Kam’s Roast Goose focuses zealously on goose. You’ve stood outside in the steam for an hour because, of course, you understand. The mission is goose. You’re a Navy SEAL for goose. If the waitstaff are inattentive (they are), it matters not. Interior decoration is so irrelevant it’s laughable. Goose.
Your table isn’t large enough and you share it with strangers, comrades in arms, literally. Discomfort is meaningless. You all know what matters. And soon it comes, half a goose in a puddle of goose essence, like duck, but an octave lower, a hint of star anise, evocative, haunting, jangling.
Bones are the problem. Locals take entire pieces in their mouths and churn the bones out in a neat pile like owl pellets. But your skills don’t match. God gave you fingers, and using them pays tribute to Him. So, fingers lacquered in goose grease, you cleave this goosy mound, ripping skin off with your teeth, gnawing, nipping the meat. You find yourself growling. An admonishing glance from your wife stops that.
She eats her goose atop rice, yours atop noodles. She drinks iced lemon tea that’s far too sweet. You drink iced honey pomelo tea that is extraordinarily tasty.
Exhausted, you survey the field of battle. You’d like to eat more, but it would kill you. And great as this is, one Michelin star, death is too high a price to pay.
You stagger out, part goose yourself at this point, stifling a tendency to make honking noises and head home to regooserate.
226 Hennessy Road, Wanchai, 2520 1110
