When Hong Kong Food Wears Silk Pyjamas

A Strawberry Toast Review of Restaurant Fifty Six, Brisbane

When I think about Hong Kong food, I don’t picture white tablecloths and candlelight. I think of little alleyways that smell like five different kinds of soy sauce. I think of loud clanging woks, squished-together tables, chaotic menus, and service that can only be described as aggressively efficient.

There’s always an angry auntie yelling at you in Cantonese, even after you’ve politely said — in English — “Sorry, I don’t speak Cantonese.” But that doesn’t stop her. She keeps going. Because that’s part of the experience.

And honestly? You suffer through it. You accept the chaos. You embrace the mild verbal abuse. Because the food — oh, the food — is always worth it. From crispy bo lo yau to roast duck dripping with fat to that syrupy, oversteeped Hong Kong milk tea that somehow tastes like home, the insults are just the side dish.

So imagine my surprise when I found a high-end modern Hong Kong restaurant in Brisbane — the kind where even the lifts are gold. The toilets? Gold. The lighting? Moody and expensive.

Restaurant Fifty Six was clearly not playing around.

And instead of aunties with menus slapped on the wall, we had waiters and waitresses gracefully refilling our water, explaining each dish like it was part of a theatre production.

This was not the Hong Kong food I grew up with.

We ordered generously — GF and DF across the board. At one point while ordering, the waitress paused, looked at us and said, “Are you sure?” That’s when I knew — we’d ordered enough.

We were. And by the end of the night, not a single bite remained. Plates: demolished. Hearts: surprisingly full.

Act I: Tiny Bites, Big Feelings

Quail Tea Egg & Avruga Caviar

This dish arrived like a tiny jewel — one perfectly peeled quail egg, resting delicately on a soup spoon. It shimmered under the warm lighting, tea-stained like antique marble. One bite, and I was sold.

The yolk was creamy, almost custard-like, and the avruga caviar gave it that perfect salty pop. Balanced. Elegant. Gone too fast — the kind of thing you wish you could rewind and taste again for the first time.

Double-Boiled Chicken & Coconut Broth

Apparently this broth had been simmering for six hours. And it tasted like it. The flavour was deep and clean — that kind of soul-warming clarity that makes you pause after the first sip and think, yep, I’m being healed.

I didn’t get much coconut, which was slightly disappointing. But I didn’t really care — the warmth and simplicity were doing all the emotional heavy lifting. The chicken itself was a little dry, but the broth was the main character here. And she carried the scene.

Cucumber & Wood Ear with Black Vinegar & Blanched Garlic

It had all the right textures — crunchy cucumber, slippery wood ear — but the flavour didn’t quite stick. The vinegar didn’t bite, and the garlic barely whispered. I kept chewing, waiting for the punchline — but all I got was polite small talk.

Refreshing, sure. But this one felt like a side dish trying to be chill when it needed to be loud.

Salt & Pepper Calamari

Light, crisp, not too oily. The calamari was cooked well — chewy but not tough. The batter wasn’t greasy, and the sauce helped tie things together.

Did it scream “salt and pepper”? Not really. But it got the job done. Reliable. Like the friend who never causes drama but always brings snacks.

Golden Wheatgrass Beancurd & Enoki

This one looked like something a Studio Ghibli character would eat to gain magical powers. The outside was black. The inside was green. I stared at it for a solid three seconds.

The texture was soft and spongy inside, crispy on the outside — like if frozen tofu got a glow-up. It soaked up the sauce like a sponge and practically melted in your mouth.

It was bold. A bit weird. Slightly witchy. And honestly? I liked it.

Act II: Big Mains & Bigger Surprises

Steamed Murray Cod with Soy, Ginger & Scallion

I didn’t try this one. I’ve never been a fish person — unless it’s battered and dipped in a vat of fluorescent sweet and sour sauce from a dodgy takeaway. And these days, even that’s off the menu.

But the table spoke highly of it. The cod flaked apart gently, the soy and ginger subtle but clear. Clean, delicate, and done right — apparently. I let this one pass me by, with only a small pang of FOMO.

QLD Bay Lobster Pao Fan in Superior Broth

This was a moment.

The broth was poured at the table, ceremoniously — and rightly so. The rice had been lightly toasted beforehand, giving it a golden crunch that melted into soft comfort as the broth soaked through.

And that broth? Creamy, rich with shellfish depth, just the faintest sweetness to round it out. It lingered in the mouth and in the memory. I don’t usually like lobster, but this was crafted with care — warm, savoury, and quietly indulgent. Like wearing silk pyjamas in a five-star hotel.

Dry-Aged Five-Spiced Half Duck with Davidson Plum Sauce

You could smell it before it arrived.

My mum actually paused mid-sentence, sniffed the air, and said, “Do you smell duck?” She wasn’t wrong. And when it landed on the table, all conversation stopped.

The meat was tender and rich, with that deep, slightly gamey flavour dry-aging brings out. The skin? Perfectly crisp. The five-spice was subtle but present — a warm hum in the background. And the Davidson plum sauce wrapped it all up with just enough tart sweetness to cut through the richness.

This was the dish that made me think: yes, Chinese food can absolutely be fancy. And yes — it can still feel like home.

Act III: The Veggie Supporting Cast That Stole Scenes

Side note: I’m genuinely impressed by how many ways this kitchen found to cook vegetables. Each one had its own identity — nothing felt like filler.

Wok-Tossed Seasonal Greens with Garlic

The most forgettable of the night. It was fine — a little salty, a little heavy on the cornflour gloss. But the snow peas were crisp, sweet, and perfectly timed. Clean execution, no real surprises.

It did its job. That’s about it.

Steamed Gai Lan with House-Made Oyster Sauce (Alt)

This one was a quiet standout.

They altered the oyster sauce to make it gluten-free — I think it was tamarind-based — and it worked. Slightly sweet, layered, complex. The garlic crisp added a clean bite, and the stems were sliced just thin enough to feel intentional.

Zucchini Fritters with Chili, Basil & Lemongrass

Light, fresh, and fun. Thick zucchini slices — not paper-thin, actual substance — lightly battered and tossed in a sauce that brought fragrance over fire. No major heat, but the lemongrass and basil gave it depth, and there was just enough savoury backbone to make it feel complete.

It didn’t pretend to be a main, but it had personality.

Urban Valley Mushrooms & Spinach

This one leaned hard into earthy, umami-rich territory — mostly mushrooms, barely any spinach, but I wasn’t mad about it.

There were at least four types of mushrooms, each cooked with care: chewy, juicy, and full of character. It wasn’t the prettiest plate — just a brown tangle of ingredients — but it had real depth. The kind of dish that grows on you with every bite.

Act IV: A Plum Surprise & A Bottle Worth Stealing

Non-Alcoholic Ume Shu

When my uncle looked at the bottle and asked, “Isn’t that just plum juice?” — I had the same suspicion.

But then I tried it.

And no — this was not your standard overly sweet, syrupy situation. This was plum juice with poise. It was dry, fragrant, and balanced — just enough sweetness to keep it friendly, just enough tartness to keep it interesting. It captured the spirit of real umeshu without needing the alcohol.

Refreshing. Unexpectedly emotional. The kind of drink that makes you pause for a second mid-meal and just… appreciate.

Also: the bottle was stunning. Delicate floral print on soft glass, now repurposed in my house as a vase for LEGO cherry blossoms. As it absolutely should be.\

Final Crumbs

We ordered like maniacs. Not a single dish left untouched. The waitress, who had looked mildly alarmed when we first started rattling off our order, ended the night both impressed and possibly concerned for our digestive systems.

But we came with a mission: to see if modern Chinese food — plated like art, poured tableside by someone in a suit — could still hit that same emotional nerve as the bowls of broth handed to you by aunties shouting over your head.

Restaurant Fifty Six pulled it off.

Because Hong Kong food isn’t just something you find in a tucked-away alleyway under flickering lights. It’s not only chaotic tables, greasy menus, and verbal Cantonese lashings that double as customer service.

It can be refined. It can be quiet. It can be gold-plated, soy-sauce-free, dairy-free — and still feel like home.

And sometimes? That table is gold.