Siang Lu on tour at the Hong Kong Literary Festival
EAT, PRAY, BRUV PT II
On tour at the Hong Kong International Literary Festival, the Miles Franklin-winning author of Ghost Cities and his literary agent embark on the bromantic sequel to Eat, Pray, Bruv.
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Spoiler alert: In this, the second instalment of the bizarre series of luxury-literary escapades featuring me and my literary agent Brendan “Brendo” Fredericks, I must inform readers upfront, that, unlike last time, the two of us do not end up getting naked in front of each other. If it’s nude massage hijinks you want, read the original piece here (Eat, Pray, Bruv Pt I).
My literary agent, Brendan “Brendo” Fredericks re-laces his Rick Owens Ramones high-tops, then joins me in gawking across the foggy harbour of Tsim Sha Tsui, with its avenue of stars and Museum of Art fronting that iconic Hong Kong skyline.
“XXXXXX hell! Look at this XXXXXX place!”
I ask Brendo how much his shoes cost and almost throw up when he tells me. We’d better sell more books.
The two of us are here as guest speakers at the Hong Kong International Literary Festival. First event: a literary lunch in partnership with the Australian Consulate-General at Cafe 8 atop the Hong Kong Maritime Museum. Lunch is in fact the last thing on our minds after a late night supper at Michelin starred Man Ho which we are still digesting from the previous night: a degustation featuring jellyfish, abalone, goose fried rice and slow-cooked crispy pigeon so succulent we swore at each other with our mouths entirely full.
Mid-way through the event (ironic title, ‘literary lunch’, for the literary person must speak, and has no time for food) I spot Brendo, in front, arms crossed, snoozing. I don’t take it personal. He’s heard all my BS before. And I’ve come to learn that the better my performances are on-stage, the better Brendo snoozes. I’m thus incentivised to be as charming and eloquent as I can be. Brendo needs his rest for shenanigans to come.
Back to our rooms at the JW Marriott at Admiralty, a luxurious pit-stop between festival appearances. I break out the bath salts and relax in the tub with a non-relaxing book (the excellently stressful Julie Chan is Dead by Liann Zhang). Later, I fall into my king bed, and from the bedside press buttons – my favourite activity: buttons by the hotel bedside – and the motorised sheers and curtains over by the window part to reveal more of the neon city at sunset.
In the evening, we reconvene at Bar Q88 – with its classy marble and wood décor and live jazz – for a couple rounds of negronis. Brendo is freshly shaven, with his Tom Ford cologne, Tobacco Vanille, the scent of which I compliment.
“Mate I smell so good, I’m gonna XXXX myself!”
Both Man Ho, the restaurant where we supped the night before, and Bar Q88, are award-winning Marriott venues. Theoretically, one could have a most excellent journey for the palate without ever leaving the hotel premises. That, however, is not our plan. We sip our drinks, nibble on endless complimentary pretzels and honeyed almonds, and plot our route into Mong Kok.
We may not be from the streets, but our bellies could fool you: They are addicted to Mong Kong street food.
Into the Uber. Destination: 肥姐小食店 (Féi jiě xiǎoshí diàn), which translates, literally, to Fat Sister Snack Shop. The line already goes halfway down the block. When we get to the front we point like kids in a candy store. That please, and that, and that one. Soy-braised turkey kidneys, pig liver, octopus tentacles on skewers, all drizzled in sweet soy sauce and mustard. Perfection.
The rest of the night – what little I remember of it – is spent sampling the drinks menu at Moonkok, by our reckoning the coolest bar in Hong Kong, with its teahouse-cum-temple exterior design, its tap wall, its disaffected proprietress (or maybe just some rando?) sitting in pajamas and hair rollers on a corner stool reconciling invoices, and the way its cramped spaces spill out onto the street. The bartender somehow intuits from across the packed bar that Brendo is a doofhead, and cues up a hectic techno track. Brendo gives the thumbs up, which the bartender reciprocates. Hey! Bartender, I want to say, Get yer own bromance!
At some point in the night I find myself standing outside, on the street, facing Brendo, who sits on a stool inside, our drinks balanced on the sill between, chatting about everything from family, to borscht, to the travails of his life as a Miles Franklin-winning literary agent.
“You know what being an agent is like? It’s like I got bread crumbs all over me and the pigeons are pecking at me!”
Depending on how you feel about hangovers, the next day is… not good.
Though muscle-memory, stage-memory, and a love of literature, carry me through.
I sit in on Brendo’s session (where, for the record, I do not snooze). And we are nourished on a full day’s talk on all things books (Susan Barker’s Old Soul my favourite read of the festival), on weird tales of literary life (fellow Aussie author Liam Pieper in fine form), and on craft (did you know Don Delillo would write every sentence on a new page so the white space would help him regard more deeply what he’d written? I couldn’t afford the printing costs.).
After a final session and the hand-cramp of book-signings, Brendo and I venture out towards the bars and restaurants dotted along Stanley Street, Central. We enter Luk Yu Tea House, an old-school establishment dating back to the 30s, with bustling waiters in starched white shirts and black pants. These are career waitstaff, who know their diners better than the diners know themselves. Ushering us to a private wooden booth, seeing us lost in our menus, our server drops suggestions. Prawn toast. Tsingtao beers. Rice. Cantonese soy sauce chicken with ginger-scallion paste – their last such chicken of the night, as it happens, and oh the guilty, gleeful looks Brendo and I share, overhearing the next diners request this same dish, only to be told they’re fresh out, in this, the third and final Michelin-starred eatery of our gut-expanding tour, which, increasingly, I now realise, should not be called Eat, Pray, Bruv, but rather, Eat, Eat, Eat.
