I had always been morbidly curious about fugu, the Japanese blowfish delicacy that is potentially lethal if incorrectly prepared. The scene in my head plays out like this: a renowned Tokyo insider brings me to a renowned secret hideaway for fugu prepared by a renowned chef. I am excited; I will blog about it, post soft-lit photos on Flickr. But the chef has an off night (fight with the wife, perhaps.) Back in my quaint Lonely Planet-recommended ryokan, three hours after the mindblowing meal, tetrodotoxin paralyzes me and I fall over. Death by gourmandism is a noble death, but still a death.

Still, there are plenty of more common ways to pass on. (Struck by Hong Kong's warp speed double deckers, for example.) And the brightly lit, white tableclothed dining room of Lei Garden, being surrounded by Cantonese chitchatting relatives, seemed to be an unlikely set-up for the last minutes of my life. So when passed the plate of dried fugu with what looked like a honey sheen, I thought nothing of plopping a few strips into my mouth. 

Remember the cupcake craze that hit the US all those years ago, right after Sarah Jessica Parker and Cynthia Nixon gave Magnolia Bakery the best product placement known to womankind? Suddenly, carbs were in again. (But only if they're adorned with buttercream frosting of various pastel-sounding flavors.) My problem with Magnolia not that they charged way too much. Or that Bleecker Street became overrun by stiletto-clad women dragging their groggy boyfriends off the SATC tour bus. My problem was with the the cupcakes themselves, so enormous and sugar-laden they made Hostess seem bland by comparison.

But monster-size cupcakes were the new norm, and from Union Square to Brooklyn new cupcake shops were popping up faster than wine bars. Some names made me cringe so much I couldn't bring myself to visit, no matter how much everyone raved about the goods. 

I have written before about Lan Fong Yuen, the food stall in Hong Kong where pantyhose milk tea was supposedly invented. Sure, it's crowded, gets a lot of tourists, and makes you wait just to snuggle next to strangers. But I love that they still make their milk tea the old-fashioned way, by straining it through stocking-like nets. I also love that everyone can watch. Though the tea guy usually moves so fast that I haven't been able to get a better photo than the one I took in 2006:

At least I can console myself with some nice food close-ups. The pork chop bun up top is one of Lan Fong Yuen's specialties. Pork chop buns (a burger with a fried pork cutlet) originated in Macau, but in the past few decades have become standard cha chaan teng fare in Hong Kong. I still like the Macanese version better, since the bread is a crusty Portuguese roll instead of a sesame bun. But the pork matters most. If I'm in the mood for something fried, juicy, and porky, the wrong bread will not deter me.

Mongkok in Kowloon is more known for its markets and red-light district than restaurants. So earning a Michelin star was a huge achievement for the 4-year-old Ming Court in Langham Place Hotel. Sure, there was some controvery last year when the first Hong Kong Michelin guide came out, over how Michelin ignored more Chinese-oriented, low-end restaurants with fabulous food.

But really, we all know that Michelin always skewers high end, no matter which country, and has certain standards for service and cleanliness. It won't give a star to my favorite dai pai dong, which doesn't fit with the Michelin image. For great local picks I'll turn to HK guides or my family, but there's no denying a Michelin rating is great international press for a restaurant.

(Braised lamb at Kuen Fat Restaurant)

I ate a lot of casseroles on my last visit to Hong Kong. The weather wasn't particularly cold, but for some reason the restaurants my relatives chose for Chinese New Year get-togethers came with a lot of casserole specials. Not that I minded. Braised meats and sauces over rice are comfort food heaven.

Kuen Fat Restaurant in Sai Wan Ho is one of those rowdy, Chinese-menu-only restaurants where the Harbin beer girl comes around with your booze in a bucket. You almost need earplugs for all the high-decibel Cantonese conversation around you. We ordered 7 dishes, including 6 casseroles, some set over flames to maintain the heat. The lamb casserole had a nice light broth, less likely to put you in a food coma than Beijing or Dongbei lamb dishes. But the lamb needed about 15 minutes more of braising to be as tender as I'd like. The braised chicken with chestnuts, though, was well-cooked and coated in a slightly caramelized, just-thick-enough sauce.

(Braised chicken with chestnuts at Kuen Fat Restaurant)

I was on a sugar high during my stay in Hong Kong. I blame the milk tea.

Hong Kong-style milk tea is in a class of its own, different from other forms of milk tea you're likely to encounter. Also called pantyhose milk tea or silk stocking milk tea, it gets the signature intense, smooth flavor from the being strained back and forth through a long cloth sieve that resembles women's stockings. In this episode of an HK food show on Youtube  (in Cantonese only), the proprietor of one shop explains how he uses a blend of six types of tea leaves and boils and strains the tea eight times. At the end, evaporated milk and a heaping spoonful of sugar is mixed in to create the final cup of pure caffeinated bliss.

Granted, pantyhose milk tea, known as "si mut naai cha" in Cantonese, can get a bit heavy at times. But for me, it's about as addictive as Vietnamese coffee and Thai iced tea. Since I can't get milk tea this good in Beijing, I spent my trip in Hong Kong indulging in this thick, sweet concoction in almost every shape and form.

Compared with other business districts around the world, Hong Kong's Central is one of the few that offer food as good as what you would find in more chowhoundish neighborhoods. (To think of all those lunches breaks in New York when I had to rely on the same halal vendor...) On this past trip I spent a good portion of my time there, trying new spots and revisiting favorites (okay, and shopping too.)

Mak's Noodles (Mak Kee) on Wellington Street is an old HK standby. As with most popular  establishments, it's impossible to ignore the write-ups they taped to their windows and under the glass table tops, including one about a visit from Anthony Bourdain. You can get a bowl of just wontons, all containing one tightly packed shrimp with no pork filler, or have wontons with very fresh and springy egg noodles, the type I crave intensely after a long absence from Hong Kong.

Their shui gaow are looser, with shrimp, bamboo, and wood ear. The broth is also quite nice, flavored with dried fish and shrimp and garnished with yellow chives. The only caveat is the small portion size, about half of what you normally get from wonton noodle shops, and the relatively expensive price of $26 to $28 a bowl. On my next trip I need to try Tsim Chai Kee just across the street, supposedly another good spot, with much bigger bowls of wontons at just $16.

I recently took a much needed break from Beijing and blogging and headed to Hong Kong. Oh, how I missed good Cantonese food.

Upon my arrival in the hot and muggy city my uncle gave me two suggestions for food.

"Do you want to go to a nice air-conditioned dim sum parlor, or an outdoor dai pai dong where we'll sit on hard plastic stools and be insanely sweaty and uncomfortable?" Given that I had just been through an ordeal that involved missing my overnight train, buying an over-priced same-day plane ticket to Guangzhou, bussing to Zhongshan to see my parents for a night, then bussing 4 hours to Hong Kong, I decided to postpone roughing it to another day.

The next night, after two long showers and lots of sleep, I was ready for some cheap outdoor grub. The term dai pai dong in Hong Kong refers to open-air food stalls (though it's easy nowadays to find indoor ones). Diners sit at folding tables on cheap plastic stools, eat from cheap plastic plates and bowls, and enjoy no break from the ever-present humidity in Hong Kong. That said, the food is often delicious, the atmosphere quite rowdy and social, and most importantly for my uncle, smoking is still allowed.

I had first heard about Hong Kong's Cheung Chau Bun Festival by watching My Life as McDull, an existential cartoon about a Hong Kongese pig who trains to climb a mountain of Chinese steamed buns. A mountain of Chinese steamed buns!?! At first I thought such a thing was made up, until I saw real black & white footage of climbers interspersed with the animation. How odd, I thought.

Coincidentally, Jacob and I were in Hong Kong for Buddha's Birthday, the holiday on which the annual Bun Festival takes place on the island of Cheung Chau. There was supposed to be a parade, some other festivities, and the climbing competition at midnight. As a foodie who revels in weird food festivals, I had to go, mostly to see how they construct a mountain of buns.

We hopped on a ferry from Central along with 95% of Hong Kong island, and an hour later arrived on the banks of the small fishing village. The first thing we saw outside the ferry terminal were crowds of people waiting for the parade.

My original plan for Hong Kong was fitting in as much amazing Cantonese, Japanese, and Southeast Asian food as possible in a 3-day period. I solicited recommendations on Chowhound and did research on Openrice. I had dreams about sitting in a cha chaan teng with Hong Kong milk tea, French toast with condensed milk, and the odd-sounding but comforting macaroni with Spam. Then I got sick.*

I did get my milk tea, some congee, and a nice Cantonese dinner with relatives. But I was in no mood to hunt down new restaurants on streets and alleys I had never been to. Sneezing, wheezing, headaches, and a sore throat can dampen the spirits of any seasoned foodie. The best meal I had in Hong Kong was on the day I arrived, before the bad stuff started.

Jake and I got into Kowloon's train station at 1:30pm. By 3pm, after dropping off luggage, we were sitting in plastic chairs at Victory Kitchen in Northpoint. We were with my uncle, a HK foodie, who had never been to the restaurant but has always seen lines of people outside the door. That's a good enough sign for me.