Does An Choi in Sheung Wan Pass the Authentic Vietnamese Taste Test?

Tucked away on Mercer Street, a succinct unassuming feeder thoroughfare to Bonham Strand and a stone’s throw away from the Murderer’s Row of Hong Kong lunch specials (Jervois Street), An Choi is “the answer” to Hong Kong’s desperate plea for high-quality, authentic Vietnamese fare that not only ensures you don’t go home hungry but are transported back to a cragged, bustling, back alley Saigonese noodle, banh mi, and spring roll haunt in the process.

Like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie. I was skeptical at first. Having spent over one year living in Ho Chi Minh City, I was accustomed to authentic Vietnamese cuisine at an affordable price, served with several sides of chaos, character, and chili (pepper), and I was convinced it was impossible to replicate in this beleaguered, prohibitively expensive, and gastronomically stagnant city (in my humble, uneducated opinion).

I’m happy I was proved wrong. 

Slice-Testing the Roman Pizza Hype at Hong Kong’s Alice Pizza

Located in the heart of Wan Chai (but the part less rife with sin and hedonism) and pronounced ‘Ah-lee-cheh’ (not ‘Al’is’), Alice Pizza is the answer to Hong Kong’s (surprising) Roman-style ‘in teglia’ pizza void. Somehow finding myself with more Italian friends than I ever realized I’d acquire in this lifetime, and sitting next to a certified Roman in my office, the buzz surrounding Alice Pizza is something I’ve hungrily watched them signal to one another via a variety of exuberant hand gestures for the last several months. 

I knew it was time I tried it so I could hit them with a double finger purse and “Mamma mia!’ to prove my relevance – as my daily ‘Buongiorno’s’ were slowly losing their linguistic luster. So I took to the viae and strata (“took to the streets”) to taste-test Alice for myself and see if this pan-baked, rectangular, thin-slice pizza pie hype was justified. I veni’ed, I vidi’ed, and I pizzi’ed, all in the name of finding my Calpurnia of the pizza world. 

Here’s what I found.

Florence Trippa: Home of the Best Sandwich You’ve Never Heard of – The Lampredotto

Nestled a stone’s throw away from the iconic Mid-Levels escalators, somewhere between the Caine Road Japan Home Centre and the beginning of Old Bailey Street, you’ll find a salt and pepper-haired, mustachioed Italian man in his early 50s donning an (almost) luminescent white T, wielding a pizza peel with the might of the intrepid Vulcan (Hephaestus for those Hellenists out there), and flashing a warm, radiant smile that will melt your heart like creamy, well-rounded provolone over focaccia. His name is Claudio and his shop is ‘Florence Trippa’. 

At first glance, it’s easy to miss. Caught in the throes of banal headache, a hurried crowd of pedestrians, and a winding, imposing line of the Chinese restaurant adjacent, two red Florentine flag insignias sandwich black lettering in a nondescript fashion. “Pizza,” “Pasta,” “Panini, “Trippa.” You shake it out of your head. I mean, there are hundreds of pizza shops in the city. You know good Italian food, right? What’s so special about this new spot? Little did you know, you just made the biggest mistake of your month and you haven’t even throttled your first Joe Bananas’ Jägerbomb at 2 AM on Saturday.

On any given night (except Sundays), you’ll find him bobbing and weaving amongst a profusion of pots and pans in a small kitchen, fielding a barrage of takeaway calls and Deliveroo orders with an unflappable grace, carefully ladling slow-cooked vegetable broth over fluffy, freshly toasted buns and sliding thin crust pizzas out of the oven with the precision of a surgeon – a Florentine, gastronomical surgeon. He offers up earnest anecdotes on longevity, happiness, and health, greeting regulars by name and welcoming newcomers as if they were regulars, putting into digestible prose an answer to a question he’s sure to field at least dozens of times per day (for now), “What the heck is a lampredotto?”

And that’s where our story begins. But first, a little housekeeping.

Pierogies, Rabbit Stew, & Stroganoff at Hong Kong’s First Ukrainian Restaurant

Pushing 23 years in the Hong Kong food and beverage scene, Ivan the Kozak was (and still is) a much-needed answer to an established (and burgeoning at the same time?) food scene that has always oddly lacked Eastern European fare. Serving up Ukrainian classics like potato and mushroom pierogies, borscht (Ukrainian borscht to emphasize – typically made with pork rather than beef), and even veal casseroles, Ivan the Kozak has remained steadfast in providing Ukrainian warmth and comfort in pleated dough form – which unsurprisingly, is why it is one of my favorite restaurants in all of Hong Kong.

Oh, and there’s vodka. Lots and lots of vodka. Tried and tested by yours truly. That always helps. Except for the three bottles of vodka I drank with my best friend, an elderly Ukrainian woman, and a Russian busboy on my 29th birthday in Vienna, which led to me projectile vomiting all over the Hofburg Palace (I’ve mentioned this in other posts on the site).

Does Schnitzel & Schnaps Do Central European-Inspired Fare Justice?

I had low expectations for finding quality schnitzel in Hong Kong after several failed attempts over on Kowloon and was quickly losing hope that I would be able to recreate my most memorable and formative Vienna days in fried, frisbee-sized form. At one point, I even considered putting in an offer for a newborn calf at a farm out in the New Territories, purchasing a small plot of grassland on Robinson Road, and picking up a meat tenderizer from Japan Home Centre.

That was until I spotted the borderline-kitsch, Santa’s village of green and gold decor that one day was erected on the ever-bustling second road built in the colony of Hong Kong –  Hollywood Road – where life begins and ends for most Mid-Levels 9-8’ers and self-anointed IFC elites. 

Skeptical, I donned my finest lederhosen, perched atop the Conduit escalator delta, and sent out a rallying cry yodel for all to hear, eagerly awaiting my Hong Kong Julie Andrewses and David Hasselhoffs to bound towards me, clogs clip-clopping up the stainless steel steps with the might of one thousand Clydesdales, in a jovial hunger. Rosy-cheeked and out of breath, they would bashfully inquire, “Vat is it, Grandpapa?” “Over the river and through the woods, to Schnitzel & Schnaps we go,” I’d triumphantly proclaim, plucking at my suede leather suspenders while rubbing my belly and patting an adolescent von Trapp on the head. 

However, that was just a dream and I instead decided to stop in on a Thursday night, sweaty and wearing my third-finest pair of Adidas athletic shorts, after a long day of merciless lashings by ungrateful, entitled clients. I was thankfully accompanied by one of my top herrs, who is about as German as Häagen-Dazs.