x
There are few things in life that demand no refinement, no embellishment—things that are perfect simply because they exist. The pineapple bun, bo lo bao (菠蘿包), is one of them.
It is a staple of the Hong Kong-style café, the cha chaan teng—a humble creation born from the city’s unique fusion of East and West. There is no pineapple in it, of course—only a golden, crackly crust that vaguely resembles the fruit’s rugged skin. It is sweet, soft, and nostalgic. A childhood favourite for some, a guilty pleasure for others. For me, it is neither. I do not seek it out, nor do I daydream about it. And yet, there are moments when nothing else will do.
When the craving strikes, I head to the nearest cha chaan teng. The kind with a laminated menu stuck under the glass tabletop and stainless steel ceiling fans that spin lazily overhead. The kind where the air is thick with the scent of butter, condensed milk, and strong tea. I order without hesitation. The waitress scribbles it down, unfazed. No second glances, no clarifications. Just another order, another hungry customer waiting to be fed.
Moments later, it arrives. A pineapple bun, fresh from the oven, its golden dome split open to cradle a thick slab of butter—the bo lo yau (菠蘿油). The butter sits cold and defiant, resisting the heat of the bread for just a moment before it begins to soften, melting into the crevices like molten gold.
The first bite is always the best. The crust shatters, giving way to the pillowy softness beneath. Then comes the butter, rich and indulgent, coating my tongue in a velvety embrace. Sweet, salty, warm, cold—every contrast working in perfect harmony. It is simple yet excessive. Ordinary yet decadent.
Pineapple buns belong to the city’s collective memory. They are the hurried breakfast of office workers, the after-school snack of restless teenagers, the guilty indulgence of the elderly sipping tea in quiet contemplation. They are not gourmet, not sophisticated—but they are ours.
I do not eat them often. I do not need to. But every once in a while, I sit at a chipped Formica table in a bustling cha chaan teng, take that first bite, and remember why nothing else will ever taste quite like home.
ns 15.158.61.18da2
