Hong Kong —
My father’s first memory of eating out was as a penniless child in rural China. Several older boys from the village took him to the town’s only restaurant and treated him to a “free meal.” Unbeknownst to him, this was a euphemism for a classic meal and dash.
Nevertheless, he did as instructed, stuffed his face, hid the empty plate under his shirt, and sprinted down the road, pushing so hard that he threw everything over the footbridge.
Decades later, he started a new life in Hong Kong, but his childhood trauma likely influenced his family’s two rules: never stand in line and never rush to eat.
I attribute my relaxed eating habits to my genetics. Unfortunately, this attitude clashes with reality in Hong Kong. In Hong Kong, fast eating is not just a practical matter, but is seen as a virtue, an art form, and most importantly, a basic way of life.
But for me, eating out at Char Chaan Teng, a local traditional Hong Kong diner, feels more like an audition than a relaxing meal.
My palms begin to sweat as the waiter approaches and impatiently taps his pen on the order pad.
I rehearse the order in my head, reciting it quickly like a tongue twister. Scrambled eggs, ham and toast, iced milk tea (easier on ice), and satay beef noodles.
However, pressured by his aloof gaze, I made a mistake in my order and hid my embarrassment behind an awkward smile.
Changing your mind is highly discouraged. This causes yelling between the floor staff and the kitchen as if it wasn’t even sitting there.
“Did you fire table 17?” the waiter barks at the back. “She wants to switch to Yi Fu Noodles.”
A mumbled voice echoes from the kitchen.
“Yes, she changed her mind,” he says. “Huh? Haven’t you started yet? Fine, fine.”
Once the correction is confirmed, the waiter scribbles it on the receipt without saying anything about it.
Outsiders often mistake this treatment for poor customer service, and I often see travelers discussing “Hong Kong rudeness” on social media. But they are mistaken. It’s a true expression of hyper-efficiency and a unique form of friendliness built on mutual respect for everyone’s time.
After all, running a food business in a city regularly said to have the most affordable commercial real estate market in the world is no easy feat.
The rent is astronomical and the space is non-existent. High table turnover is not greedy. Not only is it essential for business, but it’s also a service to office staff who need to get back to work in a hurry.
Strict time limits are standard operating procedure throughout the city, including Michelin-starred restaurants, trendy bistros, and no-frills cha chaan tengs.
One of the legendary establishments, known for their runny scrambled eggs and honey-glazed barbecue pork rice, has set a 30-minute lunch time limit. That time frame includes taking a seat, ordering, picking up your food, eating, and sometimes dancing an intimate tango on your way out, dodging the strangers who were seated outside your booth.
The stranger, almost certainly a seasoned Hong Kong diner, walks aside in a half-standing crouch, holding a fork, like a runner on the starting block, ready to glide back and resume his meal once the commotion has passed.
But any true Hong Konger knows that 30 minutes is actually plenty of time.
A Japanese traveler has described his experience visiting the notoriously efficient Australian Dairy Company in Kowloon, the ultimate shrine for those seeking a true ‘light-speed meal’.
He timed his entire experience: until he reached the table: 10 seconds. Order: 10 seconds. Serving food: 10 seconds. Photo shoot: 30 seconds. Enjoy your meal: 5 minutes. Pay your bill: 30 seconds.
The time from walking through the door to walking back outside was an amazing 6.5 minutes.
“For HK$35, I had a memory of Hong Kong’s fast-paced life,” he said of an intense dining experience that ended up costing him less than $5.
Another local couple also recorded dinner at the same location, ordering fresh noodles made tableside, a sandwich, and a steamed custard dessert.
The whole event was over in 20 minutes.
As a local, I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve only ever mustered up the courage to make the pilgrimage to Australian Dairies once.
I was so nervous waiting in line that my memory is hazy. However, I remember marveling at the synchronized and harmonious service, where all the diners worked together like parts of a precision Swiss watch.
In Hong Kong kitchens, food is delivered within seconds of ordering, but we diners have to do our part to maintain the rhythm.
Over the years, I’ve developed several tactics for surviving as a slow eater in a fast-paced city. The easiest tip is to avoid peak times and popular spots.
My family thinks nothing of abandoning the nearest option and driving an hour across the territory to a remote fishing village, a hillside university cafeteria, or a quiet restaurant in a half-abandoned shopping mall for a weekend dim sum experience in a hurry.
If a place doesn’t look promising to a skeptical public, we’ll be the first to go there. Worst-case scenario, if there’s a huge lack of food, we just silently suppress our frustration and move on.
Another tip: Perusing the menu posted in the window before entering will buy you valuable dining time and earn you implicit respect from the staff.
Hesitation invites judgment from waiters and other diners alike.
And never leave your hands empty.
You can continue drinking from the melted ice at the bottom of your glass long after the liquid is gone while the waiter comes to retrieve your bowl, or you can hold your chopsticks at a 45-degree angle over your half-eaten noodles while you chat.
Both are good signs that more time is needed.
The moment your hands leave the table, a server swoops in and clears your plate before you can pick up another bite.
I rarely put down my utensils – it also saves me a few precious seconds – and I rarely stop chewing. I sometimes even warn my dining companions. I start eating as soon as the food arrives, but I maintain eye contact and nod as I chew on their story.
This is not rude in Hong Kong. This is also table manners.
Plus, you don’t want to be one of those people who hogs a table during the lunch rush, sulking down to HK$50 (about $6) noodles while a line of hungry workers snakes down the damp pavement outside.
The most important thing I learned is that efficiency is not antagonism – well, most of the time, efficiency is not antagonism. It’s a showcase of warmth and flexibility, which is sadly fading away as QR code ordering and automated service give way to real human touch.
When I was 33 weeks pregnant, I walked into a busy Cantonese restaurant at noon. The waiter greeted me like a robot. “Please bring the table back within 60 minutes.”
I said I would wait outside until my friend arrived first so I wouldn’t waste time.
He looked at my bump, let out a disappointed sigh, and beckoned me in, “Aiya. It’s okay. Come sit first.”
Without uttering a single extra word, we both understood that he had silently abandoned the timer.
All of this may not have been done with the smile of the most hands-on company, but it was a service rendered with genuine heart, not to fish for tips.
If allowed, I enjoy taking the time to think about the menu and taste the food. But this city taught my family the allure of efficiency.
When visiting Milan, my husband and I walked into a popular trattoria without a reservation.
The manager looked at the ledger and said nervously, “There’s only one table available, but I have some bad news. I need to return the table within an hour and a half. Is that possible?”
Is it possible? We laughed at his generosity. We told him we appreciated his consideration and promised to return our table within 90 minutes.
I was ready to order before the server even uncliped my pen.
Even my father, who spent his youth avoiding queues and seeking quiet meals, has been rewired by decades of living in Hong Kong.
These days, he talks fondly of driving 40 minutes across town to go to Linh Hung Kui (now Luk On Kui), a traditional multi-story dim sum hall with no lines.
To secure a seat, diners must spread out and stay behind the diners who are most likely to eat the last dumpling. If you ask me, it’s a much more stressful process than standing in an orderly line.
Once we’re seated, we share a round table with strangers and weave our way through the crowd to find pushcarts for freshly baked dumplings and bread.
If your tablemate is an outgoing neighborhood regular, they might eagerly tell you about a cart coming out of the kitchen, insist on taking a bite of their favorite turnip cake, or grab a kettle of boiling water to make you a cup of tea if the waitstaff is busy.
Then, without wasting any extra time, enjoy your tea and give up your table for the person behind you.
Incredibly, the boy who once threw up on a bridge is now willingly enjoying one of Hong Kong’s loudest and fastest eateries, finding true peace in the madness.
He calls the experience “an expression of humanity that is rare in today’s world.”
