January, 1979
There is plenty that no one is talking about these days- the madness in Ottowa yesterday, four more cases of possible Ebola infection identified at Dulles, the drumbeat of negative advertising for the impending elections. It makes me feel a little sullied, just listening to the blather of absurdities we are supposed to believe. So let’s not do that this morning.
Let’s go someplace else, where the evils of the present day are just beginning. There’s a ship that lies a-waiting in the harbor…
In the Fall of 1979 there was plenty of time to day-dream as we bored holes in the long aquamarine swells of the North Arabian Sea. There were memories of the carnal carnival of the Philippines, of course. And then there were more esoteric concepts from a world that had changed dramatically since January of that strange year of 1979. The war in Southeast Asia was over, final, for four years. Not quite enough for the last of the Midway enlisted band of foreign legionnaires to have transferred, but it was close enough to a whole new world.
There were still remnants of the British Empire, and when we pulled into the harbor at Hong Kong, the refugees from the victorious Communists were packed on boats, watching the big gray boat with questioning eyes.
We had issues of our own- the question of finding the perfect gin and tonic. Not a pedestrian one; The Drink was an elusive commodity in the Far East. It should be tall (everyone was agreed on that, at least) and with a trifle more ice than the Europeans generally deem appropriate. Enough to make cool drops of condensate roll in silver trails down the side of a well-cut crystal glass. The gin must be British; the tonic Schweppes, naturally, delightfully Schweppervescent.
After all, Commander Whitehead should not have died in vain.
A slice of lime or lemon? The controversy rages on. A hint of Rose’s lime concentrate for subtle aura? Fist fights and duels have been known to erupt over this very question.
Dear Reader, tremble no more. The Answer has been found.
So there I was: I had inhaled the most astonishing brunch in a long and checkered career at the serving table. Jambo, Hooch and Zim-Bob were there, I think, or Black Cloud and Sluggo, Scooter and Rocket and Splash. The cast changed from event to event, but there was a constancy in demeanor and bearing.
The Staff of the Repulse Bay Hotel had done their best in Colonial under-statement. Why, the cheeses alone demanded a groaning table; the salads a Hall unto themselves. The entrees were dished out in appropriate elegance and style: the diners approached the carving block like supplicants to the Throne itself.
The Repulse Bay Hotel had been used to intern British officers in harsh conditions when the Japanese occupied the Crown Colony, and subtle revenge was still carried out as busloads of tourists from Tokyo were jammed into the worst tables in the deep interior of the storied restaurant.
But that all is prelude, and a different matter altogether. The dishes cleared away, the Bill was presented and the vulgar soiled pile of Hong Kong dollars removed.
“A cocktail might possibly be in order,” we mused. “Perhaps even The Cocktail….”
I strode boldly across the long dining hall under the elegant high ceiling. Past the three-story red plush curtain that waved under the gentle urgings of the warm breeze off the China Sea. Into the bar. Dare I say The Bar?
The Chinese serving boy approached me and I placed my order. I surveyed the lounge. The fashionable diners could be observed through the lazy swishing of the curtain. The women…ah, the women of Hong Kong! That joyous collision of the best of the East and the fashion and style of Europe. Heavy leather boots coyly peeking out from beneath long skirts, soft and meticulously cut. Magnificent materials and muted colors, soft blouses gathered at the waist, over stunning figures.
And the faces: those of Empire, the Brit, the well-heeled Malay or Indian. The wealthy Chinese. And of course the understated elegance of Carrier Air Wing Five…..but I digress.
It is the faces better than the clothing. Clear skin and fair complexion; the hint of almond to the eye-lines, the lovely hair, raven-dark and hanging straight, softly gleaming in the afternoon light. Surpassing beauty in an Empire setting, complementing the parking area crammed with Mercedes sedans and Bentleys.
My drink….The Drink….arrived with ideal obsequy. It met all the specifications. I raised it to my lips for the crucial moment; a last indolent shake to hear the silver chimes announcing High Tea. A lazy dollop over the palate. A healthy swallow.
“By God!” I exclaimed “Eureka!” The Chinese boy rushed to my side.
“Is everything all right Sir?” He looked up anxiously.
I ran my tongue over my sea-chapped lips. “No, my good fellow. Most assuredly nothing is wrong. Things are absolutely superb.”
Six Perfect Gin & Tonics later I found myself in a taxi-cab rushing over the Gap and down into the white spires of the City. From the vantage point past the Cricket Club you can see down Happy Valley to the blue waters of the Harbour.
Kowloon beckons on the other side. “Star Ferry, my good man, and step on it.”
A pell-mell rush through the Wanshai District (of ill-fame and story) brought me eventually to the Ferry terminus. A First Class passage is 30 cents HK- one of life’s little luxuries- and the ride is over virtually before you know it. Five crowded blocks of foot traffic bring you to the narrow asphalt estuary that is home to Ned Kelly’s Last Stand (The Fun Pub.)
Time for a cold Swan’s lager to cut the dust of a rigorous trip.
” ”Ello. Wots this?” The owner is complaining from his station behind the dark bar. “I stock up on bloody Fosters when I ‘ears the Midway is comin’ in, and you Yanks drink nothin’ but Swan’s. Crazy, thats wot.”
Poor John. A Sidney man can’t understand why the bloody Yanks want to drink a Perth beer. He does not know that is the last place we were, Down Under. I commiserate and buy him another rum and Coke. “We’re all bloody mad, you see.”
He nods in agreement. “Proper balmy. But not all bad fer all o’ that.”
Ned Kelly, for those of you who may not have had your ancestors transported to Botony Bay for Low Crimes and High Misdemeanors, was the King of all the transported highwaymen. His last great raid (suitably attired in cast-iron helmet and breastplate) is what established him as the spiritual ideal of the Land of the Kangaroo.
“They counted twenty bullets in ‘im. Healed him up proper, they did, and then took him out and hung ‘im.”
“Right then.” I agreed in my very best drunken pseudo-brit. “I believe that calls for another Swan’s.”
“No accountin’ fer taste.”
Eat did you say? What manner of food? A brief stagger from Ned Kelly’s (Past the Bottom’s Up Bar with it’s baffling series of mirrored rooms, featured in the last James Bond epic) will take you to Au Trou Norman, a delightful bistro founded by a former French paratrooper Bernard Vigneau in 1964. The place is a 60-seat slice of Europe in Tsim Sha Tsui.
French replaces Brit as the lange du jour. Subtle ambiance, chateau style. How about some chilled avocado soup? Perhaps followed by artichoke heart smothered in mushrooms,’ in a delightful marinade? Ah, you say, what of the main event?
That delectable stack of aged beef, thinly sliced and graced with a sauce to make an epicure weep. Not enough can be said of the pommes de terre, or the pommes frites like little zeppelins moored tenuously to the plate. And the ritual of the Irish coffee performed by the waiter/acolyte at your elbow from the rolling cart.
Ah, ’tis enough to warm the very lower G.I. tract, long suffering from the gastronomic outrages of the aft wardroom of ship of war.
Hong Kong is quite a place. A place that is forever England.
Well, at least it was.
Copyright 1979 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303