Street retreat in Hong Kong

Lockhart Road is walking distance from our hotel, past the 7-Eleven, across the basketball court, over the tramlines and around the corner, not more than a few minutes by foot. But locating it is proving more difficult than we'd imagined because the Chinese in Hong Kong have a different name - and not just pronunciation - for every street, building and location. So, no, they don't know where Lockhart Road is, they don't know where the clubs are, they giggle over our maps and say "sorry, don't understand", till, finally, we decide to hail a cab. We tell the taxi driver we want to go clubbing, and he makes a glug-glug gesture and says "go Lae Kwon Fong", which I've been told is the other street party zone. But my son is hung up on Lockhart Road, which turns out not even to be worth the effort of getting into the taxi, it's so close after all. A magazine had mentioned the district as being a favourite of sailors, and from the citizenry it's easy to understand why, while we're obviously out of place, a family of four on an outing about town shy of midnight.
 

The bars are packed, there's barely standing room on the dance floors, absolutely no chance of getting a table, and while liquid refreshments offer some possibility, there's no food in sight, so much to the reluctance of our son, we drag him away to a relatively quieter hangout where the victuals are terrible, but we're kidding ourselves if we think people come here for the pleasure of dining. The Hong Kongese are fiscally efficient, polite to a fault, and think nothing of hustling upfront, which makes them appear confrontationist, though they're anything but adversial. If the sins of Lockhart Road are making us blush, they're hardly to blame for our trespasses into the realm of the single traveller - but this too shall pass.

The following evening, my son invites me to a Hong Kong pastime - a pub crawl - the dubious delights of which I pass. I'm in Hong Kong on work, and a hangover is the last thing I need. The family, though, is on holiday, but from the large quantities of bags they ferry back every evening, you'd imagine their existence revolved only around shopping. The kids check out the brands, but my wife visits the neighbourhood stores to buy spices and dried fishy entrails she doesn't know anything about but insists she'll use for cooking, besides, of course, industrial quantities of tissue paper, plastic partyware and storage containers.

Mealtimes are exciting - provided you're not squeamish. The clear soups and broths have things you don't want to identify for being unpalatable - baby, and I mean baby - octopuses, scaly fins, and things offal. The wontons are fabulous if not familiar. Iced coffee tastes strangely of marine life. But the quality of dining never lets you down, each meal as much a surprise as it is a discovery. But even if you're put off by unusual tastes, don't waste it - nothing offends the Chinese more than the sight of wasted food. If you're longing for the familiar, try McDonalds, or Starbucks.

The tourist magazines advertise the delights of made-to-measure tailoring, most owned by Indians who promise overnight tailoring, but these are shiny suits and cheap shirts. Out on the streets, though, you'll see the citizenry in Fendi and Prada, the shoes and bags representing every known Italian or French fashion label. It's the tourists who look like hicks. Hopefully, they won't leave before a makeover, Hong Kong style.