We went for dim sum (breakfast) yesterday morning. We wanted an authentic experience and found a place in Monocle’s Hong Kong travel guide called Lin Heung Lau. It’s an “institution” in Central that has been around since 1926. Locals would later tell us that the place is good but they probably would have sent us elsewhere.
It was of course packed when we arrived and we quickly learned that you need to be aggressive in this place if you hope to get any food. There’s no line at the front and nobody is going to seat you. Instead, you circulate around the room and find your own spots. If nothing is available, you simply hover over a communal table until something opens up.
This also means not waiting for the dim sum carts to come around to your table. If you do that, none of the good stuff will be left. Pull out your sharp elbows and go to work as soon as you see one come out of the kitchen. This is how most of Hong Kong seems to work. There’s too many people in too little of a space to be a polite Canadian.
I thought the whole experience was great. Although, I could have probably done without the laundry (underwear included) hanging up in the bathroom.
When I lived in Philadelphia I survived on food truck food. My go-tos were an egg and cheese breakfast sandwich for $2.50, a bowl of spaghetti for $4.50, and a pretty substantial chicken burrito for somewhere around $5 or $6. The food was good. It was filling. And it was all priced perfectly for a poor student, which I was at the time.
I still remember when Renzo Piano came to the University to talk about potentially renovating the design school. Somebody stood up and asked if he had considered the placement of food trucks in his plans. Piano responded by saying: “I am Italian. Don’t worry. I will provide for the food.” This is how ingrained food trucks were and are in the culture of the city.
The other great thing about these food trucks is that they are a low-cost way of starting your own culinary business. Many were run by immigrants. And some of these “trucks” were so small that I used to have to duck in order to make my way to the concession window. There was nothing fancy about them. But they worked.
These days I don’t really eat at food trucks anymore. They are not as widespread here in Toronto as they are in Philly. I also find them expensive and the portions are usually so small that you have to order 2 or 3 things. They feel like the anti-food truck.
I appreciate that there’s a growing market for trendy and “gourmet.” But there’s value in low-cost options and in lowering the barriers to entry for aspiring food entrepreneurs. There are numerous examples of humble food trucks growing into full fledged restaurants. Let’s encourage more of that.
We went for dim sum (breakfast) yesterday morning. We wanted an authentic experience and found a place in Monocle’s Hong Kong travel guide called Lin Heung Lau. It’s an “institution” in Central that has been around since 1926. Locals would later tell us that the place is good but they probably would have sent us elsewhere.
It was of course packed when we arrived and we quickly learned that you need to be aggressive in this place if you hope to get any food. There’s no line at the front and nobody is going to seat you. Instead, you circulate around the room and find your own spots. If nothing is available, you simply hover over a communal table until something opens up.
This also means not waiting for the dim sum carts to come around to your table. If you do that, none of the good stuff will be left. Pull out your sharp elbows and go to work as soon as you see one come out of the kitchen. This is how most of Hong Kong seems to work. There’s too many people in too little of a space to be a polite Canadian.
I thought the whole experience was great. Although, I could have probably done without the laundry (underwear included) hanging up in the bathroom.
When I lived in Philadelphia I survived on food truck food. My go-tos were an egg and cheese breakfast sandwich for $2.50, a bowl of spaghetti for $4.50, and a pretty substantial chicken burrito for somewhere around $5 or $6. The food was good. It was filling. And it was all priced perfectly for a poor student, which I was at the time.
I still remember when Renzo Piano came to the University to talk about potentially renovating the design school. Somebody stood up and asked if he had considered the placement of food trucks in his plans. Piano responded by saying: “I am Italian. Don’t worry. I will provide for the food.” This is how ingrained food trucks were and are in the culture of the city.
The other great thing about these food trucks is that they are a low-cost way of starting your own culinary business. Many were run by immigrants. And some of these “trucks” were so small that I used to have to duck in order to make my way to the concession window. There was nothing fancy about them. But they worked.
These days I don’t really eat at food trucks anymore. They are not as widespread here in Toronto as they are in Philly. I also find them expensive and the portions are usually so small that you have to order 2 or 3 things. They feel like the anti-food truck.
I appreciate that there’s a growing market for trendy and “gourmet.” But there’s value in low-cost options and in lowering the barriers to entry for aspiring food entrepreneurs. There are numerous examples of humble food trucks growing into full fledged restaurants. Let’s encourage more of that.
In business we are told to listen to our customers. Be customer-centric. In city building we are told to listen to the community. Be community-focused. And there’s no question that these mantras exist for a reason. They are paramount.
But when should you not listen?
I watched a Chef’s Table documentary last night on Massimo Bottura (pictured above), who is the owner and operator of Osteria Francescana in Modena, Italy. Osteria Francescana is a 3 star Michelin restaurant and widely ranked as one of the best restaurants in the world.
But it wasn’t easy for Massimo at the beginning. His goal was to bring the Italian kitchen into the 21st century and so his plates are often creative takes on classic Italian dishes. His restaurant blends the old and new; food and contemporary art.
This approach upset a lot of people at the outset. Massimo was seen almost as a traitor who was turning his back on traditional Italian cooking within provincial Modena. Don’t mess with centuries of tradition they would say. Grandma knew best, son.
Because of this, his restaurant sat empty in the early years, to that point that he was ready to close its doors. The only reason he kept it open was because his wife encouraged him to give it one more year. She said: This is the kind of food you want to make. If you don’t try, you’ll regret it.
So he gave it another year and luckily he got a few breaks, including a glowing review by a well known food critic from out of town. Once this hit, the Modenese started to quickly rethink their distaste for Massimo’s idiosyncratic dishes. Before long, his restaurant was full.
So what changed? It wasn’t the dishes. It was perception. The out of town critics and positive reviews gave people permission to like the dishes. This is critical because nobody needs permission to like tradition. It’s tradition, after all. There’s little risk in that.
But there’s risk in liking something new that hasn’t been done before. Change creates uncertainty. And if Massimo’s wife hadn’t encouraged him to stick with it just a bit longer and ignore the naysayers, the world may not have one of its top restaurants.
Sometimes we don’t know what we like and want until we are shown.
Image: Osteria Francescana
In business we are told to listen to our customers. Be customer-centric. In city building we are told to listen to the community. Be community-focused. And there’s no question that these mantras exist for a reason. They are paramount.
But when should you not listen?
I watched a Chef’s Table documentary last night on Massimo Bottura (pictured above), who is the owner and operator of Osteria Francescana in Modena, Italy. Osteria Francescana is a 3 star Michelin restaurant and widely ranked as one of the best restaurants in the world.
But it wasn’t easy for Massimo at the beginning. His goal was to bring the Italian kitchen into the 21st century and so his plates are often creative takes on classic Italian dishes. His restaurant blends the old and new; food and contemporary art.
This approach upset a lot of people at the outset. Massimo was seen almost as a traitor who was turning his back on traditional Italian cooking within provincial Modena. Don’t mess with centuries of tradition they would say. Grandma knew best, son.
Because of this, his restaurant sat empty in the early years, to that point that he was ready to close its doors. The only reason he kept it open was because his wife encouraged him to give it one more year. She said: This is the kind of food you want to make. If you don’t try, you’ll regret it.
So he gave it another year and luckily he got a few breaks, including a glowing review by a well known food critic from out of town. Once this hit, the Modenese started to quickly rethink their distaste for Massimo’s idiosyncratic dishes. Before long, his restaurant was full.
So what changed? It wasn’t the dishes. It was perception. The out of town critics and positive reviews gave people permission to like the dishes. This is critical because nobody needs permission to like tradition. It’s tradition, after all. There’s little risk in that.
But there’s risk in liking something new that hasn’t been done before. Change creates uncertainty. And if Massimo’s wife hadn’t encouraged him to stick with it just a bit longer and ignore the naysayers, the world may not have one of its top restaurants.
Sometimes we don’t know what we like and want until we are shown.
Image: Osteria Francescana
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