The Butchers Club Steak Frites
UG/F, 52-56 Staunton Street (entrance is on Aberdeen Street, just up from PMQ)
Central, Hong Kong

+852 2858 9800 but snaps yo, their email reservation address was speedy.

HKD550 for the set dinner menu (salad + steak). Estimate HKD1000 each if you were doing cocktails / wine with dinner.  If you’re smashing steak, surely you want to be smashing red wine at the same time.  Service charge not included, tip is optional.

The deal:
Steak Frites / Entrecote is one of the latest dining trends (some would argue has-been) that is being trotted out across HK.  Sure HK, why don’t we open 1,234,742,101 new gourmet burger places while we’re at it?  La Vache! started it off with their bargain priced HKD258 (+10% service charge) steak and frites and then followed by L’Entrecote de Paris on Wyndham Street and Le Relais de l’Entrecote in Wan Chai. I haven’t tried any of the L’Entrecote ones as I’ve heard mixed reviews from my homies, with the strongest opinion from the reliably hungry Ms Two Serves who claimed that there wasn’t enough steak at L’Entrecote de Paris and that it was only average.  Just cannot with going to restaurants and being hungry and broke at the end.  One of our homies wanted to try The Butchers Club Steak Frites and I’m a fuck yeah fan of their steaks so with the new, shiny, healthy new year intentions thrown to one side we made a booking here (yeah SMD “no reservations” La Vache).

The Butchers Club Steak Frites menu is straight forward – HKD550 for a wedge salad to start and a 12 oz 40 Day dry aged rib eye and duck fat fries.  There’s some bullshit QR code secret menu and I don’t know why The Butchers Club persists with this secret menu bullshit for all of their restaurants when a) it’s available publicly on their goddamn website b) their normal menu has one item.  Hey BC homies, viral happens organically, stop trying so fucking hard cause I dunno if forcing your customers use their phone to scan QR codes to learn that you SECRETLY offer surf & turf or a cheese plate is entirely fucking necessary. Like seriously “Yeah, I went to this awesome restaurant last night, they have a secret menu that you have to fuck around with your QR scanner on your phone to access which was really integral to my feeling of belonging to something underground and unique” said NO-ONE FUCKING EVER.


I started with a barrel aged Negroni cause Negronis are one of my favourite fuck yeah aperitifs and the Butchers Club Steak Frites one was all good times.  Even better, fuck yeahhhh, this Campari gin filled bastardwas only HKD90 instead of the ball breaking HKD138++ which is becoming the new fuck no norm in Hong Kong for perfectly adequate cocktails.

The chef comes out to show you the 12 oz steak but lets you know that another option is to share a 66 day aged thick ass T-bone or a prime rib (bone in) between two, while pointing out how the dry aging process is changing the steak.  Thanks for the steak education homeslice and cause I’m all about thick ass steaks so I piled in with Mr Noms to share.  Unfortunately I had to settle for an order of medium-rare.  During the early days of dating Mr Noms, I failed to complete adequate relationship due diligence meaning that my husband homie prefers his steak medium-rare to my preference for the run-the-cow-past-a-fire-and-I’ll-take-a-bite-out-of-it model.  Sometimes I can’t believe the fucking bullshit we do for love and marital harmony.  Yo FYN homies, hot tip – make sure you’re busting out this steak temperature question during the halcyon days of young love so you don’t have to make the same compromises.

Some bread comes out to start and instead of butter, it’s served with whipped dry aged rendered beef fat.  Fuck yeahhhhh that shit was real and the bread is made by Bread Elements so shit’s legit. We placed our order with our cordial waitress who was definitely on Struggle Street when it came to understanding that we wanted to do the steak sharing option, said that if two people did the shared steak and we wanted a sauce each we’d have to pay HKD10 extra for sauce (ummmmm surely if you have two people paying HKD1100 for two steak sets you each get to choose your own fucking sauce without stumping up an additional HKD10 charge for a tiny pot of sauce.  Logic eventually prevailed) and didn’t seem to understand which steak cut we wanted either.  Such was the level of confidence that we actually double checked directly with the kitchen to make sure they had our shit right.  Yo sweetpea, the items on the menu can be counted on one hand and there’s only three steaks on offer, get yo shit in order girl!

There’s an option to change the wedge salad to foie gras on brioche toast (BRIOCHE, MAH NEMESIS) for an additional HKD100, but ages ago I watched an awful video on a Canadian foie gras farm and since then I’m not so down with foie gras.  Yeah, I know that was an extreme set of circumstances and other foie gras farms have different standards but like a Kylie Minogue song, I can’t get that shit out of my head.  No judgment to my other foie gras eating homies cause that shit is fucking delicious, but I’m just all funny about dat delicious foie gras now.  Mr Noms said it was a fuck yeah and the brioche wasn’t shitty either – so get involved if that’s your thing.  The wedge salad is a hearty heart stopping affair but you new year do gooders beware cause the lettuce isn’t really serving its nutritious vegetable role, acting more as a vehicle for funnelling blue cheese sauce and thick cut maple glazed bacon into your body with some sweet ass cherry tomatoes on the side. It’s solid enough but not that revolutionary.  Hopefully they change that shit up regularly because if you were to come here all the time, I don’t know how excited I’d be to have this salad time after time.

The chef let us know our steak was resting and then shit went a little something like this:

No, 5ive didn’t show up to do a performance but The Butchers Club Steak Frites lost all power for a solid amount of time. As our steaks were resting we were in the clear to enjoy our steaks under the glow of the emergency lighting sign.  I guess all my bitching about loud venues has been heard by the Restaurant Gods cause the power black out took the music as well, which meant shit was entirely audible.  Our steaks arrived pre-cut and served between two and fuck yeahhhhhhhhhhh, dat 66 days of dry aging means that you get that intense beef flavour with the mature nutty / blue cheese flavours through it.  I fucking love this shizz and I’m happy to pay for it because that dry aging shebang is labour and time intensive.  The steak is served with your choice of sauce (HKD10 if you want another one) and the bearnaise and peppercorn sauces were tight.  The best fuck yeah sauce of the night was the chimichurri which they threw in. Shit felt medium rare but our waiter homies didn’t provide candlelight until we’d finished our steaks (Y U no provide light source earlier?) and I felt like too much of a dick move to use my phone to illuminate my meal so I could check it out.  The duck fat fries were superior to the ones I had at their burger joint but it’s only one relatively small bowl between two greedy fuckers.  The couple we were having dinner with had fries left over and were almost reluctantly eating theirs. Was it enough?  I guess I’d eaten enough fries for me to feel like I wasn’t being ripped off but fuck if there were more I would have totally smashed them.

In order to compensate for the lack of power, the kitchen comped us a cheese plate.  Fuck yeahhh free cheese times.  The power was restored and the manager asked if we wanted a digestif.  After smashing the steak, wedge salad and a cheese plate, I couldn’t face a Bailey’s (but have you ever drunk it from a shoe?) and he said what about an espresso martini.  Which is one of my favourite FUCK YEAH post dinner cocktails. Good suggestion managerial homie! Managerial homie claimed that they serve an espresso martini with a twist. Yeah son, I can play this game so I asked “What’s the twist?” and they said I’d have to wait and see.

Espresso martinis arrived in champagne flutes on a tray as a waiter homie carried them towards us and in a serious FUCK NO moment, our waiter homie clipped the tray as he was attempting to put shit down and managed to drop two glasses of espresso martinis all over me.  Sticky ass liquor and broken glass rained down around us as our waiter homie’s eyes grew wide with fear and unadulterated terror. A barely whispered sorry escaped from his mouth with his embarrassment palpable as the manager and other staff came over to try and turn shit around.

FYN’s reaction to the way my espresso martini was delivered to me:


Clean up was ultimately well intentioned but not super slick.  They replaced one martini automatically but left a half glass there (like homies, you spill half my martini, the least you can fucking do is get me another one without me having to ask you).  I found the base of a champagne flute well after the initial clean up under my seat. When I left I had to ask for a paper bag to stash my fucked up shirt which I’d just abandoned on a chair to avoid having to publicly carry around my soiled garments for everyone to see.  Sure the manager made sure I had his details so I could claim dry cleaning if the stain wouldn’t come out of my shirt and emailed the next day to follow up as well (fuck yeah, nice touch).  They comped us our espresso martinis (not explicitly said, they just weren’t on the bill) to make up for Espressogeddon but what is the appropriate go to move is here?  Is a heartfelt apology, an offer to pay for dry cleaning if you can’t get the stain out yourself and a free martini enough to cover the emotional turmoil of going out to dinner with your homies and having to kick on to your after-dinner drinks looking like a DAB (drunk ass bitch) cause you’re soaked in cocktails, everything is sticky as fuck and then having to deal with your stained laundry on a Saturday night when you get home cause you don’t want that shit to set and stain? Fuck, I don’t know – perhaps my dignity truly is only worth HKD90??

I then thought about the fate of Mr Shaky and what are the consequences for a waiter who has an unintentional fuck up of monumental proportions.  Does he get sent to practice carrying martinis on a tray out the back for an hour at a time, with his head waiter shouting at him to be bold and to keep his eyes on the horizon, with his every failure resulting in a cruel task master shouting “YOU ARE FUCKING WORTHLESS” while broken glass shards rain down upon his nugatory existence?

So fuck, it’s clear that between the power blackout and the Espressogeddon, it was one of those fucking nights when yo shit don’t work out – some for reasons that are not entirely within control (except, I guess, don’t serve espresso martinis in tall ass champagne flutes on a tray if you are a shaky waiter).  Between a cold water wash and a soak in some bleach, my shirt survived Espressogeddon unscatched but if we look at the wash up, I still paid HKD1000 (before tip, I’ll be real though – I left a minimal tip cause my generosity wasn’t too red hot after Espressogeddon) to drink some primo cocktails, drink more than half a bottle of  fuck yeah malbec, eat a fuck yeah dry-aged steak but I also did without the modern convenience of power and I endured having champagne flutes and espresso smashed all over me at the meal’s conclusion.

Fuck yeah on pay day or fuck yeah if someone else is paying re: steak (cause that dry age malarky is not cheap) but so much fucking drama happened outside of the steak times that I can’t rule definitively on this one.  In the second time in FYN’s history (The Salted Pig was the first one, moved to a fuck no later) – JURY’S OUT.

5th Floor, LHT Tower
31 Queen’s Road
Central, Hong Kong

+852 2386 8090

Three course business lunch set was HKD270 (excluding 10% service charge).

The deal:
Gaucho is a London based Argentinian steakhouse which has just set up shop in HK in the old Carnevino space.  All of the food bloggers who went to the soft opening last week have been talking Gaucho HK up, complete with close up photos of the free-range Angus grass-fed beef sent straight to Instagram.  Hey restaurant assholes – when you want someone to come and potentially not blog your shit, not take photos, ungratefully drink all your fucking malbec and not copy and paste your PR release, you know where to fucking find me.  Gaucho HK has been modelled straight off its London interiors with the black + white cowhide walls, black + white leather furniture, silver chrome finishings and audacious crystal chandeliers.  I’ve been reading reviews which say it’s “tastefully done” but it’s not really my jam, I felt like I was eating in a fucking nightclub.  It gave me flashbacks to when I was apartment hunting in HK and you’d open the door to some tacky as fuck chrome everywhere, purple gauze and chandelier filled nightmare where the owner has clearly spent a shit tonne of coin to fulfil his lifelong desire to live in Privé nightclub. Shots shots shots shots shots EVERYBODY.

With some new restaurant jitters, there was some bumps in the service.  A lot of waiters spinning around but not looking to make eye contact with patrons meaning there was a lot of brow wiggling to get orders taken or well, cutlery.  The bread came out to start and dem cheese buns were pretty fucking rad.  I fucking love bread and fuck yeah melted cheese – so shove those two together and shit’s off to a good start.  There’s also fresh chimichurri and yeahhhh son, fuck yeah times on that front.  When deciding between two courses or three courses, the waiter helpfully and honestly let me know that the starters are “really tiny“.  So giddy up, fatty pants over here went for three courses.  The menu reads with enough interesting dishes and I went with the Ecuadorian Ceviche (cooked prawns marinated in a roasted tomato and pepper sauce, with thinly sliced red spanish onions and coriander) and the Mini Empanadas (one beef, one cheese).  Shit was ok – perfectly enjoyable enough at the time but you’ll forget this meal in a few weeks and if you never ate these dishes again, you wouldn’t care.  The empanadas had a fairly thick dough but again, pastry and melted cheese, how do you really fuck that shit up?

As Gaucho bills itself as a steak restaurant and certainly fucking talks enough about its wet-aged Argentinian grass fed beef, I went in for the Churrasco de Chorizo as a main, billed as a “Sirloin, spiral cut and marinated, served with a tomato salad”. The tomato salad was essentially just diced green and red raw tomatoes with a light olive oil dressing which arrive piled unceremoniously on the steak which really isn’t that fucking exciting.  The steak itself was entirely unremarkable that I can barely be fucked writing about it.  I ordered my steak “rare” and it was cooked inconsistently and slightly overdone.  Some parts were medium, most of it medium-rare and there might have been a rare patch in the middle.  Overall, it was pretty fucking pedestrian. Sure, if I’d waved my hands around and told someone my steak was overdone, I don’t have any doubt that Gaucho would have got me a new one because they seemed like they wanted you to have a good time.  But tough shit, when you’re a fucking steak restaurant your deal is that you just have to get your steak shit done fucking RIGHT.  Especially when you’re a business lunch venue because people haven’t got time to let their clients / dining companions race ahead to their meal conclusion while you wait another 15 minutes for your redone, accurately cooked steak to appear while everyone else sits there awkwardly, watching you eat on your own.  However, moot point because not a single waiter stopped in at any point during or after the meal to ask how things were fucking going.  You better believe it, I don’t just blog about dis shit, I’m just as fucking opinionated IRL too.

But seriously Gaucho homies, here’s some FYN hot tips.  If you want to become a go-to business lunch location (which I’m guessing is your plan given your Central location) you have got to get all over your snappy service shit.  A fuck no example on shit that’s not gonna fly with the business set – after our plates were cleared, we sat there for a bit and I waited patiently for someone to appear to ask if we wanted coffee or dessert.  No one appeared.  Time marched on and with impending meetings, I abandoned all hope of having enough time for an after lunch coffee (wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, fuck no).  Continue to wait for someone to notice that we needed the fucking bill.  Still no one noticed.  After making eyes at almost every single waiter in the whole fucking place, finally someone gave us the bill.  Wait some more for someone to collect the card. Wait.  Hum “Don’t you forget about me – don’t don’t don’t don’t” while you watch more Gaucho waiter homies blithely sail past.  Finally have card collected.  Wait some more.  A ray of fucking sunshine emerges from behind a cloud, a chorus of angels sing and finally your card is returned to your possession.  You then exit Gaucho while the waves of mediocrity and indifference from a pretty fucking average lunch wash over you as you despondently stomp your way back to work.

FUCK NO – cause you’re doin’ it wrong if you’re a steak restaurant but your goddamn cheese bread is more memorable than your fucking steak!

The Butchers Club Deli
16/F, Shui Ki Industrial Building
18 Wong Chuk Hang Road
Aberdeen, Hong Kong

+852 2884 0768 (lolz, they also list a fax number like their burger joint – HAY BUTCHERS CLUB, it’s no longer the 1980s, LET THE FUCK GO)

T-Bone Tuesday costs HKD750 per person, at the moment they also throw in a bottle of red per couple.  Just noise, white noise disclosure though – the Butchers Club Deli homies invited me so I got my complimentary nom on.

The deal:
Ms This is Bullshit and I got our rarefied Central asses into a taxi to go down to Wong Chuk Hang in the middle of a goddamn torrential downpour.  The taxi driver asked us “What type of building is it?”  “Industrial….aren’t they all Industrial in Wong Chuk Hang?!”.  Shit was getting real in the Hang, a maze of orange and white barricades, construction and blinking lights as Ms This is Bullshit gazed reflectively into the relentless rain, musing this was potentially her last moment of freedom before she was sold into white slavery.

We eventually found a street number and we found ourselves in an industrial goods lift and out of nowhere, was seemingly besieged by a group of very thin, rich looking HK peeps who did not look like they were in Wong Chuk Hang with the express purpose of smashing their body weight in T-bone steaks.  Fucking stereotypes I know, but that’s the vibe I was getting from big perms, skinny antennae like arms and so much gold and gemstones that I could barely mash the lift buttons accurately to the sixteenth floor.  It turns out they were there for the Butchers Club as well, except they were there for some HK celebrity’s event.

The Butchers Club Deli is in the Ed1tus (won’t lie, I fucking hate the 1 – Y not use i??) showroom – a 7,000 square foot space dedicated to men’s luxury clothes/lifestyle and Casa Capriz, a vintage homeware and furniture shop.  So if you ever wanted to eat your dinner in a polished concrete space, nestled between a rack of sparsely spaced out jackets, a multitude of pastel suede loafers and a stark antique, bare bulbed lamp, you’re in fucking luck – because on dining nights, they’ve got tables through the whole place.

T-Bone Tuesday involves four courses – an iceberg lettuce wedge salad, oysters rockefeller, the main event – Angus T-Bone steak and a slice of lemon meringue pie.  As it’s just started, they’re throwing in a bottle of red wine per couple.  That’s a pretty fucking punchy combination for a school night and I feel that the wedge salad is an attempt at being healthful before you eat yourself into oblivion.  Never mind that there are negligible health benefits of slathering lettuce with tasty as fuck Gorgonzola dressing and grilled thick cut maple-glazed bacon.  I was a bit fearful of the oysters rockefeller because I’m generally an oyster purist – I want those salty suckers fresh, raw with a squeeze of lemon juice only.  No red vinegar shallot or Thai influenced anything dressing please – why fucking mess with nature’s perfection and bake that shit? My fears were overblown though because that baked shit was all right – fuck yeah, dem motherfuckin’ garlicky breadcrumbs: breadcrumbs

So while lettuce and oysters are pretty fucking tasty we all know why we bothered making the trek to Aberdeen for and it’s for the main event – the chargrilled dry-aged Angus T-bone steak.  They roll out their handsome Aussie Chef in clearly what is HK’s Answer to Curtis Stone to show you the T-bone pre-grilling, before he gives you a Lifetime biography of the T-bone, letting us know that our cow had lived just outside of Brisbane, spent the first year of his life eating grass before he fell off the Paleo bandwagon, stopped the kipping pull ups at his local Crossfit box and then proceeded to gorge himself for 300 days on grains, building up fatty stores before his slaughter.  Ms This is Bullshit and I go for medium-rare (not my first choice cause I want my shit still mooing) and the T-bone is hand carved at your table and shared between two.

By this stage, Ms This is Bullshit and I were delirious with goddamn excitement, our iron levels soaring in anticipation. It’s served with a big fuck off cheesy baked potato and a side of mascarpone creamed spinach (lolz, as if you want vegetables that aren’t covered in some sort of cream).  The Butchers Club Deli have dry aged their Angus T-Bone for 60 days and in combination with the quality of the meat, this explains why shit isn’t cheap.  After 60 days of aging, the beef flavour is dialled the fuck up as it’s lost water and there’s some enzymatic/bacterial action going on.  I’d describe it as having a pretty fucking distinctive blue cheese and popcorn/nutty hint to it.  I don’t think this shit would work for people who complain that their meat is too “lamby”, “porky” or “gamey” but Ms This is Bullshit and I fucking loved this magnificent, aged, flavourful beefy bastard.

We both eyed off the giant t-bone with so much fucking meat left on it still and I went hands on.  I was trying to gnaw the shit out of it without smearing charcoal grilled grease down my cheek, given the unfortunate ergonomics of a T-bone.  Ms This is Bullshit was egging me on, pointing out that how much good meat was left on that bad boy as I attempted to avoid getting busted from getting my savage caveman on by the too fucking handsome HK’s Answer to Curtis Stone who seemed to always be on the dining room floor, rather than in the  kitchen where he belonged.  BAD NEWS – I totally got fucking busted. It’s a big fucking piece of meat and even though the two of us are solid nommers, we still had leftovers (pro tip – don’t be fucking shy, take that shit away with you so you can relive the glory for breakfast two days later).  Props to Ms This is Bullshit who was sensible and judicious in her decision not to smash up the baked potato in its entirety, giving her more capacity for dat glorious fuck yeah beef.  I regret my inability to Just Say No to Carbs – WILL I EVER FUCKING LEARN?

Our waiter asked whether we wanted to also take away our lemon meringue pie but we steeled ourselves, cause per FYN’s tagline you just have to put on your hard cunt pants and power through pudding.  We then watched two fucking huge slabs of lemon pie, bigger than my head, get served to the guys next to us.  “HOLY FUCK”  we exclaimed through shallow breaths.  However, when our “pie” came out, it looked remarkably different – an average sized circle of lemon filling with the meringue piped around the edge, with three forlorn, uneven pieces of pastry base smashed into the top.  A mint leaf was added for good measure.  I’ve watched enough Top Chef/Masterchef to know what a goddamn kitchen disaster looks like and we ruminated on what the potential kitchen issue had been (our top guesses being that perhaps whoever plated shouldn’t have served up a quarter of a pie to the previous guests or that the chef had dropped the pie, resulting in them having to smash together something quickly for judging).  As we put the spoon through the lemon curd, it went direct to the plate with a telling clink.  We bailed up the guys next to us “Did you have base under ALL of your pie??” which they confirmed that they’d had base for days.  We then watched a massive wedge of normal looking pie go uneaten from another table, go back to the kitchen.

PieGate 2014 continued until we were asked how everything was and I couldn’t keep it in anymore, bailing up the chefs to ask WTF was going on with our pie and ‘Where was our base??” which resulted in all of them going “GET NICK!!! LET’S GET HIM TO HEAR THE FEEDBACK!!!” and a very harried looking Pastry Chef arrived, sheepishly claiming it was more of a deconstructed lemon pie because it just hadn’t set.  Poor Nick, he was definitely having a fuck no night.  This is even better in retrospect because when you check out their website, he’s proudly holding aloft a very fuck yeah, normal looking well set lemon pie.

Lucky for him we came for the Butchers Club and not the Lemon Pie Club, cause otherwise the FYN verdict below would be different. Fuck me though, I’ve been fucking dreaming about fuck yeah, intense dry aged beef flavour all week.

Despite fuck no deconstructed disaster lemon tart times, fuck yeah on pay day T-bone times.  At HKD750 a person, shit isn’t cheap but the cost of procuring top quality beef and then aging it for sixty fucking days isn’t cheap either.

Sometimes shit isn’t cheap for a reason and yo Butchers Club, Imma comin’ back for your Rib Eye Steak + Frites times.

The Chop House
Level 3 Soundwill Plaza II – Midtown
1 Tang Lung Street
Causeway Bay, Hong Kong

+852 2771 3177 (holy shit though, I think they support online booking)

HKD300 for a steak with some sides.  Additional sides are around HKD55.  Coffee is HKD45.  Prices listed exclude 10% service charge.

The deal:
The Chop House is going for that casual but trendy dining experience.  The menu is full of whimsical as fuck typography which humorously implores me to “Let’s get started” for starters, indulge in “The best thing since sliced bread” for…wait for it…goddamn sandwiches and to exclaim, not just with one exclamation mark but to fucking fall headfirst into “BURGER TIME!!!“. Yeah, you beautiful unique snowflake – every place in HK is gearing up for GODDAMN BURGER TIME, so take a fucking number, sweetcheeks.  You can always spot the most deplorable abuse of whimsical names by the dessert menu and The Chop House doesn’t disappoint when it leads with “Tiramisu just the way we like it” but disappointingly, closes with the very mundane “Ice-cream Selection”.  Surely that was waiting for some really fucking cornball nomenclature like “One Team, One Ice-Cream”, “Treat ’em mean, get ice-cream” or “Ice-creampie barely legal delight”.  Wait, too fucking far??

Anticipating a substantial main, I did not get things started and went with the Australian grass-fed beef 200g tenderloin which was accompanied by a sweet corn-potato cake, sautéed spinach, armagnac and black peppercorn sauce.  The steak was good, cooked rare, just as I fucking like it and the listed sides were decent and not just a half-assed serve of limp as fuck vegetables.  The extra fries we ordered were crunchy fuckers, so no complaints there.

But perhaps it’s HK dining fatigue, because despite a decent enough steak, there was just something that didn’t quite work for The Chop House and while I know it was going for a casual, good, honest dining deal, it felt partially like it sat uncomfortably between a cafeteria and a bar, with sparse, easily wipeable tables which were splashed with type boldly declaring “BEER”, “PORK LOIN” and “SANDWICHES” just in case you forgot why the fuck you were there.  I mean, I fucking get it, The Wooloomooloo Group doesn’t want The Chop House to steal the lunch out from its fancier, high class sister – Wooloomooloo Prime in the same building.  But casual can still feel intimate and fun, rather than sitting in a restaurant which feels uncomfortably like it’s trying too hard to be relaxed as it blares a mix tape which would be better placed at night in Lan Kwai Fong.  Call me a goddamn snob, but I don’t fucking want to eat a lunchtime steak with David Guetta and Avicii soullessly blaring over the top of me.

The verdict:
It wasn’t terrible but I’m not excited enough to go back.  Fuck no.

Blue Butcher (fuck yeah, functional website with menu.  fuck no to taking the prices off the menu)
108 Hollywood Road,
Sheung Wan, Hong Kong.

+852 2613-9286

Cocktails are HKD140 each.  Mains around HKD350 – 400.  Budget around HKD700-800 a person.

The deal:
Ms Two Serves and I went here last night and in typical Ms Two Serves style, she surveyed that we had three people at the table which meant that we needed three starters and a Black Angus 14oz steak and a serve of beef ribs which the waiter said was for 2-3 people.  Before adding extra side serves of creamed corn, truffle fries and artichokes.  The waiter tried to push the specials onto us, offering us 2 sliders for HKD140.  My internal dialogue was “FUCK NO TO TINY BURGERS THAT COST TOO FUCKING MUCH” but in real life I just went with “No thanks”.  We sucked down some Apple Pie Moonshine cocktails (they are pricey little fuckers at HKD140 but also tasty – they hit so many hipster points on this one, I almost need one now to take away the pain – jam jar, CHECK, paper bag around it, CHECK, cinnamon stick which they light on fire when they bring it over, CHECK).  While we waited we didn’t shock anyone that despite the massive bovine bonanza coming our way that we didn’t slow down on empty carbs and shoved pieces of bread with garlic butter into our heads.  Fuck yeah to restaurants with good bread – don’t give me some piece of bullshit white bread which isn’t even fucking warm.

Starters were a solid fuck yeah but the main event was always going to be the beef times.  A rare angus rib eye arrived, almost mooing, and a chorus of angels appeared on my shoulder singing a delicate and harmonious ‘FUCKKKK YEAHHHHHHH’.  Then a slab of ribs arrived, bigger than my head and we smashed that bad boy into our heads.  Sticky, sweet and spicy – our attentive and courteous waiter saw the carnage that was going down and thoughtfully changed out our messed up, destroyed plates and even left us a wet toilette each.  Going above and beyond, he even pre-tore the packets for us because he knew that with our sticky mitts there was no way we were getting into that easily.

Sides were not after thoughts either with the truffle fries being such a stereotype at this point but they were fucking great. There might be more to life, than stereotypes but if they taste that good I might just let it slide. Creamed corn was also on point.  Nothing too exciting on the dessert menu but as you might guess, not too many tears because all my base belongs to BEEF.

FUCK YEAH.  Probably on pay day.  But all I can think about today is why aren’t I there right the fuck nowwwwww?

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