Is the Diplomat the Best Burger in Hong Kong?

There was one name that kept popping up over and over when I kept searching online for the best burger in Hong Kong – and it wasn’t from a traditional burger and fry joint like Five Guys or Burger Circus. There was something hypnotizing about it and the name burrowed deep into my brain, like that squid-like creature baby in Holly’s stomach in the movie Prometheus after she made love with the dude who was infected by the “black goo.”

I suffered many late nights trying to piece together if it could be true, like a 33-year-old chubby, balding male Carrie Matheson from Homeland with three yards of string, several packs of Post-it notes, and a whiteboard. I was Ace Ventura in the shower trying to figure out who police lieutenant Einhorn really was after sharing a passionate makeout right before the eureka moment when he realized she was disgraced Miami Dolphins place kicker ‘Ray Finkle’ post-sex change. “Finkle is Einhorn, Einhorn is Finkle.” In the deep throes of befuddlement, I muttered to myself “Burgers at speakeasies, speakeasies and burgers?”

My burger world was thrown upside down. I knew that I was going to have to test this for myself to make sure that this wasn’t some Truman Show-esque experiment orchestrated by Ed Harris to provide 24/7 entertainment to home viewers at my expense. So, post-Tuesday night workout, I grabbed my finest Pure tote bag and a raggedy old black sweatshirt that I cleaned BBQ sauce stains off of earlier in the day and headed to The Diplomat in H Code. 

It was time to settle this literal and metaphorical burger beef once and for all. 

Croque Hong Kong: Ain’t No Such Things as Halfway Croques

As the boys from Queensbrisdge, Mobb Deep, so timelessly rapped, “Son, they shook, ‘Cause ain’t no such things as halfway crooks croques.” And boy, am I shook. Because I just found out that every croque monsieur I’ve ever eaten in my life has been a “halfway croque.” Granted, I’ve only been to France as an enfant terrible, naively and boorishly satiated by chicken nuggets, artificial (mutant) macaroni and cheese, and Capri suns.

But today, I became a man. No. Scratch that. Today, I became a Monsieur. Complete with a black three-piece suit, bushy mustache, and monocle like the Monopoly Man. That’s all thanks to a newcomer to the SoHo restaurant scene, Croque, a new age, vibrant, cheesy oasis of unique (and classic) takes on a French classic – the croque monsieur. 

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.