Walking in, the first thing to notice is the aromatic smell of freshly brewed tea that permeates the air.
They wait on us using Cantonese with various accents, an assortment of dialects from minor provinces. They rudely throw the dishes on the table, and tell me that I can’t take pictures of the menu. My parents complain to me about the service, about their mainland manners, and say that they’ll never come here again.
I slowly sip my tea, and leave before it’s half finished. Even on a full stomach, I can feel myself getting uneasy.
It’s been six months since I’ve had a glass of authentic Hong Kong style milk tea. No more, I’ve decided.
Saturday mornings won’t be the same.