The three-hour queues at Tim Ho Wan could make the most patient among us feel slightly crazed. Even the woman manning the counter is agitated; hastily scrawling a number on a yellow Post-it note and shoving it unceremoniously into my hand.
This is the moment I'm expected to leave, but I linger, timidly inquiring how long the wait will be. Big mistake.
"Two hours!" she barks, squawking something in Cantonese into a tiny microphone attached to the register.
I edge outside, mystified. It's hard to believe I've just made a reservation at a Michelin-starred restaurant. It felt more like dropping off a shirt at the drycleaners. More...