Hong Kong weather is dramatic. Spring days are often cloudy but sticky. A walk down a crowded street assails the senses with exhaust fumes and the thick air hurts the lungs and muscles. Thunderstorms arrive unexpectedly and drenching rains create little rivers in the gutters. Lightning flashes in zig-zags over the harbor, competing with the city's nightly laser light shows.
Earthquakes are not commonplace, as they are in Japan, but typhoons are. The tempests are categorized on a scale of one through ten. At Level 8, officials declare a "direct hit." At that point, one is advised to stay clear of windows. Typhoon season starts in June and I was scheduled to be gone by then.
One night in April, a thunderstorm arrived, full of bravado. Lightning flashed and thunder exploded like bombs in the sky. On our way to dinner we joined a lineup of people waiting for taxis, each of which hydroplaned to the curb.
During the week, William and I would meet for lunch and dine on Indian, Taiwanese, Italian, American, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese — the benefits of being in a cosmopolitan center. Once, I mentioned to William that I was oddly in the mood for Chinese. His response: You're in the wrong town for that, sister.
On this particular rainy night, we were off to celebrate William's birthday at a Hong Kong institution, Jimmy's Kitchen. This restaurant has been popular for its Western-style cuisine since 1928. Jimmy's is reminiscent of the kind of New York City dining rooms seen in black-and-white movies of the 1940s, with dark wood paneling, ceiling fans, crisp linens, efficient waiters and jazz playing in the background. The menu choices included shrimp cocktail, baked onion soup, beef Wellington and chicken à la king.
I sipped a martini in a frosty glass and William had a scotch. We ate seafood vol-au-vent, oyster soup, rack of lamb and rare steak. A waiter presented a tray of accoutrements for our baked potatoes: small silver dishes with sour cream, chopped chives and bacon pieces. Dessert was Baked Alaska, dramatically flambéed at our table.
This was the dining experience of another generation and, hey, Isn't that Deborah Kerr nibbling on her martini olives? She may have put on a few, but was still elegant in a turquoise cheung sam with cap sleeves and narrow satin piping.
The storm passed during dinner and we walked home on shiny rain-slicked streets reflecting a parade of neon light in small puddles. This was the Hong Kong of the movies.
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