By Hans Ebert
You really don’t know, or haven’t seen the real Hong Kong unless you’ve experienced the spectacle- and it’s an odd spectacle- of hordes of local families attacking the buffet tables at any hotel in Hong Kong, usually saved for the weekends. It’s like Braveheart charging at the enemy, but much more scary, with there always being the chance, if in the way, of being kicked in the groin, pushed, shoved, and knocked down and knocked senseless with a crab claw as everyone rushes for the section serving what’s always considered expensive dishes- sushi, sashimi, king prawns and lobster. Who cares if all these might be leftovers? Hong Kong’s love and affection- and appetite- for international buffets is blind. All you can eat becomes tantric yoga inhalation.
There’s then the fascinating sight of kids, helped by their parents and other family friends and members, building pagodas of food onto their plates- noodles, curries, sushi, sashimi, satay with a few desserts on top. It’s all a little like Violet Beauregard from Charlie And The Chocolate Factory and something that would have fascinated Roald Dahl.
Yes, eat as much as you want is taken to new levels, and for around three hours, life becomes one big buffet cabaret. The only thing missing is Liza Minelli bursting into song.