Think “surfing hotspot” and it’s unlikely China’s Qiantang River springs to mind. But not only is the 285-mile river home to the Moon Festival, an annual event attracting the best surfers from around the world, it’s also the site of a rare wave phenomenon that has mesmerized tourists for centuries. Each autumn, a massive tidal bore — a wave that travels against the current — surges up the river. At thirty-feet high and traveling at 25 miles per hour, the “Silver Dragon,” as it is known, is the largest tidal bore in the world and so powerful that only a few hefty commercial boats are allowed on the river at the same time. Now a group of American surfers has launched an annual festival on the river, using jet skis to reach the bore which pounds through the city of Hangzhou. Skyscrapers can be seen looming behind the daring surfers as they ride the murky Silver Dragon, while hundreds of thousands of people stand on the banks and watch this natural phenomenon barrel past. Like the fortune cookie said: no ocean, no problem.
baohaus is a very, very, very fine haus
Bao, for the uninitiated, are steamed, filled, bread-like Chinese buns. You’re most likely familiar with that pillowy staple of Cantonese cuisine, the steamed pork bun. At BaoHaus, the tricked-out fast food joint co-owned by lawyer turned anti-establishment chef Eddie Huang and his brother, they do things a bit differently. The buns aren’t so much filled as they are stuffed, or wrapped. Think of them as dim sum taco sliders. A graffiti covered counter takes up half of the restaurant (“do not stand on the counter” a small sign gently scolds) while hip hop blares out onto 14th Street, but don’t let the head-shop-meets-college-hangout ambiance distract you; the limited menu of mainly Taiwanese street food at BaoHaus is a serious culinary offering. A deliciously unctuous layer of fat frames braised Berkshire pork belly in the trademark Chairman Bao. A Birdhaus Bao spotlights chicken, brined for 24 hours before deep-frying in soy oil. Snake River Farms steak makes the Wagyu Haus Bao a savory melt in your mouth experience. Toppings are optional but a liberal dusting of crushed peanut, cilantro, haus relish and Taiwanese red sugar provides a point-counterpoint of fresh flavor and a kick of texture. An icy can of Hey Song Sarsaparilla – with a strong flavor of root and much less sweetness - makes an intriguing, earthy foil. (Root beer it is not.) Next visit I’m determined to try the taro fries. And the fresh homemade soy milk. Because Baohaus, is one very, very, very fine haus indeed; one that could easily become habit-forming.
hakkasan
Part of the allure of Hakkasan is that you’d walk on by if you didn’t know it was there. A large steel door on a grotty stretch of 43rd Street – which was not too long ago a major thoroughfare for the dispossessed, the deranged, and the deviant – is your only clue. In fact, I strolled past not once but three times, wondering if I had gotten the location right. It’s a peculiarly British fashion, this ramshackle exclusivity designed to be enjoyed like a secret among those in the know. In Hong Kong the idiom reaches a highpoint as a lingering legacy of a restrictive class system: the city is pockmarked with private dining clubs secreted down blind alleyways and atop skyscrapers, where the price of admission demands a secret knock or password. Though an import from London – with outposts in Las Vegas, Doha and Mumbai – Hakkasan feels less like the former and much more like the latter. Opening that steel door is akin to Alice falling down the rabbit hole. A long, ghostly illuminated hallway leads you to a check-in desk, watched over by a pair of grinning Cheshire cats. You wonder yet again if you’ve come to the right place and suddenly have a sinking feeling that perhaps you might get turned away because you don’t know the password. No worries, this is New York: democracy and dollars rule. You have a reservation; you’re warmly greeted and ushered through an expansive marble-clad bar area, thumping with techno music, turning past the kitchen and down another hallway before arriving in the land of the lotus eaters. It’s disorienting, but I expect that’s the objective; you’re so relieved to be seated that the excessively priced menu doesn’t make you blanch: an $888 plate of Japanese abalone? $345 for a Peking duck, albeit garnished with caviar? What, no shark fin or swallows nest soup? Searching for reasonably priced items while sipping an $18 glass of Sauvignon Blanc you’ll recall the wise words of Confucius – not to mention Chinese chowhounds: the less you pay, the more satisfying the meal. A traditional Hakka dim sum platter made for a colorful start: scallop shumai, prawn and chive dumpling, black pepper duck dumpling, and har gau, all pretty to look at – and even tastier to eat – and at $28, or roughly $4 per dumpling, what passes for a bargain here. Udon noodles ($18) are nothing out of the ordinary and skimp on the advertised shredded roast duck but they’re satisfying dressed in plenty of spicy, seafood-rich XO sauce. The Assam Seafood Claypot ($42) is perhaps the most successful plate of the night. Studded with chunks of fish, shrimp, and squid in a savory curry broth, it’s big enough to share and even budget friendly if you load up on rice. Pak choi are bright and crispy but really, $15 for a side of veg? When the bill comes it’s a bit of a shocker, despite best attempts at avoiding anything approaching excess: $200 with tip. For a pre-theater meal it feels like a bit of a rip-off. Then again if I was with the high-rollers in Macao, or above the clouds and looking down on the Hong Kong skyline, I wouldn’t think twice. Perhaps that’s the best way to approach a meal here: close your eyes, drink the potion, and embrace the fantasy of being in a place far more magical than midtown.
killing time at incheon
With six hours to kill in Seoul’s Incheon Airport – before connecting in Beijing and only then on to home – what’s a weary traveler to do except take random photos of unsuspecting travelers and chance objects? After all, I’ve just slept through an overnight flight from Phuket with miles and miles to go before I sleep again.
loving the langham
I’ve spent so much time waxing rhapsodic about the dizzying heights of the Ritz that I forgot to mention I have since moved on to Langham Place, Mongkok. No slight intended, because this hotel is amazing. Rising 42 stories above the heaving heart of Kowloon it boasts the authentic sights, sounds and shops of old Hong Kong right on its doorstep. (As you’ve been reading about – I hope – for the past week.) And yes, it’s all sleek and modern and smells nice and wears its cheeky monkey on its sleeve, but what sets it apart from inferior chains – hello, W Hotels - is the substance beneath all the style: first and foremost is the X-Team, a handful of the friendliest, best-connected concierges I’ve ever put to the test. Then there’s Chuan Spa, as warm and welcoming as an opium den – from which the decor seems to take some inspiration. Treatments are guided by principles of Traditional Chinese Medicine – Wu Xing, or the Five Elements; Yin and Yang; and Jing Luo, the Meridian System – and it doesn’t get more authentically indulgent as this. The hotel also has one of the most impressive collections of contemporary Chinese art in the world, let alone Asia, including pieces from Wang Guangyi, Yue Minjun, and Jiang Shuo. Comprised of more than 1,500 pieces – some provocative, if not downright controversial –  you can explore highlights of the multi-million dollar collection via an interactive iPad tour narrated by the hotel’s curator. As for food, I don’t think I can sing any more praises for Ming Court than I already have. I’m going to miss it here. (Not to mention Hong Kong.) If the Ritz felt more like a mistress, over the top flashy with legs for days, Langham Place is the wife you’d like to have: smart and sexy, with just the right amount of wrong to keep you coming back for more.
strange fruit at ya fuen market
Back in Hong Kong for a last look around before heading to the airport and home, the strangest fruit in this picture is probably the three sad apples at rear. Still, I’ve been wondering all day about what those pale clusters in the foreground could possibly be. They look like baby potatoes – growing like bunches of champagne grapes.
a vida português
Just as suddenly as it swept me up in its current, the great wave of Macao deposited me in front of the picturesque ruins of the 17th century cathedral of St. Paul’s. It’s like I’m back in Lisbon – as the streets signs, architecture and cobblestones readily attest. If this is the true heart of Macao, perhaps all those naysayers doth protest too much; it’s a beautiful clash of culture. Just one niggling little question remains: is the way out the same as the way in?
crowd surfing
Only a few blocks away for the casino district and the atmosphere changes dramatically. Macao turns from a town of extreme order and almost ritualistic security to a rippling mass of people jostling each other down narrow, cramped streets towards some unseen goal. It’s dense, suffocating – made worse by the feeling that I’ve  quite literally traded the frying pan for the fire. I am crowd surfing a heaving wave of humanity – stopping for a photo is almost impossible, like standing against the rip tide.
macao, or i told you so
I had been told time and time again over the past week – by total strangers even – to avoid a planned side trip to Macao, the former Portuguese colony which returned to the fold of the Chinese motherland in 1999 as an autonomous Special Administrative Region similar to Hong Kong. Yet hearing it described variously as a hole, a pit, and a cesspool only made the prospect of a visit that much more tantalizing: if Macao was truly a vision out of Dante’s ninth circle, well, I needed to see the spectacle for myself. A speedy ferry from Kowloon or Hong Kong island made it a no-brainer for a day trip. Plus, the proliferation of big-time casinos clustered at the northern end of the peninsula means winners and losers can be shuttled back and forth through the night with all the ease of a taxi. If Macao was really that dreadful I could just up and leave. Well, surprise, despite the gluttonous display of wealth the casino end of town is a pit. Duh. (Was I expecting the Fremont Street experience?) But there’s history here, too, and a European-influenced heritage that I’m determined to see.
flower market road
One of Hong Kong’s most colorful street markets, the imaginatively named Flower Market (on Flower Market Road, natch) is a jungle of exotic blooms, lucky houseplants and sweet scents just beyond the Yuen Po bird garden. Unfortunately it’s bookended by a giant “Made in China” crap emporium – though given the fact that I am in China I should probably not use that term quite so derisively.
i know why the yuen po bird sings
A pleasant surprise on this morning’s stroll came along Yuen Po Street and the charming vest pocket garden situated there. It’s a gathering place for songbird owners, who carry their pets around in intricately carved cages. It also houses a few dozen stalls selling all manner of beautiful birds and their paraphernalia – including one vendor with varying sizes of live crickets: medium, large, and run-for-your-life-jumbo. Just keep in mind that whole avian flu scare a few years ago and keep your hands to yourself.
batteries not included
The Ladies’ Market along Mongkok’s Tung Choi Street may be the place for fake bags, accessories and knock off women’s clothing but gear heads know to drop off the ladies and head round the corner to Sai Yeung Choi Street and the massive Electronics Market. Not just another series of market stalls, the EM is a street full of (un)conventional shops selling cameras, mobile phones, robots, mp3 players, anime … if it has batteries, they sell it. Packed with youngsters and hipsters alike there is an altogether different – if slightly nerdy – energy to be found here. There also isn’t much room for haggling.
temple street night market
The Temple Street night market is ordered chaos on a grand scale – and the perfect place to pick up a few irregular bargains. Rows of brightly lit stalls crowd the pavement, hawking an astonishing variety of tchotchkes, gadgets, electronics, luggage, and clothing of dubious provenance. Fortune tellers cluster at the Yau Ma Tei end of the street – as do Chinese opera enthusiasts in search of kindred spirits for their impromptu performances. Busy food stalls open out into come-what-may cafeteria with everything from fresh seafood to hotpot dishes. Absorbing the free-for-all is a memorable, nocturnally fleeting experience. By day it could be any block in Mongkok. Only after sundown does the market spring to life.
