I came from a family where none of the girls cooked, or even knew how. My mother grew up in a time when home economics was looked at with the virtues of female repression. This combined with the fact my grandfather was a cook, not a chef, rendered the Wong clan useless in the kitchen.
So we ate out a lot, as in every meal. If we ate in, it was from a take-away counter or leftovers microwaved from previous meals. This was my diet growing up, a lifetime of salt, MSG, butter and chemicals from melting plastic containers. It all sounds tragic now, but I can tell you it was a truly luxurious way to eat, a gourmet lesson in every meal.
In Hong Kong, the majority of us eat out at least once a day. Maybe because dining out can be cheaper than eating in; probably because we are lazy; definitely because we treat a visit to a restaurant as a source of entertainment.
Over the last 20 years, I’ve seen Hong Kong graduate from mediocre chain imports to world-class dining in every genre. But still, Hong Kong doesn’t have the international applaud that many other dining cities do. Why? As I write my last Under the Table column, I asked my friends in the industry to chime in on how we can make Hong Kong a better dining city.
I’m not sure Wagamama would have been a huge international success if it was started in, say, Paris instead of London. London at the time was short of cheap and modern dining spots and Wagamama with its minimalist-chic-eats alternative gave London town an instant talking point in the media. It was the (English-language) food media that spread the word, worldwide, and help make Wagamama a household name. If you look at other world-recognisable restaurants, the majority of them are located in big (English-language) media hubs: New York, London, increasingly Singapore. I believe a lot of this has to do with international publications getting the word out. Thus, the first thing we can do is (self-servingly) get our restaurant coverage on the international map. This is a job for food writers, publications, and public relations.
But before we do that we need to fix a few things. Hong Kong needs to grow some national pride before we boast about it. I think we’ve exhausted the dim sum trolleys, Chris Patten’s egg tarts and HKTB’s push on muddy water-tank seafood. Other countries’ one number food export is their chefs.
Bo Innovation’s Alvin Leung knows this. He is Hong Kong representation at every major food event from the Sydney to the Bangkok Food Festival delivering nouvous-Hong Kong cookery with his vile “Sex on the Beach” (an edible condom filled with some sort of gummy cream which is laid on a sandy mushroom dusted plate). But he is getting Hong Kong a lot of attention outside our borders and we should applaud him for his wok-and-shock efforts.
Hong Kong needs to support (read: money) our home-grown talents if we are going to play with the other foodie cities. The biggest disappointment I’ve seen in covering food for the last five years was that we don’t give chefs with Chinese names top billing. If it is an imported chef from France, his name would be synonymous with the restaurant. But Chinese chefs are often left faceless, and rarely get the number one spot in top kitchens. That needs some rethinking.
But I hear restaurateurs barking. Chefs leave if they are offered 50 cents more elsewhere. They also give the middle finger if they asked to stay on one more hour than is required. For many cooks, this is a job, not a career. Cooks join a kitchen not to learn, but to get paid. The idea that cooking as a creative outlet is a very modern notion, a vanity job, and not a noble one. “Better training would give them pride,” says Gerald Li, owner of Liberty Exchange. “[Being a chef] is a career not a job. At the end of a shift, Makoto [Liberty’s executive chef] stays to scrub the kitchen. That is in his training.”
The number one cost for many restaurants is the rent. I would be deemed a dreamer if I thought this article would encourage rents to be lowered for the sake of good dining. But if rent is driving the way we build restaurants, and therefore eat, then we need to seriously rethink how we do this. One of the reasons why we have so many Italian and Japanese restaurants is because the formula has proven to work over and over again. Meaning A+B=$$$$. Also, we like it. But when you look closely, the food cost is low (even in Japanese cuisine) and a restaurant can sell it for a few hundred times its cost. Profit is driving our menus.
Rent is also the reason why we don’t invest in the décor of our city’s restaurants. We have a culture of signing short-term leases, five years or under. “You only have a short amount of time to recoup your money back,” says Alan Lo of the Pressroom Group. So why would you bother to make multi-million dollar structural changes and invest in nice furnishings, if in under five years time, you have to give it all back?
Now you are delusional if you start a restaurant with the goal of getting rich. There are better ways of making money than opening a restaurant. The amount of time and resources that goes into restaurant is all-consuming, and often for little glory. You have to love it –service, entertaining, cleaning, taking care of people. What? Did you think it was about the food? People who do this line of work slave seven days a week, give up all their holidays and weekends and take shit from their customers. They do it because they can’t imagine themselves doing anything else. And when the customers notice that kind of commitment, the reward is financial, but that should never be the goal.
Stop copycatting. For this to happen, chefs needs to exercise the right part of their brains; owners need to encourage this and not make menus based only on budgets; but most importantly diners need to be more adventurous and stop requesting Caesar salads, seafood over carbs, and molten chocolate cakes. We need to evolve our menus. I’m encouraging everyone to order something less familiar before the owners take it off the menu and swap it for Campbell soup over pasta.
Lose central purchasing. TBLS Chf Que van Dong says the reason why you see the same ingredients everywhere is because of central purchasing. Central purchasing is a hotline chefs call to order their food. If you are not a big buyer (Maxim’s) then the hell with you. You’ll get the wiltiest celery stalks, waygu beef (because they are not carrying any other types), and the occasional floppy fish fillet. This is mostly because central purchasing deals with suppliers who give them the best deals. So the Hong Kong diner gets to eat ingredients with the lowest costs. This is also why we don’t see a variety of fish, game meats, and vegetables on menus. If central purchasing doesn’t have a relationship with a farmer that sells heirloom tomatoes, then you are going to get the same watery cherry tomato as everyone else. Chefs, pick up a basket and go to the wet markets or order direct from the supplier. We beg of you.
Invest in our bread basket. Return the bottles mineral water comes in, rather then tossing for wash and reuse. Print the name of local farmers on the menu. Go to lesser known areas to eat to avoid paying for rent not food quality, also to support other foodie neighbourhoods. Be nice to your server –tip them. Put down the camera and dine rather than document. Encourage good restaurants by telling a staff member that you like what they are doing. Run from menus that start with Caesar salads.
And remember, you know what good food is. You’ve tasted it. I’m talking to the diner, the chef and the owners. Stop compromising for dollar signs. And if you do we, Hong Kong diners, will reward you with our loyalty.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
30 hours on a train_Ulaanbaatar
Planes, trains and automobiles, for weeks our bodies were in motion. We haven’t stopped moving for two weeks straight, constantly racing towards our next destination. Speeding at 140km per hour on the motorway in a two-seater Smart Car, my boyfriend opened the window and said, “If I dropped this apple out this window, it will roll at the speed of 140km.”
At the halfway point of our thirty hour train ride to Ulaanbaatar, the custom inspector at the China/Mongolian border asked me to smile for her as I didn't resemble my happy passport photo. She gave a customary giggle in response, which I would later learn is present in the Mongolian people. I didn’t know it on the train, but I was about to enter the happiness place in the world.
Seated for our first stationary meal, I noticed the first course on the muli-course menu was “patience”. This came out as three bites of amuse bouche, which we enjoyed as our bodies slowed down to human speed. After dinner, we strolled along the roadside listening to trees clapping in the wind. We stopped under the swaying trees and were grateful to be standing still while the rest of the world moved around us. Happiness is the sound of trees.
Ulaanbaatar is a place where it doesn't matter if it is Monday or Saturday. Life just happens. On our drive to the Naadam Festival, "the three games of men": Mongolian wrestling, horse racing and archery, I watched as men and women walked long stretches of country roads with nothing but a plastic bag for water, a hundred miles to anywhere. “It must take them all day to get to their destination,” mentioned to our tour guide Segi. “No, they could take the bus, or hitch-hiking is common here. They choose to walk because it makes them happy.” With nothing but the horizon in sight, they are focused with little distraction. Happiness is a long walk.
At the Naadam Festival, I watched fathers ready their sons as young as four years old for the horse racing competition. The young jockeys rode without saddles to keep the weight as light as possible for the horse. This is a much celebrated event, and families gathered to support their rider. Fathers whispered wisdoms to their sons for the mental endurance of the race. “Huchtei bolon naizarhag baigarai,” said one to his little boy, racer number 288. “Be friendly, be strong.” Happiness is a loving family.
Babies in Mongolia are considered gods. They believe when babies are born they are the purist forms of humans. As we age, we get disrupted by human maladies and move away from nature. It's when we move away from nature that we are unhappy.
Our tour guide said she was the first person to hold a PhD in Mongolian Art. She giggles from her belly and it shakes her all over. She studied in Russia where she said people there had embedded frown lines set on their faces. She tried to make a furrow face as she said this, and her facial muscles couldn’t even conjure a sad face. The level of societal happiness is written on the citizens’ faces. I asked her what keeps the Mongolian people happy.
Younger generations of Mongolians are swapping gers for city apartments, and the city life, she said. So different from where they've come, they throw themselves in the stresses of seven day work weeks, 9pm conference calls and all that Hongkongers calls normality. “Everyone [in the city] likes to wear black," she said. “When you are happy you don’t wear black!”
Mongolians are some of the most nationalistic I’ve met and though modern city life has stepped in, they remain unchanged. They respect their culture and the lands they’ve taking care of, never stepping too far away from traditions even though modern life and its amenities are appealing. People here celebrated the terrains they came from, and certainly didn’t look down upon it or try to distance themselves from their beginnings. Happiness is keeping to your roots.
On my last day before leaving Ulaanbaatar, I walked for some time, my eyes taking in the open green terrains. With a four-winged flying creature to accompany me, I thought about my lessons. The rules for happiness are very simple. Be honest with the trees, laugh from the belly and don’t wear black. Keep to your traditions and to those who will pass their wisdom to you. Stay young like new borns and don’t frown like the Russians. Then walk a thousand miles into the horizon.
At the halfway point of our thirty hour train ride to Ulaanbaatar, the custom inspector at the China/Mongolian border asked me to smile for her as I didn't resemble my happy passport photo. She gave a customary giggle in response, which I would later learn is present in the Mongolian people. I didn’t know it on the train, but I was about to enter the happiness place in the world.
Seated for our first stationary meal, I noticed the first course on the muli-course menu was “patience”. This came out as three bites of amuse bouche, which we enjoyed as our bodies slowed down to human speed. After dinner, we strolled along the roadside listening to trees clapping in the wind. We stopped under the swaying trees and were grateful to be standing still while the rest of the world moved around us. Happiness is the sound of trees.
Ulaanbaatar is a place where it doesn't matter if it is Monday or Saturday. Life just happens. On our drive to the Naadam Festival, "the three games of men": Mongolian wrestling, horse racing and archery, I watched as men and women walked long stretches of country roads with nothing but a plastic bag for water, a hundred miles to anywhere. “It must take them all day to get to their destination,” mentioned to our tour guide Segi. “No, they could take the bus, or hitch-hiking is common here. They choose to walk because it makes them happy.” With nothing but the horizon in sight, they are focused with little distraction. Happiness is a long walk.
At the Naadam Festival, I watched fathers ready their sons as young as four years old for the horse racing competition. The young jockeys rode without saddles to keep the weight as light as possible for the horse. This is a much celebrated event, and families gathered to support their rider. Fathers whispered wisdoms to their sons for the mental endurance of the race. “Huchtei bolon naizarhag baigarai,” said one to his little boy, racer number 288. “Be friendly, be strong.” Happiness is a loving family.
Babies in Mongolia are considered gods. They believe when babies are born they are the purist forms of humans. As we age, we get disrupted by human maladies and move away from nature. It's when we move away from nature that we are unhappy.
Our tour guide said she was the first person to hold a PhD in Mongolian Art. She giggles from her belly and it shakes her all over. She studied in Russia where she said people there had embedded frown lines set on their faces. She tried to make a furrow face as she said this, and her facial muscles couldn’t even conjure a sad face. The level of societal happiness is written on the citizens’ faces. I asked her what keeps the Mongolian people happy.
Younger generations of Mongolians are swapping gers for city apartments, and the city life, she said. So different from where they've come, they throw themselves in the stresses of seven day work weeks, 9pm conference calls and all that Hongkongers calls normality. “Everyone [in the city] likes to wear black," she said. “When you are happy you don’t wear black!”
Mongolians are some of the most nationalistic I’ve met and though modern city life has stepped in, they remain unchanged. They respect their culture and the lands they’ve taking care of, never stepping too far away from traditions even though modern life and its amenities are appealing. People here celebrated the terrains they came from, and certainly didn’t look down upon it or try to distance themselves from their beginnings. Happiness is keeping to your roots.
On my last day before leaving Ulaanbaatar, I walked for some time, my eyes taking in the open green terrains. With a four-winged flying creature to accompany me, I thought about my lessons. The rules for happiness are very simple. Be honest with the trees, laugh from the belly and don’t wear black. Keep to your traditions and to those who will pass their wisdom to you. Stay young like new borns and don’t frown like the Russians. Then walk a thousand miles into the horizon.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Ex and the city
For four consecutive nights I couldn’t sleep. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I just had a birthday and submitted to the fact that I was getting older and didn’t need sleep anymore. But I knew there was something more keeping me awake and that something lingered on the mind until the sun cracked. By day five I was mentally and physically exhausted. I knew it wasn’t the usual suspects of stress or the like. I knew something was about to happen. It was just a matter of when.
Then on day six it came. An email from my old flame arrived in my inbox. “Maybe a coffee sometime? Entirely up to you. Dx” I haven’t seen Dick for years, barely since we broke up. New lows of heartbreak were reached with this guy. I monitored myself as I read through his email: My breathing was steady, heart rate was fine, I’m not twitching, I might just be over him.
“My boss fired me… I’m going to London,” his email continued. Even though I hadn’t seen him, heard from him, or randomly bumped into him on the dance floor in all this time, I had the comfort of knowing he was still around somewhere. But now he was leaving Hong Kong. And this was our goodbye coffee. The end of an era. “4pm” I replied to his invite.
Without even a check in the mirror, I dashed out the door to meet him. In the elevator I thought, this is what I always used to do. I ran to him, it was never the other way around. I took my pulse to measure my excitement and nervousness. Normal. I started to worry over the fact that I was feeling absolutely nothing. Unlike before.
A month after our breakup I barely ate anything but miyoga. Miyoga is a winter vegetable popular with Japanese housewives who administered this astringent-tasting bud to forget their troubles. I ate it with every meal and got a mild buzz when overdosing. I would then cut my antidepressant with alcohol in the evenings and do it all over again. It was good to remind myself of these things, I thought as I walked to meet him. I was such a mess over him that my friends would scrap me off the floor and throw me on a jet plane whenever Friday rolled around so I could get excited about life again.
I came out of my funk and took away that in Hong Kong, nothing is forever. There were examples everywhere: restaurants/ relationships would open and close in short cycles; great friendships would form and then one party moved away; people were disposable. I became cynical, worst I was a party of one and jaded. It took two years for me to stopped looking at the world with dirt-coloured lenses.
I saw Dick from a block away. He towered above everyone on the street. When we embraced, I remembered how good it was to hug him. His all-enveloping arms felt like a fit. Shit.
Inside The Pawn, loaded with double espressos, we were formal with one another. Switching to gin improved the situation. Seven sips in we’re laughing at his receding hairline and how little sleep I needed as I aged. I told him was thinking of moving house, and he asked if I still lived in the same place, the same building we shared together. “My favourite crazy Hong Kong story I tell people was how you moved into my apartment when you got a hold of my keys,” he said. “You mean I wasn’t supposed to?” I thought to myself. Even though none of this mattered anymore, and as we were discovering our new level of comfort as exes, I couldn’t get myself to ask if me moving to his place was what broke us up.
We kept to nonchallenging topics such as happenings with old friends, family, work and currency trading, but never spoke of our current dating situation. We were happy for eachother’s successes and discussed the future. It was such a miracle that we could get right back into it, as if no time had passed. But time had to past to get us into this place --friendship. “When are you moving to London?” I asked. “Next week, but I’m coming back,” he said. “I’m not leaving Asia. You can’t dispose of me so easily.”
Then on day six it came. An email from my old flame arrived in my inbox. “Maybe a coffee sometime? Entirely up to you. Dx” I haven’t seen Dick for years, barely since we broke up. New lows of heartbreak were reached with this guy. I monitored myself as I read through his email: My breathing was steady, heart rate was fine, I’m not twitching, I might just be over him.
“My boss fired me… I’m going to London,” his email continued. Even though I hadn’t seen him, heard from him, or randomly bumped into him on the dance floor in all this time, I had the comfort of knowing he was still around somewhere. But now he was leaving Hong Kong. And this was our goodbye coffee. The end of an era. “4pm” I replied to his invite.
Without even a check in the mirror, I dashed out the door to meet him. In the elevator I thought, this is what I always used to do. I ran to him, it was never the other way around. I took my pulse to measure my excitement and nervousness. Normal. I started to worry over the fact that I was feeling absolutely nothing. Unlike before.
A month after our breakup I barely ate anything but miyoga. Miyoga is a winter vegetable popular with Japanese housewives who administered this astringent-tasting bud to forget their troubles. I ate it with every meal and got a mild buzz when overdosing. I would then cut my antidepressant with alcohol in the evenings and do it all over again. It was good to remind myself of these things, I thought as I walked to meet him. I was such a mess over him that my friends would scrap me off the floor and throw me on a jet plane whenever Friday rolled around so I could get excited about life again.
I came out of my funk and took away that in Hong Kong, nothing is forever. There were examples everywhere: restaurants/ relationships would open and close in short cycles; great friendships would form and then one party moved away; people were disposable. I became cynical, worst I was a party of one and jaded. It took two years for me to stopped looking at the world with dirt-coloured lenses.
I saw Dick from a block away. He towered above everyone on the street. When we embraced, I remembered how good it was to hug him. His all-enveloping arms felt like a fit. Shit.
Inside The Pawn, loaded with double espressos, we were formal with one another. Switching to gin improved the situation. Seven sips in we’re laughing at his receding hairline and how little sleep I needed as I aged. I told him was thinking of moving house, and he asked if I still lived in the same place, the same building we shared together. “My favourite crazy Hong Kong story I tell people was how you moved into my apartment when you got a hold of my keys,” he said. “You mean I wasn’t supposed to?” I thought to myself. Even though none of this mattered anymore, and as we were discovering our new level of comfort as exes, I couldn’t get myself to ask if me moving to his place was what broke us up.
We kept to nonchallenging topics such as happenings with old friends, family, work and currency trading, but never spoke of our current dating situation. We were happy for eachother’s successes and discussed the future. It was such a miracle that we could get right back into it, as if no time had passed. But time had to past to get us into this place --friendship. “When are you moving to London?” I asked. “Next week, but I’m coming back,” he said. “I’m not leaving Asia. You can’t dispose of me so easily.”
Friday, June 4, 2010
“Yes the future of humanity will likely have dark hair and dark eyes”
Pew Research Center recently found that nearly half of American-born Asians chose non-Asian spouses. They were record highs.
An offspring of this new world order is the cuisine that we sometime mislabel as fusion. Here is an excerpt of an interview done with the founder of Hapa Kitchen, Akiko Moorman, in New York. She is Hapa (defined as half-white, half-Asian) as well as her menu.
Angie: What is Hapa cuisine?
Akiko: It’s using flavors profiles without the restriction of country of origin or a defined region. Our dishes are not about that dirty word “fusion”.
Angie: fusion-confusion
Akiko: exactly.
Angie: Do you think Hapa is now a recognised cuisine?
Akiko: I believe it encapsulates the immigrant story and is a tangible expression of that. So much of the inspiration for Hapa Kitchen comes from dishes that were created in our multiracial homes
Angie: What would be an example of a Hapa dish?
Akiko: I do an edamame hummus on a fried wonton chip that looks very familiar but tastes very new. I stuff cheese into tofu to make it look like fried mozzarella cheese sticks. I made a cheviche with the wonton chips that looks like salsa
Angie: Can we go through the basics? How did Hapa Kitchen get started?
Akiko: I create a menu that represented every place Obama was from or lived [for a CNN documentary]. I invited as many multiracial friends to help out. The conversations during that meal were amazing…about food, our families and about having a foot in two worlds. It became clear to me that food binds us to both our cultures and I wanted to explore and celebrate that. Everyone I recruited for Hapa Kitchen has an amazing story about something weird that ate as a child. For example, my mother made a soy sauce turkey stuffed with chestnuts for Thanksgiving every year. I thought every American ate this.
Angie: Does most of your menus use Asian and American flavours/ingredients?
Akiko: Yes
Angie: Most of your chefs are Asian and white mix?
Akiko: Almost everyone involved is Hapa. I do have a few Hapa lovers that participate.
Angie: Hapa lovers?
Akiko: People who love Hapas. I also always encourage Hapa makers (multiracial couples!!!).
Angie: Can we talk about race before getting back to the food?
Akiko: Of course
Angie: Tell me what is the mixed-race environment in the US right now?
Akiko: We have a multiracial president. One of the most visible Hapas in the world is in the paper almost every day (Tiger Woods). And for the first time we are being looked at as a community. Growing up, most multiracials felt very isolated. We either hung out with white kids or Asian kids. In Japan, I am 100 per cent considered to be an American. In the US, I am 100 per cent considered to be Asian. I am a perpetual foreigner everywhere I go.
Angie: In Asia we have the added bonus of inner-racism. What are some of the difficulties you face as a Hapa?
Akiko: As a Hapa, I have been asked what color my nipples are 'cuz white girls have pink and yellow girls have brown. In Japan, I am asked why my name is Akiko. In the US I have been told that my English is very good. I make the monoracials do the dishes. I am, like, the most racist person in the room.
Akiko: I think the challenge will be how to celebrate foreignness, without offending
Angie: hmm, try doing that in a former British colony
Akiko: Hapa is one step closer to us being simply, the human race. One thing that Asians like is that ALL their genes are dominant.
Angie: explain
Akiko: dark eyes will prevail with recessive genes
Angie: recessive genes being blue eyed, blonde hair?
Akiko: redheads are the first to go as the lowest occurring marriages are a redhead to a redhead. Then blonds
Angie: are you saying the future human race will be brown eyed and have dark hair?
Akiko: Well, that depends. Genetically there are more dominant genes so that would suggest this, unless northern Europe really ramps up the baby production. Yes the future of humanity will likely have dark hair and dark eyes. What I am super fascinated with is what happens when two Hapa marry
Angie: what happens?
Akiko: Here's the interesting thing about being Hapa. It is single generational. My parents are not Hapa and neither will my children.
Angie: What are your parents?
Akiko: My mother is Japanese. My father is European-American
Angie: Why won't your kids be Hapa?
Akiko: Well, my current boyfriend is a cashew (half catholic, half jew) but even if we have kids, they would not really have the Hapa experience. For example one side of my family only speaks English, the other Japanese. I don't know what it is like to have a big family gathering. My grandparents never met.
Angie: Why do you think the mother is usually Asian, the father White/other?
Akiko: I think Asia is not that awesome for women. I can totally understand why my mother wanted out [as] she was well educated and independent.
Angie: Who did you identify with more growing up? Asian or white?
Akiko: if you look more Asian, you identify with being Asian, if you look whiter, you tend to think more white. I would suggest the red queen theory
Angie: go on..
Akiko: The red queen theory is used to explain things like why there are two sexes. That to stay ahead of bacteria and viruses that mutate and reproduce much faster, our species had to find a way to recombine our DNA to act as a wall, much like what your firewall does for your computer the further distinct the genetics
Angie: in your scenario, who is the bacteria?
Akiko: No, I’m talking about actual bacteria. Mulitracials have better genetic protection from disease. There is an evolutionary value in mixing [races]. On the flipside it is very difficult for multiracialsto find a bone marrow donor.
Akiko: I have been working on what to call the next generation will be called; I've been calling them Quapas. Quapas are a quarter Asian and three-quarters other and wonder if they will feel any connection to being Asian.
Angie: you think the trend would be to go Quapas, but not the other way 3/4 Asian say?
Akiko: Now that would be awesome. I only think that because all the ladies in Hapa Kitchen have white boyfriends.
An offspring of this new world order is the cuisine that we sometime mislabel as fusion. Here is an excerpt of an interview done with the founder of Hapa Kitchen, Akiko Moorman, in New York. She is Hapa (defined as half-white, half-Asian) as well as her menu.
Angie: What is Hapa cuisine?
Akiko: It’s using flavors profiles without the restriction of country of origin or a defined region. Our dishes are not about that dirty word “fusion”.
Angie: fusion-confusion
Akiko: exactly.
Angie: Do you think Hapa is now a recognised cuisine?
Akiko: I believe it encapsulates the immigrant story and is a tangible expression of that. So much of the inspiration for Hapa Kitchen comes from dishes that were created in our multiracial homes
Angie: What would be an example of a Hapa dish?
Akiko: I do an edamame hummus on a fried wonton chip that looks very familiar but tastes very new. I stuff cheese into tofu to make it look like fried mozzarella cheese sticks. I made a cheviche with the wonton chips that looks like salsa
Angie: Can we go through the basics? How did Hapa Kitchen get started?
Akiko: I create a menu that represented every place Obama was from or lived [for a CNN documentary]. I invited as many multiracial friends to help out. The conversations during that meal were amazing…about food, our families and about having a foot in two worlds. It became clear to me that food binds us to both our cultures and I wanted to explore and celebrate that. Everyone I recruited for Hapa Kitchen has an amazing story about something weird that ate as a child. For example, my mother made a soy sauce turkey stuffed with chestnuts for Thanksgiving every year. I thought every American ate this.
Angie: Does most of your menus use Asian and American flavours/ingredients?
Akiko: Yes
Angie: Most of your chefs are Asian and white mix?
Akiko: Almost everyone involved is Hapa. I do have a few Hapa lovers that participate.
Angie: Hapa lovers?
Akiko: People who love Hapas. I also always encourage Hapa makers (multiracial couples!!!).
Angie: Can we talk about race before getting back to the food?
Akiko: Of course
Angie: Tell me what is the mixed-race environment in the US right now?
Akiko: We have a multiracial president. One of the most visible Hapas in the world is in the paper almost every day (Tiger Woods). And for the first time we are being looked at as a community. Growing up, most multiracials felt very isolated. We either hung out with white kids or Asian kids. In Japan, I am 100 per cent considered to be an American. In the US, I am 100 per cent considered to be Asian. I am a perpetual foreigner everywhere I go.
Angie: In Asia we have the added bonus of inner-racism. What are some of the difficulties you face as a Hapa?
Akiko: As a Hapa, I have been asked what color my nipples are 'cuz white girls have pink and yellow girls have brown. In Japan, I am asked why my name is Akiko. In the US I have been told that my English is very good. I make the monoracials do the dishes. I am, like, the most racist person in the room.
Akiko: I think the challenge will be how to celebrate foreignness, without offending
Angie: hmm, try doing that in a former British colony
Akiko: Hapa is one step closer to us being simply, the human race. One thing that Asians like is that ALL their genes are dominant.
Angie: explain
Akiko: dark eyes will prevail with recessive genes
Angie: recessive genes being blue eyed, blonde hair?
Akiko: redheads are the first to go as the lowest occurring marriages are a redhead to a redhead. Then blonds
Angie: are you saying the future human race will be brown eyed and have dark hair?
Akiko: Well, that depends. Genetically there are more dominant genes so that would suggest this, unless northern Europe really ramps up the baby production. Yes the future of humanity will likely have dark hair and dark eyes. What I am super fascinated with is what happens when two Hapa marry
Angie: what happens?
Akiko: Here's the interesting thing about being Hapa. It is single generational. My parents are not Hapa and neither will my children.
Angie: What are your parents?
Akiko: My mother is Japanese. My father is European-American
Angie: Why won't your kids be Hapa?
Akiko: Well, my current boyfriend is a cashew (half catholic, half jew) but even if we have kids, they would not really have the Hapa experience. For example one side of my family only speaks English, the other Japanese. I don't know what it is like to have a big family gathering. My grandparents never met.
Angie: Why do you think the mother is usually Asian, the father White/other?
Akiko: I think Asia is not that awesome for women. I can totally understand why my mother wanted out [as] she was well educated and independent.
Angie: Who did you identify with more growing up? Asian or white?
Akiko: if you look more Asian, you identify with being Asian, if you look whiter, you tend to think more white. I would suggest the red queen theory
Angie: go on..
Akiko: The red queen theory is used to explain things like why there are two sexes. That to stay ahead of bacteria and viruses that mutate and reproduce much faster, our species had to find a way to recombine our DNA to act as a wall, much like what your firewall does for your computer the further distinct the genetics
Angie: in your scenario, who is the bacteria?
Akiko: No, I’m talking about actual bacteria. Mulitracials have better genetic protection from disease. There is an evolutionary value in mixing [races]. On the flipside it is very difficult for multiracialsto find a bone marrow donor.
Akiko: I have been working on what to call the next generation will be called; I've been calling them Quapas. Quapas are a quarter Asian and three-quarters other and wonder if they will feel any connection to being Asian.
Angie: you think the trend would be to go Quapas, but not the other way 3/4 Asian say?
Akiko: Now that would be awesome. I only think that because all the ladies in Hapa Kitchen have white boyfriends.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Wine Tax
I write about this particular issue once a year. And every year the blame game expands to more and more players. But this year I think I’ve stumbled on the truth: we’re all to blame.
Here goes. Why is it that two years after Hong Kong abolished its wine tax I’m still paying up to $120 for a glass of wine? I’m disappointed, because this tax cut was sold to the public as a way to help restaurants and bars bring in more happy drinkers and most of all to get Hong Kong in the drinking spirit. But I also took that to mean that regular consumers would also benefit from the tax cut, as in that an $80 glass of wine (with an 80 per cent alcohol tax in 2007) would be reduced to $50 by the time the import duties were abolished in 2008. But instead, I’m paying 50 per cent more per glass in 2010 than before the tax cut. What gives?
I do drink more good wines here in Hong Kong than I do anywhere else in the world. And that’s because the luxury tax cut has acted as a calling card for vineyards and retailers to come our way. Post tax cut, Hong Kong has become the second largest wine market in the world, after New York City (in 2009 wine auctions totaled an estimated US$64 million). This is great for collectors, but when will it trickle down to our glass?
In 2008, when Chief Secretary Henry Tang brought the wine duty from 80 per cent to zero, the going argument against lowering prices by restaurants and bars was that suppliers still had pre-tax cut stock to sell off, and therefore they couldn’t lower their prices just yet. Two years on (and their warehouses now replenished), not only have wine prices not dropped but they’ve gone up in price, not in value.
Restaurant and bar owners claimed that rising real estate prices were the culprit of 2009, resulting in a rise in food and drinks costs. I almost bought that, but then I remembered that most restaurants have multi-year leases at fixed rates or controlled escalations. “The publicans will tell you that it’s all about the rent, but we suspect it’s mainly about greed,” says Dean Aslin of Sauveurs Wines, a local wine distributor.
Years later, suppliers pointed fingers at restaurant and bar owners for demanding wines to be sold cheaper wholesale, but then the owners sold it on menus for incredibly inflated prices. “I know of one popular bar that sells a bottle of our wine that they buy for $50 for $475,” says Aslin. “Typically, an $80 to $90 bottle will sell for a minimum of $70 a glass and $300 per bottle (in restaurants and bars). I know of $20 bottles that are going for $60 per glass.”
“If bars and restaurants see that no one else is lowering their prices, why would they have to?” said Alasdair Nicol, Time Out’s wine writer and owner of Vinspiration, a wine distribution company.
A bar consultant who requested anonymity said: “I can’t get myself to order from (restaurants’) wine menus knowing the original cost of the wine.” He says it pays to pay for corkage. “Customers aren’t dumb, they’ll go to Watson’s Wine Cellar and see that a Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc costs $260 on the shelf and $650 at a restaurant. Why not save the $300 and pay for the $150 corkage?”
Consider this: A bottle of X costs euros5 (roughly $50) to produce. When it lands in our port from the vineyard, it costs around $70 per bottle. The importer tags on another 200-300 per cent on top of that, then the middle men gets their cut adding on 15-20 per cent; the retailer stocks it with a 300 per cent markup; finally that euros5 bottle of wine gets to your favourite restaurant and it now costs $2,880 on the menu. This is a real case study of a bottle of a Krug Grande Cuvée non-vintage Champagne. Truth is we are paying a few hundred times more for transporting wine than the cost of the actual product. Now, here’s the golden lining: since there are no wine duties, anyone can import wines themselves straight from the producers. You can buy that case of Krug on your own (granted not for a discounted wholesaler rate), but even to buy an economy class ticket to fly it in yourself would be worth it.
Ultimately the blame game is on us. Most consumers happily pay whatever the listed price for a glass of wine without a blink. We just don’t care. We don’t question it and rarely do we inquire about the quality of the pour. And if we don’t care, why should they?
Here goes. Why is it that two years after Hong Kong abolished its wine tax I’m still paying up to $120 for a glass of wine? I’m disappointed, because this tax cut was sold to the public as a way to help restaurants and bars bring in more happy drinkers and most of all to get Hong Kong in the drinking spirit. But I also took that to mean that regular consumers would also benefit from the tax cut, as in that an $80 glass of wine (with an 80 per cent alcohol tax in 2007) would be reduced to $50 by the time the import duties were abolished in 2008. But instead, I’m paying 50 per cent more per glass in 2010 than before the tax cut. What gives?
I do drink more good wines here in Hong Kong than I do anywhere else in the world. And that’s because the luxury tax cut has acted as a calling card for vineyards and retailers to come our way. Post tax cut, Hong Kong has become the second largest wine market in the world, after New York City (in 2009 wine auctions totaled an estimated US$64 million). This is great for collectors, but when will it trickle down to our glass?
In 2008, when Chief Secretary Henry Tang brought the wine duty from 80 per cent to zero, the going argument against lowering prices by restaurants and bars was that suppliers still had pre-tax cut stock to sell off, and therefore they couldn’t lower their prices just yet. Two years on (and their warehouses now replenished), not only have wine prices not dropped but they’ve gone up in price, not in value.
Restaurant and bar owners claimed that rising real estate prices were the culprit of 2009, resulting in a rise in food and drinks costs. I almost bought that, but then I remembered that most restaurants have multi-year leases at fixed rates or controlled escalations. “The publicans will tell you that it’s all about the rent, but we suspect it’s mainly about greed,” says Dean Aslin of Sauveurs Wines, a local wine distributor.
Years later, suppliers pointed fingers at restaurant and bar owners for demanding wines to be sold cheaper wholesale, but then the owners sold it on menus for incredibly inflated prices. “I know of one popular bar that sells a bottle of our wine that they buy for $50 for $475,” says Aslin. “Typically, an $80 to $90 bottle will sell for a minimum of $70 a glass and $300 per bottle (in restaurants and bars). I know of $20 bottles that are going for $60 per glass.”
“If bars and restaurants see that no one else is lowering their prices, why would they have to?” said Alasdair Nicol, Time Out’s wine writer and owner of Vinspiration, a wine distribution company.
A bar consultant who requested anonymity said: “I can’t get myself to order from (restaurants’) wine menus knowing the original cost of the wine.” He says it pays to pay for corkage. “Customers aren’t dumb, they’ll go to Watson’s Wine Cellar and see that a Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc costs $260 on the shelf and $650 at a restaurant. Why not save the $300 and pay for the $150 corkage?”
Consider this: A bottle of X costs euros5 (roughly $50) to produce. When it lands in our port from the vineyard, it costs around $70 per bottle. The importer tags on another 200-300 per cent on top of that, then the middle men gets their cut adding on 15-20 per cent; the retailer stocks it with a 300 per cent markup; finally that euros5 bottle of wine gets to your favourite restaurant and it now costs $2,880 on the menu. This is a real case study of a bottle of a Krug Grande Cuvée non-vintage Champagne. Truth is we are paying a few hundred times more for transporting wine than the cost of the actual product. Now, here’s the golden lining: since there are no wine duties, anyone can import wines themselves straight from the producers. You can buy that case of Krug on your own (granted not for a discounted wholesaler rate), but even to buy an economy class ticket to fly it in yourself would be worth it.
Ultimately the blame game is on us. Most consumers happily pay whatever the listed price for a glass of wine without a blink. We just don’t care. We don’t question it and rarely do we inquire about the quality of the pour. And if we don’t care, why should they?
Monday, May 3, 2010
TBLS Review
Six courses of wonder
Whenever Chef Que Vinh Dang gets upset his macaroons crack. “It’s the same recipe, same measurements, same everything,” he said. “I don’t know why, but when I’m mad, they come out all wrong.” Good thing we visited when he was happy.
Que Vinh Dang has worked with the best in the industry. He’s too humble to name drop, so we’ll do it for him. Rocco DiSpirto’s Union Pacific and Geoffrey Zakarian’s Town. were his early teachers in New York. He had a short stint with Alvin Leung at Bo Innovation, and Paul Hsu at Elite Concepts, before he opened Duke’s Burger (closing this month), but disappeared a few months after opening. He got frustrated with the restaurant scene in Hong Kong, so much so that he dropped it all to step back and think. His resumé would get him a respectable job at a hotel restaurant, but he knew he would never make it to the top because of his name. “A chef with an Asian name will never get the executive chef title at a non-Chinese restaurant,” he said. “Even if I have the same years and experience as some French or German chef.”
So instead of harbouring resentment over Hong Kong’s shallow food industry, he set out to fire bomb it. After some soul searching in New York, he moved back to Hong Kong to start afresh. And the product of his sabbatical is TBLS (tablespoon abbreviated), located in an old nondescript building on Hollywood Road. You’ll need a door code to enter.
Here, around 12 seats are set on the sides of the large open kitchen. Outside, a balcony holds more tables with views of IFC and the towers of Soho. Both rooms are sparse, filled with mass-produced chairs and tables and dark woods, but not much else in way of décor. There are plans to hang meshed-up New York and Hong Kong street murals on a wall begging for something. But since he’s emptied his bank account to start this place, the concentration has to be on the kitchen for the moment.
Six courses, at $480 per person. There is only one menu. And with this, Dang proves his talent with a playful comfort food menu that takes a shot at the fine diners he has come from. For example, he makes chicken nuggets, serves it on toasted brioche and pairs it with a cup of mushroom essence – a soup and sandwich combo.
The amuse-bouche comes out and my dining partner takes the short rib cube with pickled daikon served on a large silver spoon into her mouth and says, “I think I just came.” The flavours are that of a bánh mì sandwich, only tight, concentrated and refined. Technically, Dang is brilliant, and not afraid to try anything – great qualities to have in a market so desperately seeking fresh ideas.
Because of the size of his kitchen and the limited number of seating the chef can accommodate in one evening, he can be very personal with his guests. A plate of brown cubes arrives and he asks us to guess what they are. Some sort of cheese on toast was the closest we got. Almost. It was the rind of parmesan cheese pan-fried. When rind is heated, it becomes soft like bread, the oil of the cheese separates and softens as well. This was his version of a grilled-cheese sandwich.
Various witty dishes arrive: wagyu oxtail and Iberian chorizo lasagna; a slow poached salmon with every part of a celery stalk used in the sauce or puree. Braised short ribs makes a reappearance, this time with creamy polenta and sous vide endives. Everything is in small individual portions and builds to a crescendo like a good song.
Speaking of songs, you won’t hear any dreamy bossa nova, or lyricless easy listening. No, this guy’s from New York. He blasts Jay-Z, Alicia Keys, Common, Pharrell, and Kanye West throughout dinner. And this gets his young and handsome staff pumped.
Finally, dessert, or more importantly, his macroons. On the menu they are called “PB&J” (Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches). A large macaroon is split then smeared with strawberry jam to hold a thick coin of peanut butter ice cream. I held the PB&J sandwich at eye level and examined it. I looked for cracks. None. I look for uneveness. None. I licked its centre, and this simple act took me back to my school lunch days. I sat back and reviewed his menu again, I looked at the young chef, I looked at the melting ice cream sandwich and thought, finally, a breath of fresh air in Hong Kong’s stale restaurant industry. Angie Wong
7/F, 31 Hollywood Rd, Central, 2544 3433. Mon-Sat 6pm-11pm.
The Bill
Set six-course menu x 2 $960
Ten per cent service charge $96
Total $1,056
Whenever Chef Que Vinh Dang gets upset his macaroons crack. “It’s the same recipe, same measurements, same everything,” he said. “I don’t know why, but when I’m mad, they come out all wrong.” Good thing we visited when he was happy.
Que Vinh Dang has worked with the best in the industry. He’s too humble to name drop, so we’ll do it for him. Rocco DiSpirto’s Union Pacific and Geoffrey Zakarian’s Town. were his early teachers in New York. He had a short stint with Alvin Leung at Bo Innovation, and Paul Hsu at Elite Concepts, before he opened Duke’s Burger (closing this month), but disappeared a few months after opening. He got frustrated with the restaurant scene in Hong Kong, so much so that he dropped it all to step back and think. His resumé would get him a respectable job at a hotel restaurant, but he knew he would never make it to the top because of his name. “A chef with an Asian name will never get the executive chef title at a non-Chinese restaurant,” he said. “Even if I have the same years and experience as some French or German chef.”
So instead of harbouring resentment over Hong Kong’s shallow food industry, he set out to fire bomb it. After some soul searching in New York, he moved back to Hong Kong to start afresh. And the product of his sabbatical is TBLS (tablespoon abbreviated), located in an old nondescript building on Hollywood Road. You’ll need a door code to enter.
Here, around 12 seats are set on the sides of the large open kitchen. Outside, a balcony holds more tables with views of IFC and the towers of Soho. Both rooms are sparse, filled with mass-produced chairs and tables and dark woods, but not much else in way of décor. There are plans to hang meshed-up New York and Hong Kong street murals on a wall begging for something. But since he’s emptied his bank account to start this place, the concentration has to be on the kitchen for the moment.
Six courses, at $480 per person. There is only one menu. And with this, Dang proves his talent with a playful comfort food menu that takes a shot at the fine diners he has come from. For example, he makes chicken nuggets, serves it on toasted brioche and pairs it with a cup of mushroom essence – a soup and sandwich combo.
The amuse-bouche comes out and my dining partner takes the short rib cube with pickled daikon served on a large silver spoon into her mouth and says, “I think I just came.” The flavours are that of a bánh mì sandwich, only tight, concentrated and refined. Technically, Dang is brilliant, and not afraid to try anything – great qualities to have in a market so desperately seeking fresh ideas.
Because of the size of his kitchen and the limited number of seating the chef can accommodate in one evening, he can be very personal with his guests. A plate of brown cubes arrives and he asks us to guess what they are. Some sort of cheese on toast was the closest we got. Almost. It was the rind of parmesan cheese pan-fried. When rind is heated, it becomes soft like bread, the oil of the cheese separates and softens as well. This was his version of a grilled-cheese sandwich.
Various witty dishes arrive: wagyu oxtail and Iberian chorizo lasagna; a slow poached salmon with every part of a celery stalk used in the sauce or puree. Braised short ribs makes a reappearance, this time with creamy polenta and sous vide endives. Everything is in small individual portions and builds to a crescendo like a good song.
Speaking of songs, you won’t hear any dreamy bossa nova, or lyricless easy listening. No, this guy’s from New York. He blasts Jay-Z, Alicia Keys, Common, Pharrell, and Kanye West throughout dinner. And this gets his young and handsome staff pumped.
Finally, dessert, or more importantly, his macroons. On the menu they are called “PB&J” (Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches). A large macaroon is split then smeared with strawberry jam to hold a thick coin of peanut butter ice cream. I held the PB&J sandwich at eye level and examined it. I looked for cracks. None. I look for uneveness. None. I licked its centre, and this simple act took me back to my school lunch days. I sat back and reviewed his menu again, I looked at the young chef, I looked at the melting ice cream sandwich and thought, finally, a breath of fresh air in Hong Kong’s stale restaurant industry. Angie Wong
7/F, 31 Hollywood Rd, Central, 2544 3433. Mon-Sat 6pm-11pm.
The Bill
Set six-course menu x 2 $960
Ten per cent service charge $96
Total $1,056
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Cafe Match Box Review
So this is what happens when film art director Angelo Castilho dresses up a restaurant. You get the richness of a movie set and the feeling that you are having an experience, not just a meal. Every surface of Café Match Box is covered with bing sut tiles and wood panelling, and the theme of old Hong Kong means retro clocks, old movie posters and stool seating.
Like many rebirths of cha chan tengs, this one serves notable favourites such as fluffy egg sandwiches, elbow macaroni in soup with ham, and sweetened milk tea so thick you could stand a spoon in it. As we sat down at a shared table, our hip, young waiter urged us to order the set menu of buttered toast, ham omelette, fried egg sandwich, char sui (roast pork) over spaghetti ($36), and the chicken pot pie ($32)for good measure.
The char sui spaghetti was exactly that, but in a shallow bowl of chicken broth, while the pork was chewy and belted with fat. The spaghetti was nothing to note, and the soup was bland. My dining companion reminded me that this is simple food, and that the food should be light in flavour, but filling. I’m not sure I agree with this, and if this was the only dish I was going to get I wanted it to be fantastic, or at least full of flavour.
Next up was a good sized bowl of pig’s liver in ramen noodles with Demae Itcho packets of sesame oil and MSG soup powder on a separate plate. “This means we are getting a good brand of instant noodles, and not the cheap, imitation stuff,” my companion said. The ramen were telephone curls of egg noodles in a broth made from liver. The liver itself was thin-cut and steeped in the soup long enough to carry the broth’s flavour, but not long enough that it masked the livery taste. The liver was as slippery as organs tend to be, and had a really strong odour which was hard to stomach if you are not a liver fan.
Now, an item never seen before in any cha chan tengs arrived at the table: chicken pot pie and an electric green puddle of pea soup – unusual even in Western diners. We had no idea why this would even go together, but strangely it did. The pastry crust crumbled at the slightest touch to reveal chunks of chicken, ham and mushrooms. It took a spoon and fork to get the soup and pie in one go. Again, there is no reasoning behind this combination, but we went with it. The waiter said it goes well with ketchup, but we decided to go naked for this one. The ham and egg sandwich was the super fluffy kind with the super fluffy toast. The eggs were mixed with Kowloon Dairy milk and loaded with butter, as was the thick white toast. It was a simple combo.
One thing we would definitely come for are the banana hot cakes ($42). Three stacks of cream on the inside, evenly browned exterior sandwich slices with warm banana and walnuts. The caramel and cream sauce pulled this entire dish together giving the sweet tooth a reason to live. Served hot off the griddle, this is one of our favourite dishes of 2010.
I’m trying to think if there was anything left on the menu we didn’t try. Perhaps the warm egg tarts at the take out counter would’ve been a nice addition. Though with plenty of good food in our bellies, we decided enough was enough. Angie Wong
G/F, 8 Cleveland St, Causeway Bay, 2868 0363. Daily 8am-1am.
The bill
Set menu $36
banana hot cakes $42
chicken pot pie $32
10 per cent service charge
Total $121
Like many rebirths of cha chan tengs, this one serves notable favourites such as fluffy egg sandwiches, elbow macaroni in soup with ham, and sweetened milk tea so thick you could stand a spoon in it. As we sat down at a shared table, our hip, young waiter urged us to order the set menu of buttered toast, ham omelette, fried egg sandwich, char sui (roast pork) over spaghetti ($36), and the chicken pot pie ($32)for good measure.
The char sui spaghetti was exactly that, but in a shallow bowl of chicken broth, while the pork was chewy and belted with fat. The spaghetti was nothing to note, and the soup was bland. My dining companion reminded me that this is simple food, and that the food should be light in flavour, but filling. I’m not sure I agree with this, and if this was the only dish I was going to get I wanted it to be fantastic, or at least full of flavour.
Next up was a good sized bowl of pig’s liver in ramen noodles with Demae Itcho packets of sesame oil and MSG soup powder on a separate plate. “This means we are getting a good brand of instant noodles, and not the cheap, imitation stuff,” my companion said. The ramen were telephone curls of egg noodles in a broth made from liver. The liver itself was thin-cut and steeped in the soup long enough to carry the broth’s flavour, but not long enough that it masked the livery taste. The liver was as slippery as organs tend to be, and had a really strong odour which was hard to stomach if you are not a liver fan.
Now, an item never seen before in any cha chan tengs arrived at the table: chicken pot pie and an electric green puddle of pea soup – unusual even in Western diners. We had no idea why this would even go together, but strangely it did. The pastry crust crumbled at the slightest touch to reveal chunks of chicken, ham and mushrooms. It took a spoon and fork to get the soup and pie in one go. Again, there is no reasoning behind this combination, but we went with it. The waiter said it goes well with ketchup, but we decided to go naked for this one. The ham and egg sandwich was the super fluffy kind with the super fluffy toast. The eggs were mixed with Kowloon Dairy milk and loaded with butter, as was the thick white toast. It was a simple combo.
One thing we would definitely come for are the banana hot cakes ($42). Three stacks of cream on the inside, evenly browned exterior sandwich slices with warm banana and walnuts. The caramel and cream sauce pulled this entire dish together giving the sweet tooth a reason to live. Served hot off the griddle, this is one of our favourite dishes of 2010.
I’m trying to think if there was anything left on the menu we didn’t try. Perhaps the warm egg tarts at the take out counter would’ve been a nice addition. Though with plenty of good food in our bellies, we decided enough was enough. Angie Wong
G/F, 8 Cleveland St, Causeway Bay, 2868 0363. Daily 8am-1am.
The bill
Set menu $36
banana hot cakes $42
chicken pot pie $32
10 per cent service charge
Total $121
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