A. Wong
IT’S PROBABLY EASIER TO ARRANGE a papal audience than it is to secure a reservation at A Wong. Tenacity and stamina are required of all who would make the effort. A healthy bank balance too. The fee of £80 automatically applied to every noshow reflects the prices on a menu that might just be the finest of any Chinese restaurant in London. There’s a reason, after all, that this small and out-of-the-way establishment on the border between Victoria and Pimlico boasts a brace of Michelin stars.
Yet it would be difficult to think of a place less obtuse or forbidding when one is on the actual premises. Waiters fall over themselves to treat diners less as customers and more as favoured friends. Which, in many cases, they are. The fight to get one’s foot in the door is amply rewarded by the warmth, courtesy and attentiveness of service it’s impossible to fault. The most curmudgeonly critics are left purring like contented kittens. And the food? Well, it’s nothing short of sublime. Regulars compete for seats at the counter overlooking the open kitchen, from which emerges dim sum so precise, so flavoursome and so altogether exquisite that each miniature mouthful is a gourmet meal in itself. One seldom thinks of the Chinese as masters of the art of desserts, yet the steamed duck yolk custard buns surpass anything the finest French chef could devise.
See also: Ma La Sichuan
