It’s late at night in Hong Kong’s Central District. An ex-pat friend guides me through a wet market, where stalls sell fruit and vegetables during the day. At this time of night, however, the market is deserted, not a soul in sight. Behind one of the empty stalls is a black door. There’s no signage, only an elaborate doorbell. We ring the bell. A minute later, a man in an impeccable suit opens the door, just slightly, and asks if we have a reservation. We don’t. “One moment,” he says. The door closes. We wait, then it opens again, and the man ushers us inside and down a flight of steps into a darkened room.
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