On a bustling weekday, the Metropol, one of Hong Kong’s most expansive dim sum restaurants, was alive with the midday rush. Through the lively dining hall, So Yim-ha skillfully navigated her stainless steel cart, brimming with towering stacks of bamboo steamers. Above the joyful clamor of hundreds of diners, Ms. So’s voice rang out, enthusiastically announcing the exquisite small dishes she carried.
“Pork ribs! Beef meatballs! Quail egg siu mai!”
Basket after basket, Ms. So and her fellow servers gracefully moved through the room, pausing at each table to present their tempting array. Diners eagerly pointed to their choices, drawn in by the inviting scents of soy, steamed shrimp in delicate rice rolls, the rich earthiness of lotus leaves encasing glutinous rice with sausage, and the sight of fluffy barbecued pork buns or glistening, golden egg tarts.
For those selecting beef meatballs, Ms. So would, as tradition dictates, add a dash of Worcestershire sauce. She would also warmly suggest other favorites, like the stuffed green peppers or the flavorful soup dumplings. With each successful sale, she’d stamp a white card to track the order, offer a sincere thank you, and then gracefully move on to the next awaiting table.
This unique, personal exchange – a blend of street-food vibrancy and banquet-hall elegance – is what truly set traditional establishments like the Metropol apart from other dim sum offerings in Hong Kong. The city boasts a diverse culinary scene, from celebrated Michelin-starred restaurants and charming hole-in-the-wall eateries to convenient 7-Eleven options for those needing a quick bite at any hour.
However, on September 27th, after 35 years of business, Metropol, one of the last remaining restaurants to use dim sum carts, will permanently close. With its closure, a beloved emblem of Hong Kong’s dining culture will also disappear: the iconic dim sum cart auntie.
For many decades, these typically middle-aged women have been as integral to the dim sum experience as the renowned shrimp dumplings and phoenix’s claw (steamed chicken feet) that define Cantonese cuisine, always accompanied by steaming tea.
These women, known for being both charming and occasionally a bit gruff, much like other service staff in Hong Kong, brought an irreplaceable human element to one of the city’s most cherished culinary rituals – a warmth that a simple menu could never replicate.
“It’s far from an easy job,” explained Mamoru Hayashi, 46, whose family owns Metropol and two other Hong Kong restaurants, carrying on a tradition from Japan where they once operated the country’s oldest Chinese restaurant. “Pushing these heavy carts is tough. You also need to be friendly, outgoing, and loud enough to be heard over the restaurant’s buzz.”
Ms. So, at 62, has dedicated nearly half her life to Metropol. She stoops over her cart, pushing it through the thick carpet, her white paper hat and starched traditional Chinese collar a familiar sight. Her talent for engaging customers is a source of great pride.
“I don’t just serve dim sum; I love to chat with guests and share my recommendations,” she shared. “Our regulars often ask about my well-being, and I always inquire about their children.”
This summer, when the restaurant announced its closure, Ms. So, like her nearly dozen fellow dim sum cart aunties, was heartbroken. She spoke of her colleagues as family, having worked together for so long. Her modest monthly earnings, between 7,000 and 14,000 Hong Kong dollars ($900 and $1,800), were a lifeline, given the scarcity of jobs for older, less-skilled workers.
“It fills me with such sadness,” she confessed. “I have no idea what my next step will be.”
Metropol’s closure also signals a shift in Hong Kong’s economic landscape. Grand restaurants designed for dim sum carts are a relic of a vibrant era beginning in the 1980s, when Hong Kong thrived on the back of a booming Chinese economy.
Back then, these establishments prospered by hosting elaborate dinner banquets for weddings, industry gatherings, and clan associations, where hundreds of guests would enjoy lavish seafood and fine French cognac. Breakfast and lunchtime dim sum, with common dishes around 40 Hong Kong dollars ($5), were less crucial to the bottom line. Customers could linger for hours, chatting over a few steamers and sipping tea, without a raised eyebrow from the staff.
Today’s economic realities are far different. Hotels now dominate the wedding banquet market, and China’s slowing economy has led Hong Kong residents to tighten their spending. Meanwhile, Shenzhen, just across the mainland border, has emerged as a formidable culinary rival, offering lower prices. To survive, Hong Kong restaurants increasingly 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 this tradition over the years has been a significant challenge for Metropol, especially with the constant demand to serve office workers during their brief lunch breaks. To manage, the restaurant augmented its pushcarts with a self-service dim sum station in the center of the dining area.
Ensuring that steamed dumplings remain hot and fried spring rolls and sesame balls stay crispy is a complex logistical task in such a large operation. The wait staff must possess an astute ability to gauge the room’s needs and precisely how much stock to carry on each cart.
“Constant turnover is essential to ensure the dim sum is always fresh,” explained Mr. Hayashi. His family, of Japanese origin with Chinese roots, once ran Japan’s oldest Chinese restaurant.
Since Metropol announced its closure in July, Hong Kong residents have flocked to the restaurant for one final meal and to capture memories. Customers have even inquired if they could take home the red acrylic signs from the carts as souvenirs (the answer is no). Staff had to bolt down the wheels of a display cart in the lobby because visitors kept pushing it around, playfully imitating the servers.
Bosco Tung, a 74-year-old regular and retired tailor who frequented Metropol almost daily since its opening, shook his head as he surveyed the packed dining room. He likened the sudden surge of public interest to attending someone’s “funeral” after neglecting them their entire life.
“Suddenly, all these people appear. Where were they when business was normal?” he pondered.
Among those who came to pay their respects was Li Bo-sau, an 80-year-old former dim sum cart auntie who left Metropol in 2015. Her senior living facility organized a visit upon hearing the news of the closure.
Ms. Li fondly recalls her time at Metropol as some of the happiest years of her life. She particularly enjoyed interacting with tourists who didn’t speak Cantonese. To explain beef meatballs, she’d form horns with her fingers above her head; for the beloved steamed chicken feet, she’d cluck and point to her own feet.
According to her caregivers, anyone within earshot at the senior home has heard Ms. Li’s stories about Metropol. She loves to show visitors a Japanese travel magazine clipping featuring a younger, proud version of herself behind a dim sum cart. The clipping, kept folded in an empty Blu Tack envelope, is worn white from countless openings.
“I still dream of that place,” she said. Tiffany May contributed reporting.