The brilliant thing about Hong Kong is that you don’t have to worry for a second about all the culture you’re missing. That’s because there’s absolutely nothing to do there except shop (I got a seriously nice bespoke dinner jacket for just £400 from Lafarfalla Tailor) drink and, most importantly, eat.
Oh all right, so there are some half-strenuous walks you can do in the surprisingly uncrowded countryside just outside the city (you can cab it from the centre to the pretty Shek O beach — which on weekdays is half-deserted — in just 25 minutes) but even then the main purpose of the exercise is to end up in another restaurant.
‘Basically, as soon as you’ve finished your last meal you start thinking about your next one,’ says my stepson the Rat, who has lived there for three years and has just married a local. But he’s not fat, nor is his very gorgeous wife Chloe, nor in fact is anyone. That’s because, as another of my guides, a Hong Kong taipan, explained: ‘Chinese food doesn’t make you fat. You eat till you’re bursting. Then ten minutes later you’re hungry again.’
The taipan took us to dark and elegant Mott 32 where, in the traditional way, he entertained the Rat and me while his wife amused the womenfolk. It’s quite a civilised arrangement, meaning the boys can do boy talk while the girls are free not to have to pretend to be interested in whatever drivel the men are spouting. Also traditionally, the male host serves you by turns the choice titbits he retrieves with his chopsticks from the middle of the (always) round table and plants in your bowl. Only one other person, by custom, is granted this privilege: his mistress.
Mott 32 is renowned for its Peking duck, its dim sum and, most especially, its Iberico pork char siu, which is quite impossibly delicious and melt-in-the-mouth.
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