Some places are remembered for their grandeur; others, for the way they make you feel. The Hong Kong Club, to me, was both. It was a place where decorum met leisure, where the clink of cutlery echoed against the quiet hum of conversation, and where my younger brother, Alex, and I, under the watchful yet relaxed presence of our father, grew to appreciate the finer details of life.
We were teenagers then, still discovering the unspoken rules of the adult world, but old enough to understand that the Hong Kong Club was not just a building—it was an institution. Its exterior was stately but unassuming, a discreet yet imposing presence in the heart of Central. The façade was neither ostentatious nor flashy, but its very existence spoke of legacy and continuity, a quiet nod to the city’s colonial past while firmly planted in its cosmopolitan present.
Inside, the club exuded a timeless elegance. Polished wood-panelled walls, deep carpets that softened every step, and chandeliers casting a warm glow over well-dressed patrons engaged in quiet conversation. The atmosphere was refined but not stiff—it was the kind of place where men in tailored suits sat with ease, where waiters moved with efficiency and grace, where members exchanged nods and greetings in a manner that suggested familiarity rather than exclusivity.
Alex and I had already been introduced to fine dining in London at quite a young age, where our parents had taught us the importance of etiquette. In the UK, we even attended etiquette classes, learning the nuances of table manners, the correct way to hold cutlery, and the subtleties of conversation over a formal meal. But experiencing it in Hong Kong, as teenagers in a private club steeped in tradition, felt different. The Garden Lounge became the backdrop to these memories, a space where we dined in a refined yet relaxed setting, taking in the city through its large windows as we indulged in the buffet lunch. The spread was generous and carefully curated—silver chafing dishes lined up in a seamless row, lids lifted to reveal steaming selections of roast meats, delicate dim sum, and an array of salads so artfully arranged that one felt guilty disturbing their composition. There was always something deeply satisfying about the ritual of a buffet—the slow perusal of options, the careful selection of what to place on one’s plate, the unspoken challenge of going back for seconds without appearing greedy.
Even as teenagers, Alex and I knew that the setting demanded a certain level of decorum. We dressed the part—tailor-made suits, polished shoes, our ties neatly knotted as we followed our father into the club’s elegant halls. It was not about mere compliance with the dress code; it was about an appreciation for the occasion. The formality was not a burden but a pleasure, a way of marking the moment as something special.
Yet, there were places within the club that remained tantalisingly out of reach. Grand ballrooms and function rooms, ornately decorated for formal events, where adults in tuxedos and evening gowns gathered for exclusive galas, charity dinners, and society functions. Alex and I were too young to enter, but that never stopped us from taking a peek. Sometimes, a door would be left slightly ajar, or we would catch a brief glimpse through frosted glass panels—just enough to see a shimmering chandelier, the soft flicker of candlelight on impeccably set tables, the glint of polished silver under the glow of antique sconces. It felt like a world apart, a place of quiet sophistication and whispered conversations, where the city's elite gathered in a setting that was at once intimate and imposing.
Of course, the club was not all formality. It was also a place of leisure. The squash courts became our battleground, the rhythmic sound of the ball against the walls punctuated by laughter and the occasional triumphant cheer. Alex, ever the more competitive of the two of us, pushed me to be faster, sharper, more strategic. Bowling was a different kind of enjoyment—less about competition, more about camaraderie. There was something satisfying about the smooth release of the ball, the momentary suspense as it rolled towards the pins, followed by the gratifying crash of a well-placed strike.
Years later, we returned. This time, we were not just guests of our father, but invitees to an event hosted by one of his friends. It was held in the Hong Kong Room, one of the club’s most distinguished spaces, reserved for the kind of gatherings we once peered into from the outside. The room was everything we had imagined—high ceilings, heavy drapes, oil paintings that bore silent witness to the passing years. The tables were set with meticulous precision, the cutlery aligned as if placed by an unseen hand that had done so a thousand times before. There was an undeniable charm in knowing that we had, in some ways, come full circle—not just as young men now allowed into these hallowed spaces, but as individuals who had, over the years, learned to appreciate the nuances of the world the club represented.
The Hong Kong Club was, and still is, a microcosm of the city itself—structured yet adaptable, steeped in tradition yet alive with the present. It was where I first learned that elegance was more than just appearance, that formality was not a restriction but an art. And above all, it was where I learned that the best afternoons are those spent in good company, dressed well, playing hard, and savouring the quiet dignity of a place where tradition and refinement come together effortlessly.
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