Pardon My French

One of my favourite places to get coffee in Hong Kong is Fuel. It's a New Zealand coffee bar with a couple of branches; one in the upper reaches of the IFC mall, and the other submerged in the basement of the Landmark mall. At both, the coffee is good. The staff are generally both friendly and attentive (although there was one time it took them 5 goes to make me an espresso, which suggests a strange combination of diligence and incompetence). Finally, they serve an artery-hardening selection of baked goods, including a chocolate coated, sugar-slathered slice of caramel that, like a Proustian madeline, makes me think of happiness in Hong Kong and rage with a database simultaneously.

It's getting a bit wierd

I got home tonight to the din of a lion dance crew banging pots and pans and yelling, but as this is fairly normal for a Wednesday night in Chinatown, I thought no more of it. Until a particularly loud bang got my attention and I looked out the window, to see a horse outside the temple.

Not spread quite thinly enough

Last night I was running back and forth between parties like an overactive social gadfly. First I went to Gary's birthday party at Cicada but it turned out that I was an hour early. So then I went to Mary's birthday party, in a gallery selling expensive pots, and drank somebody else's beer.