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Ho si fat choy (dried oysters with black moss)

Ho si fat choy is the Cantonese Lunar New Year dish that every shopkeeper in Hong Kong wants on the table: ho si (dried oysters) sounds like 'good business' and fat choy (black moss) sounds like 'get rich'. Wild fa cai is now banned from harvest in China because gathering it damaged the grasslands, so this recipe uses the widely sold 'vegetarian black moss' substitute, which looks the same; you can also leave it out and the dish is still delicious. The dried oysters are soaked and slowly braised with shiitake until plump, chewy and deeply savoury, in a glossy oyster-sauce gravy. Serve it piled on blanched lettuce with steamed rice. Chef's tip: rinse the soaked oysters under running water, rubbing each one, to wash out any grit hiding in the folds.

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Sugarcane and cogon root drink

Ask a Hong Kong family what they drink at the first hint of a sore throat in autumn, or when the city's spring humidity sets in, and many will say jook je mao gun soi. Lengths of thin green bamboo sugarcane, split open, are simmered with dried cogon grass root and carrots, sometimes with water chestnuts and a few dried corn silks, into a pale amber broth that tastes of sugarcane, sweet carrot and a faint grassiness. It is drunk warm after dinner or chilled from the fridge during the day, and herbal tea shops sell it by the bottle for children who refuse the bitter stuff. The common mistake is skipping the splitting of the cane: whole sticks barely release any sweetness, and you end up adding sugar. Bash each piece with the back of a cleaver until it cracks lengthwise. The drink is ready when the carrots are soft, the liquid is clear and light amber, and it tastes naturally sweet. Bamboo cane and cogon root are sold as soup packs in Chinese grocers; ordinary purple or green sugarcane works too. It is traditionally drunk to 'clear heat', but it is a refreshment, not a cure. Chef's tip: add a few peeled water chestnuts for extra crunch-sweetness.

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Leung cha (Cantonese herbal tea)

Across Guangdong and Hong Kong, the leung cha shop with its gleaming brass urns is a neighbourhood fixture. People drop in after a run of fried food, late nights or the heavy, humid weather of early summer, when Cantonese tradition says the body has too much 'heat', and down a bowl standing at the counter, then chase it with a dried plum. Brews range from the gentle 'five-flower tea' to fiercely bitter 24-herb mixes. This home version uses dried mesona (sin cho), prunella spike (ha fu cho), chrysanthemum and honeysuckle: dark brown, earthy and grassy, clearly bitter but rounded by the flowers and a little rock sugar. The common mistake is boiling everything together for an hour; the flowers turn harsh and muddy. Simmer the woody herbs first, add the flowers only for the last 10 minutes. It is ready when the liquor is the colour of strong tea and has reduced by about a third. It is traditionally drunk for comfort, not as medicine: skip it in pregnancy and check with a doctor if you take regular medication. Chef's tip: buy herbs pre-weighed as a packet from a Chinese herbalist, who will rinse-check them for grit and freshness.

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Hong Kong red bean iceRed bean shaved ice

Red bean ice is a cha chaan teng drink and dessert in one: tall glasses of sweet stewed adzuki beans, sugar syrup and crushed ice, topped with a layer of evaporated milk, served all summer at the old-school cafés of Sham Shui Po and Mong Kok and at the dai pai dong on Stanley Street. You stir with a long spoon, sip the cold milky liquid through a straw and spoon up the soft beans. The beans can be cooked a day ahead. Contains milk. Chef's tip: add the sugar only once the beans are completely soft; sugar added early keeps the skins tough.

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Hong Kong iced lemon tea

Ask for 'ling cha, dung' at any Hong Kong cha chaan teng and a tall glass arrives crammed with ice, a heap of thin lemon slices and a long spoon for pounding them, the default thirst-quencher with set lunches all year round. The tea is brewed almost bitter, so it holds its own against the ice, and the sharp lemon and simple syrup turn it bright, tangy and refreshing. It is drunk with everything from macaroni soup breakfasts to afternoon pineapple buns. The common slip is brewing tea at normal strength, which tastes thin and watery once the ice melts; double the tea. Chef's tip: press the lemon slices with the back of the spoon only a few times to release juice and oil from the zest; grinding them to a pulp brings out bitterness from the pith.

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Hong Kong yuenyeungCoffee and milk tea blend

Named after mandarin ducks, which are always seen in pairs, yuenyeung marries brewed coffee and silky milk tea in a single cup, and you will find it on the drinks board of every cha chaan teng in Hong Kong. Office workers order it at lunch with a toasted bun or a plate of noodles, hot in winter and iced through the humid summer, and it tastes of both and neither: the tea's tannic grip, the coffee's roast and the creamy body of evaporated milk, with a double dose of caffeine that makes it a poor choice for children or late evenings. Watery tea is where most homemade versions go wrong, letting the coffee take over; brew the tea strong and stewed. Chef's tip: pour the brewed tea back and forth through a fine strainer four or five times; this 'pulling' smooths out the tannins and gives the drink its silky body.

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White cut chicken with ginger-scallion oil

No Cantonese celebration in Hong Kong or Guangdong is complete without a plate of baak chit gai: at Lunar New Year, weddings and ancestor offerings, the whole chicken stands for family togetherness. It is the purest of the poached dishes, with pale, springy skin, a thin layer of jelly beneath it from the ice-water plunge, and smooth, juicy meat, all lifted by a dipping bowl of ginger and spring onion sizzled with hot oil and salt. Serve it at room temperature with rice cooked in the poaching stock. Old-style cooks leave it pink at the bone, but here the chicken is always cooked until the thickest part of the thigh reads 74 °C. The biggest error is boiling hard, which splits the skin; the water should only shiver. Chef's tip: grate the ginger finely and squeeze out a little of its juice, or the oil turns watery and bitter.

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Salt and pepper squid

Late at night in Temple Street, or at a seafood restaurant on Lamma Island after a ferry ride, someone at the table always orders the jiu yim squid: tender pieces under a thin, shattering coat, wok-tossed with a heap of fried garlic, chilli and spring onion and showered with a peppery spiced salt. It is crunchy, salty and a little fiery, ideal with a cold soft drink or as one of several dishes with rice. Squid cooks in seconds. The most frequent mistake is crowding the oil, which drops its temperature so the coating turns soggy and the squid goes rubbery while you wait; fry in small batches. Chef's tip: score the inside of the squid in a criss-cross pattern so it curls up and catches more of the salt.

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Soy sauce chicken

Glossy, chestnut-brown and hung by the neck in siu mei shop windows across Hong Kong, see yau gai is the gentle cousin of roast meats: a whole chicken poached in a fragrant master stock of light and dark soy, rock sugar, star anise, cinnamon and ginger until the skin is lacquered and the meat silky and sweet-savoury. It is chopped onto plates of rice with a ladle of the sauce for a quick lunch, or served at home with blanched greens. Shaoxing rice wine goes into the stock, with an alcohol-free option in the list. Traditional cooks pull the bird while it is still pink at the bone; this recipe does not, and the chicken is cooked to 74 °C in the thickest part of the thigh. The main pitfall is a rolling boil, which tears the skin and toughens the breast; keep the stock barely trembling. Chef's tip: strain and freeze the stock, and it gets deeper every time you reuse it.

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Steamed scallops with garlic and glass noodles

At the seafood stalls of Sai Kung and Lei Yue Mun, diners pick shellfish from the tanks and the kitchen sends them back in minutes: scallops on the half shell, each sitting on a nest of glass noodles under a heap of garlic, half fried golden and half left raw, steamed just until the scallop turns opaque, then finished with a splash of soy and a hiss of hot oil over spring onions. The noodles soak up all the sweet juices, the scallop is soft and barely firm, and the garlic is both mellow and sharp. Serve one or two each as a starter. Use only very fresh scallops: discard any that smell off or have cracked or broken shells. Most people overcook them; a large scallop needs only 5 to 6 minutes. Chef's tip: frying half the garlic and keeping half raw is the restaurant trick for deep, rounded garlic flavour.

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Hong Kong milk tea

Hong Kong milk tea is the daily fuel of the city's cha chaan teng, poured hot in thick cups at breakfast and over ice in the humid afternoons. Tea masters brew a blend of strong black teas, strain it again and again through a long cotton bag (the stained 'silk stocking'), and mix it with evaporated milk for a smooth, almost velvety drink. Chef's tip: let the tea simmer for a few minutes rather than just steeping it; Hong Kong milk tea is meant to be strong and slightly astringent, or the milk drowns it.

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Typhoon shelter crab

Typhoon shelter crab comes from the boat people of Causeway Bay, who cooked for visitors on sampans moored in the harbour's storm shelters, and Hong Kong restaurants still serve it piled under a golden mountain of fried garlic. Crab pieces are dusted in starch and fried, then tossed in a wok with a huge amount of crisp garlic, dried chilli, fermented black beans and spring onion. Chef's tip: fry the garlic slowly over a medium heat; it should turn golden and crunchy, never dark, or it tastes bitter.

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