, since Epiphany commemorates the arrival of the three
magi at Bethlehem, the custom is to bake a king’s cake, inside which is hidden
a small figure. If you receive the slice of the cake with the figure inside,
then you’re crowned the king (or queen) of the night, and, in some circles,
tasked with hosting the following year’s party.
Rest assured, we had a blast, and our friends Nathan and Serena—remember,
we had two cakes—were the lucky invitees who became royalty for a night!
Another fun and unexpected evening came when my friend Myles asked
if he could pop up to the Blind Tiger one afternoon, even though I was still at
the office and nobody else was home. He had just finished a hike near Happy
Valley, you see, and since you don’t need any special key to access the rooftop
of our building, he wanted a chilled out spot to take a breather. Of course, I
said yes, and I even convinced him to wait there until I was done. By that
time, our friends Chun and Queen Serena had also swung by, and Simon had
returned home from work, too, so by the time I finally got back, we had a nice
little crew. We ordered some pizzas and sipped a few too many beers and kept
the conversation going for hours. Nights like these are the best times.
And there was a game night—with Snatch and Uno and Phase Ten—on
Thursday, and a few Friday night celebrations, and even a Saturday day drinking
session yesterday, that was heaps of fun. In fact, with so much great weather
in these first weeks of the new year, and a general sense of lassitude
following the rip-roaring fervor of the December holiday season, there have
been more than a few lazy days soaking up the sun and a couple of cocktails.
The weather hasn’t all been glorious, however. There was a brief spell
where the mercury dipped to near-frigid levels, and I was forced to whip the hefty
overcoat and scarf from the depths of my wardrobe. Man, was it cold those days!
We aren’t often subject to chilly winter weather in this city, but when we are,
I thank my lucky stars I’ve decide to hang on to those items.
While I was in that wardrobe, I also took the time to do a little
New Year cleaning, throwing away a ton of old clothes and reorganizing the
items that were lucky enough to be granted an extension on their tenure. So,
hopefully, my apartment is looking a bit tidier and I’ll be able to maintain
the cleanliness. (The hopefully here is significant, so I wouldn’t be
too optimistic.)
But don’t worry! I’ve also done my fair share of hiking as 2021
has gotten underway. In fact, I count now fewer than five hikes (of varying
degrees of difficulty) so far. Instead of recounting them for you
chronologically, which can be oh-so boring, let me rank them in order of
complexity.
First up was a Saturday morning jaunt up the Peak with my friend
Blueky and trusty Fredric. We cheated a bit, because we took a taxi from Happy
Valley to the summit of Hong Kong Island’s highest point. But, after a hearty
breakfast at Rajasthan Rifles, we set off on the circular walk that intersects
with the Morning Trail, granting access to that classic, fabulous view of my
city that will never get old.
There wasn’t much in the way of physical taxation, but breathing
the fresh air and drinking in the dreamy panorama made for a memorable morning
indeed. I’ve done this walk a thousand times—possible more, as you’ll see I was
back less than a week later—but I never tire of it. It is truly one of the gems
of Hong Kong.
I also discovered a new-yet-easily-accessible mountain another
Saturday morning this month when my friend Arthur and I scaled Pottinger Peak
near Big Wave Bay about two weeks ago. We’d both had a big Friday night, so we
were on the hunt for something fairly low on the arduous front, in addition to
being off the beaten path.
A little Google search resulted in a few lists and articles with
ample suggestions, and Pottinger Peak won out. So off we headed, again with
Fredric in tow, as we scaled the steep, steep stone staircase that bisects Holy
Cross Catholic Cemetery in Chai Wan, before finally arriving in Shek O Country
Park. We got a little lost, and wound up taking a charming but, ultimately,
futile side hike that brought us to a dead end at the edge of a precipice. But
after we reversed course and re-traced our steps, we found our way back to the
proper path.
While the views from Victoria Peak are most impressive when the
vista looks out over the metropolis of the modern day city, the dreamy nature
of Pottinger Peak is due to the position of its lookouts high above the hills,
valleys, cliffs and beaches of the rugged, untamed south side of Hong Kong
island, as the South China sea glimmers in the distance while waves crash
against craggy bluffs and tall grass dances in the breeze. This is Hong Kong as
many of its citizens treasure it most, while the rest of the world remains
largely ignorant of the wealth of natural beauty that hides within its borders.
The trail wound up taking us full circle, and after strolling down
the gently sloping path of Cape Collinson Road, Arthur and I found ourselves
back at the foot of the cemetery’s staircase where we’d started our adventure.
Not too long thereafter, we’d sourced ourselves a cab and were headed back
towards Causeway Bay, where I dropped off my hiking companion before heading
home.
In recognition of a hike well done, I treated myself later that
night to Pizza Hut’s crazy new special “cheese bomb” pie. It felt
well-deserved, and I did little else that night but chill in my living room
wolfing down the colorful morsels and watching television.
Yesterday, I returned to Pottinger Peak for another Saturday hike
with my friend Stanley and his friends Twinkle and Miki. Our initial idea was
actually to hike Dragon’s Back, possibly the SAR’s single most popular trail,
where Fredric and I were supposed to link up with our trio before setting off.
But what with the gorgeous weather and nearly all seven and a half million
residents of Hong Kong stuck here because of COVID looking for something to
outdoorsy to do, it became painfully clear as Stanley, Twinkle and Miki
searched for the end of the bus queue that morning that we’d be in the midst of
a massive horde, feeling more like waiting in line for Space Mountain at Disney
World than hiking through a serene and tranquil pastoral scene.
So, I mentioned to them about my experience a fortnight earlier in
Shek O Country Park, and they liked the idea. So I had my taxi pick them up en
route, and off we went. Instead of subjecting ourselves to the gruelling
difficulty of the staircase of Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery, I suggested we
instead meander up Cape Collinson Road, effectively reversing the direction
from how Arthur and I had attacked Pottinger Peak on our first attempt. It was
a great idea.
We expanded our exploration from the straightforward circular
route I had completed on my previous visit, instead heading down to rugged Big
Wave Bay as a side hike. And as
beautiful as the views had been from on high, it was even more impressive to
slowly descend, as the crashing waves that lend their name to the beach grew
closer and closer, before we finally found ourselves on the sand.
And what more appropriate finish to the morning than to toast with
a few Big Wave Bay IPAs within sound of the surf? We all headed back to the
Blind Tiger via taxi afterwards, where we wound up opening the bar earlier than
usual. Having started with those beers on the beach, we continued the party
with that glorious all-day boozy spell I alluded to earlier.
Inching higher on the difficulty-of-hiking spectrum, we now come
to one of my most ambitious mornings in recent memory. You probably remember
Kate and Serena, the Germany and Swiss exchange students I became very close
with following our meeting at the Mid-Autumn Festival camping extravaganza.
Well, with Kate’s semester abroad quickly approaching its finale, she is trying
hard to cross every item off her Hong Kong to do list.
Well, one of those items was a visit to the famous wholesale fruit
market in Yau Ma Tei, which is at its busiest—and most photogenic—around four
o’clock in the morning, while a second was a sunrise hike. So, when Kate
proposed combining the two, and throwing in a dawn-time dim sum feast for good
measure, I could see little reason to decline her invitation. This, in spite of
the fact that we’d have to head to Kowloon around three in the morning to
see the market at its best and
that the proposed morning was a Wednesday, meaning I’d have to head straight to
the office after breakfast.
Laren was also intrigued by the idea when I mentioned it to him as
the workday dwindled to an end on Tuesday afternoon. “Maybe I’ll join you guys.
I’ll send you a message later,” he told me as I made a beeline for the elevator
at six. Surprisingly—or, perhaps not, if you know Laren—he ultimately sent me a
message around nine at night saying he’d come.
Kate and Serena actually crashed on my couch that night, making it
easy for us to hail a cab and cross the harbor. When we hopped out near the
market, we easily linked up with Laren, and off we went as a quartet.
The frenetic collection of shops and stalls, colloquially referred
to as gwo laan (literally meaning wholesale fruit market), is a
mesmerizing place. This isn’t the type of market you visit buy apples or pears
for your own consumption at home; rather, it’s where Hong Kong’s supermarkets,
hotels and restaurants source their daily range of fresh fruit that will be
offered that day. For that reason, it’s buzzing with activity in the early
hours, purveyors of all types of fruit whiz past with crates and boxes brimming
with goodies.
Of course, since this spectacle has attracted many a hungry
tourist, most vendors are willing to quote you a price on some fruit to snack
on while you wander. And we indulged in some plump strawberries and fresh young
coconuts while we took in the chaotic scene.
Next up was our selected sunrise hike, back up to Victoria Peak,
where I’d just been not four days earlier. But instead of cheating by taking a
taxi from city to summit, this time we were relying on our own manpower, as we
walked up from Kotewall Road.
This is a steep walk, make no mistake. But, mercifully, it’s not
terribly long. So although it’s not exactly easy, its duration is short enough
to make it achievable. If you can manage a brief spurt of intense energy,
you’ll likely reach your objective. And there’s plenty to distract you from the
ardour as you climb!
As we trekked upwards that morning, the dark sky slowly began to
illuminate, as black gave way to dark grey before patches of blue began
appearing around us. Around forty minutes later, we’d ascended to the level of
the flat circular trail that rings Victoria Peak, where we staked out a prime
spot to witness the sunrise just after seven, all eyes gazing eastward.
And we even walked back down to the city afterwards, finally
arriving at Lin Heung Tea House over on Wellington Street, a classic Hong Kong
venue for dim sum that I must have written about many times before. This was
one of my most memorable visits to the place—if not my most memorable—not
because of the food or setting, but because of a strange incident that
transpired as we attempted to dine here.
Now, I’ve been visiting Lin Heung for over eleven years by this
point, and I know the joint pretty well. My first visit was in December of
2009, only a few weeks into my Hong Kong adventure, and ever since I first
walked through its doors that day and observed the cacophonous quarters, I’ve
been in love with the place. It’s a go-to spot for me and my out-of-town
visitors, and I recommend it without reserve when pushed for Hong Kong dining
suggestions.
All that being said, Lin Heung is not a frilly experience. There’s
no “Please wait to be seated” sign, or even a hostess on hand to lead you to an
open table. Instead, what you’re faced with is a massive dining room populated
with oversized tables that can accommodate about four to twelve people each,
depending on size. Waitresses push trolleys around, waiters zip back and forth
with steel kettles of boiling water to refill everybody’s teapots. And it’s
your obligation to scope out the scene from on high, finding a table with a
sufficient number of empty chairs to accommodate your party and plopping down
in said seats. At crowded times, you often have to proactively forecast which
patrons are nearing the end of their meal and then hover above them until they
actually depart, thus securing your places.
And this is how Lin Heung functions in normal times. Need I remind
you? These are anything but ordinary times…
So, our quartet waltzes in at eight-something AM that Wednesday only
to learn that every table can seat a maximum of four customers! You see, under
the current dining restrictions, party size has been capped at four. That’s not
too big of an issue for most Western-style restaurants, where the normal table
size accommodates four anyway. But Chinese restaurants like Lin Heung normally
have much larger options, as I described a moment ago. So, to assist local establishments,
the government has come up with a solution that most eateries are openly
embracing. By placing a divider of some sort—either cardboard or
plexiglass—between each grouping of four seats, restaurants are permitted to
seat more than four people at large tables, so long as there is a barrier separating
every four seats.
Either Lin Heung never got the memo or couldn’t be bothered to procure
dividers. Whatever the reason, tables that would normally hold up to ten or
twelve customers are now only able to host four! Think about the math for a
moment. If the restaurant has twenty-five tables accommodating, on average, ten
people, that means their standard capacity is two-hundred-and-fifty. Now, with
those same tables only able to accommodate four people each, this effectively
reduces the figure to a hundred. Sixty percent of potential patrons—potential
revenue—can’t even find a place to sit.
Oh, and also, I should mention, I’m the only one of us who’s ever
been before. So, Kate, Serena and poor Laren are completely overwhelmed as we scour
the entire space trying to find where to sit. It becomes clear pretty quickly
that our chance of finding an empty table for all four of us to be together is
slimmer than a snowflake’s chance in hell. But we do find two seats that have
just opened up in the far corner, and, being the gentlemen that we are, Laren
and I immediately allocate them to Kate and Serena. Women and children first,
of course, as Laren and I continue the search.
Now, a friendly middle-aged lady and her husband—who appear to be
regular patrons—see the setup and suggests we try to bribe a waiter with a
twenty or fifty dollar bill, and that, upon doing so, he’ll find us seats
together. Worth a shot, right? So Laren dutifully retrieves a note from his
wallet and attempts to shake hands with the nearest server via a gesture Cary
Grant could have carried off with aplomb. He sort of awkwardly reaches out to
the guy, with the cash folded into his palm, but the waiter doesn’t quite get
it at first. A moment later, I guess it clicks, so he offers his hand in return,
but by this point, Laren has pulled back, so it just seems like he changed his
mind about saying hello. Then the waiter turns around and walks away, leaving
Laren standing there gawking sheepishly. Smooth, boy. Real smooth. At least you
still have the fifty bucks.
Luckily, a third empty space becomes available at the neighboring
table a few moments later, but it’s just a single spot, as there are three seats
still occupied. Since Laren is local and speaks Cantonese, it makes much more
sense for him to grab it so he can begin to communicate with the staff, who
basically ignore you until you’ve found a place to sit, at which point they’ll
provide you with plates, cups, chopsticks and tea. To be honest, normally, this
is all part of the fun of Lin Heung Tea House, and I’m still enjoying it at
this point.
But here’s where things really start to get wild, because, if
you’re picturing the scene in your head as your read this, I’m now standing up,
kind of hovering between Kate and Serena’s table and Laren’s, as the dim sum
ladies start to wheel by their trollies. Oh, yeah, because I forgot to explain
fully: there is no dim sum menu here. Instead, scads of bamboo baskets containing
a variety of buns and dumplings are steamed in the kitchen and loaded up on
carts when ready. As the ladies emerges from the kitchen with new cartfuls of
goodies, you’re faced with a choice: wait for them to wheel up beside your
table—by which point, the best stuff may have been claimed—or beeline it to them
and procure your selections, which you preview by lifting the lids on the
baskets. If you want any shot at the most popular items, you have to go with
the latter.
Actually, we manage this quite effectively under the
circumstances, acquiring a nice selection of dumplings and spring rolls to share,
a few baskets which wind up on Laren’s table and the rest of which find their
way to Kate and Serena’s. If I want to eat, Laren and I simply swap places: he
stands up while I sit down, wolfing a har gau or char siu bao
into my mouth until we switch again.
All of a sudden, an old man sitting two tables away takes his bill
and departs, creating a vacancy for me at last, only a few feet away from my
friends. A lone waiter seems to have taken pity on us, and even leads me to the
spot, where I promptly plop down. Now, I can retrieve dumplings from either of
the other tables and bring them to mine. And I have my own tea, which—it must
be said—was absolutely incredible.
But the old man who’s just left hadn’t been alone at the table. He’d
been seated with an equally old woman, who lingered. The space is big enough to
share. Indeed, she’d just been sharing it with someone else. However, as I eat
and drink and begin to finally relax, my tablemate seems to display signs of irritation.
I’m bemused, at first, and offer a few smiles and nods, trying to indicate how
lovely I find the dumplings and the tea and the setting. But nothing can stem
her annoyance, which is quickly turning from mere frustration to bona fide rage.
She begins screaming, not at me, but at the waiter who’d seated me
here. Still, although her words are directed at him, it’s clear those
words are about me. Next, she grabs him by the neck, while I make silent
eye contact with Kate, Serena and Laren on the other side of the action. They’re
watching with dropped jaws. And soon, the eyes of the whole restaurant have
focused on our little corner, as the lady’s ire intensifies. It seems she
doesn’t like the idea of sharing the table with me—perhaps because I’m a
foreigner, though nobody ever hears enough of the conversation to be sure—and
she’s making her displeasure clear to the waiter who’d put me there.
With her stranglehold as strong as ever, the shouts grow louder,
while the poor, dumbfounded server looks like a deer in headlights. At one
point, the lady reaches for one of the kettles of boiling water, implying that
she’s going to douse him in a moment.
Re-enter the heroic middle-aged lady who’d advocated the bribe ten
minutes earlier. Now she and her husband jump up to defend me. They start
screaming back at the lady, demanding she release her vice-grip on the water, saying—I
later learn—that she’s insulting Hong Kong and all the other locals in the
restaurant by not welcoming a gweilo, a guest and outsider, with
graciousness and hospitality. (I keep silent about the fact that I’ve lived in
Hong Kong for eleven years and have been patronizing Lin Heung just as long.)
Before, the elderly lady’s cries had been entirely once-sided. Only
she had created any sound, because the waiter nary uttered a peep as he was assaulted,
instead standing in silent trepidation. But now the other lady and, especially,
her husband had no qualms whatsoever about arguing back, like a couple of
Brooklyn cabbies. And, so, there was a three-way shouting match.
Remember, I’m isolated at this stage. My nearest companions
are on the other side of the fight, so I’m quietly sipping my tea and
eating my cheung fun and trying to pretend that this is just my normal,
everyday breakfast routine and that I hardly notice what’s happening two feet behind
me. At one point, I recall locking eyes with an increasingly concerned Serena,
lifting up my teacup with one hand, giving a thumbs up with the other and mouthing
the words, “So good, right?”
But soon, we have not only the eyes of the whole restaurant,
but their bodies. The crowd is no longer seated at their own tables with
glances fixed our way. Instead, they’ve risen to their feet and are
rubbernecking, trying to get a closer look at the boisterous skirmish taking
place. And, I’m delighted to report, when they realize what’s happening, it
seems it’s the world against the geriatric would-be pugilist. Everybody takes
my side and eventually calm is restored.
This opens the door for what might have been the most
awkward finish to a meal ever. But a kindly old man with a weather-beaten face
at Laren’s table understands that, if he doesn’t take quick action, I’ll now be
faced with sharing my table with someone who’s quite literally just started a
war over my very presence. So he says that, even though he’s not leaving yet,
he’s going to take a walk around the block for the next half hour or so, and
that I can use his seat while he’s away. Either he’s figured out a very clever
way to skip out on his bill, or—as I’m much more inclined to expect—he’s
a gentleman, and truly emblematic of the Cantonese spirit that I’ve come to
admire so much since moving here in 2009.
We offer to treat the local couple to their dim sum, but
they steadfastly refuse. “Just know that most Hong Kongers are not like that,
at all. We love to share our city and our culture with you, and you’re very
welcome here.” She needn’t have told me, because I’ve known that for the last
decade. And while you might guess that the predominant memory I keep of this
breakfast is one of a single lady’s nastiness, looking back now, I’m much more
overwhelmed by the full-throated defense I received from pretty much everybody
else in earshot. And Lin Heung will remain a fixture of my Hong Kong life.
Apologies for that fairly major tangent, but, anyway, now
back to describing my January hiking experiences in ascending order of
difficulty.
The next one actually occurred mid-week as well, back on 5
January, also a Wednesday, which I booked off from work—only the second day back to the
office following the New Year holidays—to spend a day in the great outdoors
near Tai Po. I always like the idea of hiking on New Year’s Day itself. It
seems like an appropriate way to kick things off, healthily and heartily.
Somehow, though, with the combination of the remnants of whatever I’ve done the
night before swilling about my brain plus the day’s being a public holiday plus
the crowds who also have the same idea, usually means it’s not exactly a
pleasant affair. So I’ve taken to fitting in a New Year’s hike somewhere in the
vicinity of New Year’s Day.
That morning started bright and early in Tai Po, where Blueky—a
Tai Po resident—took me for breakfast at a local cha chaang teng, where
we had pineapple buns, French toast, chicken buns and milk tea. The rest of our
crew, namely Myles, Chun, Kate, Serena, and our friends Emily and Michael,
joined later, and after a tasty Thai lunch in the famed Tai Po Market Cooked
Food Centre, we headed off.
Before the hike itself, we paid a longer-than-expected visit to an
alpaca farm. Yes, you read that right. Emily, who lives nearby in Fanling,
found the place online and decided it would be fun to drop by. And what can I
say? It was an utterly charming and ridiculous way to kill a few hours. The
farm is clearly designed as a spot for parents to take their young children for
a day of fun without breaking the bank at Disney or Ocean Park, and we had the
place largely to ourselves that early January weekday. I can picture it packed
to the rafters on a weekend or public holidays. There were some dogs running
about, and some goats, too, plus a picturesque little lake where we paddled
around on boats for a bit.
But the most memorable moment of all was our half hour feeding
session with the furry alpacas themselves, as they munched on hay and carrots
and obligingly posed for photographs. Most of us even won stuffed animal
replicas of the creatures through an iron claw game crane machine, so I have a
souvenir by which I’ll long remember the day.
After a quick jaunt in a pair of taxis from the farm to the
trailhead, we started off on our hike near Plover Cove, beginning at Tai Mei
Tuk, heading up, up, up into the hills on a very gruelling path, eventually
passing an assortment of intriguing abandoned structures, and, finally,
accidentally splitting with Kate and Chun—who wound up at the pre-determined
finishing point—and unexpectedly emerging at Luk Keng, where we squeezed into another
cab and headed back to Emily’s, with a quick supermarket pitstop in Fanling to
load up on wine and beer before a poon choi dinner.
But the craziest hike of the bunch took place on a Sunday,
when I met up with Myles, Chun, Omar, Sarah and our new friend Ted, to attempt
scaling West Buffalo Hill, a famous spot known for its interesting rock
formations. The first portion of the hike consisted of steeply terraces paths
leading through unkempt wilderness, and although it wasn’t the clearest of
days, there were many opportunities to stop and soak up the view.
Ted and I trailed behind the others for certain stretches,
but eventually we caught the gang. They were at a particularly photogenic
point, so we had some fun posing with the rock formations I mentioned earlier, though
we somehow missed the single most popular spot, the Window. And by the time we
realized we’d have to turn back and retrace our steps, we had gone so far that we
agreed it would be best to continue on our way and return another day to
experience it.
And instead of following the majority of hikers, we headed
off on a separate path we didn’t realize would turn into rock climbing. That’s
only a slight exaggeration, because we wound up slipping, sliding and clinging
to what felt like sheer slate surfaces. But it was a heck of a lot of fun.
Almost five and a half hours after we’d started, we were finally back on a
paved road near a village, and from there, we easily walked to the MTR. When I
realized we were only a few stops away from Tai Wai, I suggested that we grab
an early dinner at Sha Tin Inn before things started to shut down at the 6pm
curfew. Although only Ted opted to join me, it was a great meal, as always,
with chicken satays and a few ice cold Tsing Taos as reward for yet another
hike well done.
Well, if even my hiking summaries wind up containing a
liberal helping of food descriptions, you can bet that the only memorable meals
this month weren’t associated with rigorous physical activity.
Actually, with my colleague Jenny
on maternity leave from late November until about midway through January, we
were left with a temporary old boy’s club in the office consisting of Doug,
Laren and me. We wound up falling into the habit of going for lunch as a trio
pretty much every couple of days, and the highlights of the early year included
French steak specialist La Vache and a sensational Chinese restaurant called
Moon Palace, which so blew us away that we’ve decided to organize a celebratory
Chinese New Year lunch with our whole team after the Year of the Ox arrives
next month. On another day while Laren was on annual leave, Doug and I trekked
a few minutes west from our office to sample Pica Pica, a Spanish tapas joint.
Our club is also known to
encompass a few Friday afternoon beers at nearby bars, which we cheekily nickname
the bank. This habit started a few weeks before Christmas when Doug
became a regular presence in the office again. And when he asks, “Gents, should
we pop down to the bank?” it doesn’t seem an at all inappropriate question in
the office of financial services company. Smirk.
With Jenny back to the office
again following her maternity leave and our colleagues Cherry and Pauline—who
normally work from home but do pop in to say hi from time to time—we’ve even
managed to have some larger lunchtime gatherings, most memorable of which was a
feast at 208 over on Hollywood Road. I first went to this Italian favorite back
in 2010, when it first opened deep within Sheung Wan, where I hardly ventured
at that point in my Hong Kong life. Before long, it became a mainstay of my
social world, especially when my previous company’s office relocated to an
office just down the street. Then, for whatever reason, I just stopped going…
Anyway, it was a pleasure to return,
and the faultless service, tasty fare and convivial setting made for as
pleasant a Tuesday lunch as I can recall. So I’m fairly certain I’ll be calling
on the friendly folks at 208 again pretty soon. From the appetizer buffet to
the pasta to the pizzas to the fresh fish—complemented by a couple of
effervescent Spritzes—it was a lunch to remember.
Last Sunday Laren and I went for a
leisurely Sunday lunch in Mongkok, consisting of perhaps his single favorite
dish of all time: chicken pot. I’ve heard the kid rave about the Sichuan
standout for awhile now, so I suppose it was inevitable to sample it myself.
Basically, you’re presented with a huge, sizzling pot of fiery chicken simmered
with peppercorns, chilis and other vegetables, heated over a low flame. After
you’ve consumed as much of the succulent meat as you can, your waitress pours
soup into the mix, which eventually bubbles and doubles as a hotpot bowl. So
the second stage of the meal consists of cooking meats and vegetables in the
broth.
Although Laren’s first, second and
third choice of restaurant were all closed that day due to the current COVID situation—and
we had just about thrown in the towel and were going to go to another type of
restaurant that afternoon—we just so happened to find one that was opened for
business. Seated at a stunning window table with a mesmerizing view over a
chaotic corner of Kowloon, it was a crazy beautiful lunch.
I can’t believe I had never sampled
chicken pot before. Laren’s in good company. Now, I’d also rank it as one of my
own favorite Chinese dishes of all time. And I’m already making preparations
for repeat feasts.
Later that day, I wound up with Kate
and Serena at Al’s Diner, where—won over by the retro décor, dancing, singing
and Jell-O shots—the firstimers wondered aloud if we shouldn’t return for
breakfast a few days later. Without hesitation, I said we’d make it happen. And
the following Thursday, we were seated just after the 8am open, where we
savored a hearty American breakfast, including my favorite corned beef hash.
So, as always, calorie counting
has not featured at all among my new year’s resolutions.
But what has found its place among them was to finally
buckle down and find a Cantonese tutor. You read that right. After eleven years
of living in Hong Kong, and at least seven years of “studying Cantonese”
topping my list of resolutions, the time came at last for formal scholarship.
My buddy (and former roommate) Max recommended his old tutor Leslie, and put me
in touch with her. After exchanging a few messages, she offered me a free
trial. And following the successful completion of that first hour, I signed up
for a ten-lesson course in the basics of the language.
I’m loving it so far, and—apart from feeling like an
idiot for waiting for such an absurd number of years to begin—I also
like to see that I’m making some quick if basic progress! It will be a long
journey to having even minimal command of such a complicated, tonal language.
But I am relishing my chances to show off my new skills with friends and the
locals I encounter around town!
And, while practicing, I also feel oh-so fortunate to
witness this city’s transformation as it prepares for the upcoming Chinese New
Year holidays. The tell-tale signs are everywhere, from shops stocking red lai
see to florists displaying all the signature blooms, orchids and mandarin
orange and chrysanthemums. The old Chinese men with their dependable fai chun
stalls are spearing all around the city. Sheung Wan, Wan Chai, Causeway Bay.
Even Happy Valley. There are photogenic spots all over the place. And I’m
loving getting to savor all of it.
Obviously they’ll be no trip over the public holidays this
year, so I’ll have to continue coasting on the stellar memories of last year’s Cambodian
extravaganza. Luckily, it was of an ample caliber to get me through another year.
But I’m planning to host a few gatherings at the Blind Tiger to celebrate. So,
stay tuned! There’s more the come as this new year moves past its first month,
and I promise to keep you posted on everything that goes down!
