On a bustling weekday at Metropol, one of Hong Kong’s grandest dim sum restaurants, the lunch service was in full swing. Through the lively, cavernous dining hall, So Yim-ha navigated her stainless steel cart, laden with bamboo steamers.
Above the joyful din of hundreds of diners, Ms. So’s voice rang out, enthusiastically advertising the delectable small dishes she carried. “Pork ribs! Beef meatballs! Quail egg siu mai!” she called.
As she and her fellow servers crisscrossed the floor, stopping at each table, the baskets of dim sum quickly emptied. Diners eagerly pointed to their choices, drawn in by the fragrant steam of soy and shrimp in delicate rice rolls, the earthy perfume of glutinous rice and sausage wrapped in lotus leaves, and the enticing sight of fluffy barbecued pork buns and glistening yellow egg tarts.
Ms. So, with a customary squirt of Worcestershire sauce for the beef meatballs, offered recommendations like her personal favorites: stuffed green peppers and soup dumplings. With each sale, she stamped a white card to tally orders, thanked her customers, and moved on to the next eager table.
This vibrant, personal interaction—a charming blend of street stall energy and banquet hall elegance—is what truly set traditional parlors like Metropol apart in Hong Kong’s diverse culinary scene. While the city boasts everything from Michelin-starred establishments to humble hole-in-the-wall eateries and even 7-Eleven dim sum for those on the go, the unique character of Metropol was undeniable.
However, after 35 years, Metropol, one of only a handful of restaurants still using dim sum carts, is set to close permanently on September 27. With its closure, a beloved emblem of Hong Kong dining will largely disappear: the cherished “dim sum cart auntie.”
For decades, these typically middle-aged women have been as integral to the dim sum experience as the iconic har gow (shrimp dumplings) and phoenix’s claw (steamed chicken feet). They are known for being both charming and occasionally gruff, much like many service professionals in Hong Kong. Yet, they consistently infuse one of the city’s most treasured rituals with a personal touch that a menu-wielding server simply cannot replicate.
Mamoru Hayashi, whose family founded Metropol and two other Hong Kong restaurants, acknowledged the demanding nature of the role. “It’s not the easiest job,” he said. “It’s hard to push those carts. You also have to be friendly, outgoing and loud enough so the customers can hear your voice.”
Ms. So, 62, who has dedicated nearly half her life to Metropol, navigates the plush carpeting, hunched slightly over her cart. Dressed in a white paper hat and a crisp, traditional Chinese-collared uniform, she prides herself on her gift for conversation. “I don’t just serve dim sum, I’m also happy to chitchat with the customers and tell them what’s good to eat,” she shared. “The regulars like to ask about my health and I always ask about their children.”
The news of the restaurant’s impending closure this summer brought tears to Ms. So’s eyes, as it did for the nearly dozen other dim sum cart aunties on staff. Having worked alongside them for so long, they felt like family. The modest monthly salary of 7,000 to 14,000 Hong Kong dollars ($900 to $1,800) was a lifeline for older, less-skilled workers like her.
“It makes me so sad,” she lamented. “I have no idea what I’ll do next.”
Metropol’s closure also reflects Hong Kong’s evolving economic landscape. Grand restaurants of its size, capable of accommodating dim sum carts, are relics of the city’s prosperous decades starting in the 1980s, when a booming Chinese economy brought an influx of wealth.
During that era, these establishments thrived by hosting lavish dinner banquets for weddings, industry events, and clan associations, treating hundreds of guests to expensive seafood and fine French cognac. Breakfast and lunchtime dim sum services were less critical to their profits, especially with common dishes costing around 40 Hong Kong dollars ($5). Customers could linger for hours over a few steamers and tea without drawing a single raised eyebrow from the staff.
Today’s economic realities no longer support such practices. Hotels have largely taken over the wedding banquet market from standalone restaurants. China’s slowed economy has prompted Hong Kongers to tighten their belts, and Shenzhen, just across the mainland border, has emerged as a formidable culinary rival with more affordable prices. To survive, Hong Kong restaurants often need to be smaller and more efficient.
Only a handful of banquet-style restaurants with dim sum carts remain, such as Maxim’s Palace in City Hall, overlooking the picturesque Victoria Harbor.
Maintaining the dim sum cart tradition has been a constant challenge for Metropol, especially with the demand of serving office workers on tight lunch breaks. To adapt, Metropol supplemented its pushcarts with a cafeteria-style dim sum station in the center of the restaurant.
Ensuring that steamed dumplings remained hot and fried spring rolls and sesame balls stayed crispy in such a large operation required constant vigilance. The wait staff had to skillfully gauge the room and know precisely how much to stock in each cart.
“You need constant turnover to keep the dim sum fresh,” explained Mr. Hayashi, 46, who represents the third generation of his family’s Japanese-Chinese restaurant business, which once operated the oldest Chinese restaurant in Japan.
Since Metropol announced its impending closure in July, Hong Kongers have flocked to the restaurant for one last meal and countless photo opportunities. Customers even inquired if they could take the red acrylic dish signs from the carts as souvenirs (they couldn’t). Staff had to bolt down a cart in the lobby because visitors kept moving it, eager to play at being servers.
Bosco Tung, a 74-year-old regular who had dined at Metropol nearly every day since its opening, shook his head as he observed the crowded dining room. He likened the sudden surge of public interest to lamenting someone’s passing after neglecting them throughout their life until their “funeral.”
“Suddenly all these people come. Where were they when it was normal business?” he wondered.
Among those paying their respects was Li Bo-sau, an 80-year-old former Metropol dim sum cart auntie who left in 2015. Her senior home arranged a visit after learning of the closure.
Ms. Li fondly remembers her time at Metropol as some of her happiest. She particularly enjoyed interacting with tourists who didn’t speak Cantonese. To explain beef meatballs, she would form horns above her head with her fingers. For the popular steamed chicken feet, she would cluck and point to her own feet, sparking laughter and understanding.
Everyone at her senior home has heard her stories of Metropol, according to employees. She loves to show visitors a Japanese travel magazine clipping featuring her younger self, standing proudly behind a dim sum cart. She keeps it carefully folded inside an empty Blu Tack envelope, its creases worn white from countless openings.
“I still dream of that place,” she said.
Tiffany May contributed reporting.