Hong Kong presents a particular challenge: it is the city in the world where I am least likely to see (or be able to parse) a menu and, as a consequence, least likely to order a single dish. I end up with many, in the selfless interest of our readers.

Whenever I visit, my Chinese friends know that they will be my conduit to insider restaurant knowledge. Every meal has been arranged before I catch the plane. My friends pose questions – “Cantonese or Shanghainese? Informal or formal?” – to which my response is invariably the former, in both instances. It is at this stage, however, that I begin to be marginalised.

On my first night I found myself ringing the bell of the Southbank private kitchen and going up in the lift of a building that houses offices during the day, but whose fourth floor, by night, becomes a restaurant under the renowned chef Ah Tak.