Have Hong Kong’s iconic dai pai dong seen their last supper?

“It used to be that we were Hong Kong… now, it’s just another Chinese city,” says my guide Angel, as our train rattles toward Sham Shui Po.

Living in China’s shadow, Hong Kong has always been a city of change and that’s no different now. The disappearance of pulsing neon lights, drastic changes to the education and judicial systems, the way businesses and companies conduct themselves with new national security laws in mind , the growing diaspora of Hong Kongers moving to Taiwan, the UK, Canada and beyond—these all are indicators of what some feel is the death knell for the Hong Kong as they know it.

As mainland China looks to assert ultimate authority upon its famously disobedient child, many people fear the city is at risk of losing its unique culture and identity. And that’s why I ended up here, walking out of Sham Shui Po subway station into another thick, humid night with Angel Tsztung. Hong Kong born-and-bred, she’s been working as a tour guide for A Chef’s Tour, which runs food tours in over 15 cities across Asia, Africa and Latin America. “It’s just around the corner,” she tells me, pointing enthusiastically.

I hear it before I see it: The roaring of what sounds like a jet engine, clanging of metal cooking utensils, chatter of a hungry horde. We’ve arrived at Oi Man Sang, one of Hong Kong’s oldest dai pai dong, along Shek Kip Mei Street in Kowloon’s Sham Shui Po neighborhood where this street food stand has been serving local dishes since 1956. It’s 6.05pm, and every single table is filled.

Most of the dishes are prepared using ‘wok hei’, a technique commonly used in Cantonese cooking. Translating to ‘breath of the wok’, it refers to the flavors you can only get from a hot cast-iron wok using extremely high temperatures until smoking—only really achievable in commercial kitchens. Oil or pork lard is added before adding the stir-fry ingredients, mesmerizingly tossed for mere seconds or minutes before serving.

Tucked away inside alleys and between buildings, dai pai dong are characterized by their hearty, affordable dishes. Set up at a time when many people couldn’t afford to dine in restaurants, dai pai dong were an attractive alternative.

Oi Man Sang’s signature dishes include stir-fried black pepper beef with potato, salt-and-pepper deep-fried squid, baked prawns with salted egg yolk, and stir-fried clams with black bean sauce. We watch chef Mr Tang dancing non-stop between wok, dish, flame and smoke at his outdoor kitchen. It’s a dizzying performance, requiring unbelievable stamina, dexterity, and a seemingly superhuman resistance to heat.

The flames are powered by jet fuel (which explains the iconic roar that soundtracks this particular street kitchen), which only adds to the intense drama; the government now no longer issues kerosene licenses. We order all the signature dishes, as well as roast pigeon and, for balance, stir fried choy sum, a leafy green vegetable also known as Chinese flowering cabbage. Every dish receives nodding heads and beaming smiles from our table. I’m not usually a fan of clams, but the pile of shells on my plate won me over, thanks to the smoky, spicy and umami-rich sauce.

Street vendors have been around in Hong Kong since the late 19th century, selling everyday dishes such as congee (savory rice porridge), noodles and rice. But it was after the Second World War, when Chinese immigrants were starting new lives in the British colony of Hong Kong, that the colonial government issued licences for open-air food stalls to create employment for them and locals whose families had been injured in the war.

Unlike other mobile vendors, licences for dai pai dong were for fixed locations. The licenses were also more prominent, so they could be displayed by the stall alongside a photo of the license holder—one of the requirements from the government. Hence, ‘dai pai dong’ translates to ‘big license stall’ in Cantonese, distinguishing them from the smaller licensed street vendors.

Tucked away inside alleys and between buildings, dai pai dong are characterized by their hearty, affordable dishes. Set up at a time when many people couldn’t afford to dine in restaurants, and with their varied menus and no-frills atmosphere, they became an attractive alternative. Popular with all ages, social classes and nationalities, dai pai dong are a cornerstone of Hong Kong society, somewhere to connect with friends and family.

Over all this time, dai pai dong has been a part of our lives,” Angel tells me. “Most of us grew up in an environment like this—our parents would bring us to eat lunch or dinner at a place like this. Even now, one of the best evenings for me is to go to the dai pai dong on Temple Street with friends, enjoy a meal and some beers, then go for fortune telling.”

But behind the packed-out tables (“hundreds of tables each night,” the owner Mr Lam tells me) and long, snaking queues at Oi Man Sang, you’d never guess these dai pai dong are in danger.

As the stands became more popular with around 200 at the height of their popularity, various issues arose, be it stands blocking the road to traffic, late-night noise in some neighborhoods, or the smells from unventilated cooking. As a result, the Food and Environmental Hygiene Department stopped issuing these licences in the 1950s, only allowing them to be transferred to spouses—some stands operated for decades more, passed down the generations and thriving well into the ‘80s and ‘90s. But with many dai pai dong owners ageing and unable to pass the business down to their children, the number of vendors have steadily declined over the decades.

“The previous generations work so hard to support their kids to have a better education, and they don’t want their kids to do such hard work. It’s hot, it’s outdoors, the work is repetitive, and that’s why some of the kids and parents don’t want to take over the family business.”

- Angel Tsztung

In the 1970s, the government—perhaps regretting their decision to issue so many licenses in the first place—furthered their efforts of clearing the streets, suggesting that dai pai dong move into cooked food centers above wet markets, or offering compensation if stall owners returned their licences. A similar position was adopted during that period in Singapore, resulting in the wildly popular food hawker centers that the city is famed for.

But for many Hong Kong locals today, watching the end of dai pai dong is just another way mainland China looks to eradicate what remains of this city’s unique culture. Angel tells me how many vendors who move into indoor spaces inevitably find their businesses closing down. It’s an altogether different vibe. “There’s something about the atmosphere of eating out on the street that’s special,” she says. “It’s just not the same once you move indoors.”

The combination of the move to indoor spaces and the financial lure of returning the licenses ensured that the number of dai pai dong was whittled down significantly from the 1970s onwards.

In the mid-2000s, the laws were relaxed, and licences could be transferred to holders’ children. However, things had changed. Many dai pai dong owners don’t want their children to continue their work. “The previous generations work so hard to support their kids to have a better education, and they don’t want their kids to do such hard work,” explains Angel. “It’s hot, it’s outdoors, the work is repetitive, and that’s why some of the kids and parents don’t want to take over the family business.”

While you might expect to see dai pai dong in historic districts such as Kowloon, you’ll also find them among the sleek, shining skyscrapers of Hong Kong island. Central is the heart of the city’s business district, home to architectural wonders of steel and glass, expensive shopping malls and luxury hotels. It’s also home to the beloved Central-Mid-Levels Escalator, which at over 800 meters and traversing an elevation of 135 meters, is the world’s longest outdoor covered escalator system. And nearby, on a sloping side street, is the dai pai dong Sing Heung Yuen. Open from 8am to 3.30pm, it’s known for its comfort food, and is a popular breakfast and lunch spot for workers from the surrounding business district.

It’s a rainy day when we visit, the right weather for tucking into a bowl of their famous macaroni tomato soup which has over 20 toppings to choose from, including chicken wings, ham and bacon—I opt for beef, fried egg and sausage. When it arrives, I’m immediately taken back to my university days, where a can of soup and pasta would suffice. But this is special; the rich, tangy tomato soup, perfectly cooked macaroni, and random yet weirdly cohesive toppings touch my soul. To wash it all down, I order an iced Sprite with salted lemon. Angel says this is a typical Hong Kong drink, said to relieve coughs and sore throats.

One of the older ladies working the stall asks Angel why she’s drinking lemon water. She says she’s feeling under the weather, and the lady immediately takes her drink away, returning with a hot salted lemon drink. “This is much better for you,” she says, handing it to her.

“The aunts and uncles you see working here, once you get more familiar with them, they’re so friendly,” Angels tells me, with a big smile. “They remember what you ordered and you become one of their regulars.”

After lunch, we pop our heads into the kitchen. “Guess how old I am,” teases Irene, the chef. I’ve seen Irene in many foodie YouTube videos before and seeing her in person was almost like meeting a celebrity.

“48?” I hazard a guess, hoping not to insult her.

“Well, I’ve been working here for 48 years, so that’s impossible!” She laughs—and I’m relieved. She tells us she was 14 when she first started working here, even crediting the heat to her youthfulness. “Because it’s so hot in this kitchen, I sweat a lot and the steam from the pots is good for your skin,” she says.

“I took over this place from my grandmother 15 years ago. When I retire, the licence for this place will go back to the government. There’s definitely more that needs to be done to protect dai pai dong,”

- Mr Cheng, chef and license holder at Bing Kee

Making a mental note to steam my face more often, we take a short subway ride east on the MTR Island Line to Tai Hang neighborhood, a rare pocket of calm a short distance from bustling Causeway Bay. Seemingly out of place amongst the independent cafés, boutiques and high-end apartments, Bing Kee Cha Dong has been around since 1957. Wedged between two tenement buildings, this dai pai dong started off by selling milk tea, bread and traditional pastries, adding noodle dishes and coffee to the menu in the 1970s.

The atmosphere is different compared to Oi Man Sang. Although every table is full and the queue is long, it’s a quieter, more relaxed atmosphere. Each dai pai dong will have a different vibe, Angel says, which is very much shaped by the neighborhood it’s in. When we finally get a table, we go for the classics: Chicken wings with pork chops, instant noodles with pork chops (chops are popular…), and scrambled eggs with corned beef sandwich.

Bing Kee is also known for its Hong Kong-style milk tea, nicknamed ‘pantyhose tea’ after the sackcloth bag used to filter the tea. Originating from British colonial rule, black tea leaves are filtered through a fine filter or strainer, then combined with evaporated milk and sugar. Served hot or iced, the result is a rich, creamy drink that’s a staple in Hong Kong tea culture.

As a huge fan of milk tea, I’d sampled a lot of milk tea during my trip, and this offering from Bing Kee was up there as one of the best. We also order yuenyeung (a combination of coffee and milk tea), another typical Hong Kong drink. It’s a unique flavour, the bitterness and strength of the coffee tempered by the sweet milk tea.

“I took over this place from my grandmother 15 years ago,” Mr Cheng, the chef and license holder at Bing Kee, tells us. “When I retire, the license for this place will go back to the government. There’s definitely more that needs to be done to protect dai pai dong,” he adds, before hurriedly shuffling back to the kitchen to continue feeding the hordes who are arriving.

At all three dai pai dong, every table was full. I noticed plenty of young people and tourists in the queues, so there doesn’t appear to be any question around demand. If anything, dai pai dong are becoming more popular as parents bring their kids here to pass on a memory of their own childhood, elderly people visit as a reminder of the ‘good old days’, and tourists seek to experience a part of Hong Kong’s culture before it disappears.

Today, there are fewer than 30 dai pai dong in the city. “Every day, it feels like we’re waving goodbye to something else,” Angel says, on a walk back through the Tai Hang neighborhood. I feel this too; the stands offer a glimmer of the past in an ever-changing city.

But given the newfound attention and popularity among both tourists and locals, who knows what their future is? And if the Hong Kong government is paying enough attention, there may well be life and future yet for the last of the city’s beloved dai pai dong.

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