Culinary expansion continues. AKA the never-ending meal.

Sure, if the hotpot dinner was comparable to culinary expansion and the widening of my palette's tolerances... Then last night was the evolution. Or the beginning of the end. I can't tell which at this point.

Food in Hong Kong is supposed to be world-renowned. The perfect epicenter of East-meets-West in culture, it is no surprise that this mindset drips into the culinary scene. However, tonight's fare definitely was more akin to its Eastern traditions. In just about every aspect.

We took a bus somewhere in town, eventually ending up on what was truly a gorgeous riverfront, and an apparent hub again for pedestrians.

Here's an uber-glared version of the viver from the bus. Again, we were in a very heavy residential hub. I think it was still Sha Tin, but to be frank, we went a lot further than where the train station was.

Eventually we all exited in front of a restaurant dubbed "Star Seafood Floating Restaurant".

This place screamed Hong Kong. The sign lit up and morphed its colors every 5 seconds, was on the riverfront, and was marked with traditional Chinese (Cantonese) characters everywhere.

It was somewhere around this point that I knew we were about to engage ourselves in (yet again) something I previously never even considered, or possibly even conceived. Except this time, it would come in the form of food.

And the moniker of the restaurant? Well, if it wasn't floating, it was surely an impressive illusion of such. It definitely didn't move like a boat, though, which indicates the presence of some kind of foundation in the water to me.

Still, kudos to the architects. Anyway, as we entered, it became apparent that this restaurant was a far cry from the hotpot dinner. For one, there were walls. That nearly always signifies a higher class meal. And the decor within this place was regal, even regal to the point of gaudiness. Over the top luxury in the entrance. We eventually took the elevator up to a group dining hall where we sat for dinner. Every table was circular and featured a gargantuan Lazy Susan.

I'm beginning to understand the different symbolism and intricacies of dining here. These large gatherings, typically reserved for special occasions in most families, show that dinner is not only a social event, but a communal event. Everyone eats from the same massive plates, taking care to not take too much, yet not squander their share in the bowl. It takes equal parts compassion and aggressiveness to properly balance these needs.

As we sat down and acquainted ourselves, certain staff here would place napkins and bowls in front of people to mark their seat. And as I sat down next to others, I received my chopsticks and spoon, and 45 seconds later, a knife and a fork.

This was odd. Everyone began laughing.

It appears that the waitresses only put down these utensils to people who showed no Asian lineage. In our table, there were 3 white Americans and a French man. We were the only ones of the 10 or so people that received silverware.

I was discriminated in Hong Kong.

To spite them, I pushed my knife and fork away, promising that I wouldn't fall into using them.

And after the customary run-through of learning and re-learning names and faces at the table, our dinner began. First: a classic assortment of small bites of fish and pork. The saucing was exquisite, which consistently makes up for some awkward textures. But this was far from the end of the awkward textures exhibition. Our next dish was this:

The dish consisted of squid, baby octopus, and jellyfish tentacles. Also some green stuff, which I forget. And banana peppers. And, as the dish was thrown down, a race with chopsticks to the center of the table started, and due to my relative lack of skill, I lost pretty horridly. But then, as we all swiped our share, our waitress appeared with a serving spoon, obviously unhappy with our false starts. She would be serving us all of our dishes so as to place each food item in the appropriate plate or bowl in equal portion sizes. Her sneer was the first indication that we weren't very liked. Geez. Americans and their impatience.

So, gingerly, we all began to eat. Well, those of us who weren't familiar. About half the table dug right in. I sifted through the calamari-looking stuff and took a few bites here and there. But seeing others being merry, satisfied, and alive still after eating these things, I immediately took a new mindset of eating at least a piece of everything. Every. Thing. So I grabbed the little octopus as if he were being strangulated, and ushered into my waiting mouth. Taste? Not horrid at all. And 350 chews later, I had consumed it, satisfied. The jellyfish tentacles were next. This process was a little more cautious. But I tried it. I had to. They vaguely looked like onions, but due to their slippery, chewy texture, were anything but. This outcome wasn't quite as successful. Though I'm sure it was the same 350 bites for the never-ending process of eating these things... The taste resembled, as my Dad warned me, a rubber band. Salted. A salted rubber band. It wasn't exactly gag-inducing because it was so mild, but all signs on my palette pointed to me eating rubber products. And somewhat enjoying the experience. Oh well.

One of the girls then started talking in a high pitched, excited voice. For those who had jackets and put them around their chairs, a mystical vigilante had apparently taken preemptive steps to protect these items:

We're on to you, ninjas. We're on to you.

But the food kept coming. Endless bowls of small fish pieces, cooked pork, soups of varying flavors, and shrimp continued to be delivered and served begrudgingly by our reluctant waitress. This came to the point where we were served a fish to share. An entire fish. Including head and spine and scales. Our little waitress friend this time offered us no help, instead making the fish head face upward and pantomiming a free for all like we were doing in the first course. She smiled to  herself, a small victory for her to watch us hopefully freak out, only

And boy, was it a fish. There was a good chance this sucker was alive and swimming happily in the harbor this morning. No fishy smell whatsoever. It was cooked at a legendary level.

We all scrambled to hopefully get a piece of non-boned meat, and dropping the tender meat to our plates. It was incredible. The meat was so fresh, you could just taste it in how many of the Chinese herbs it had absorbed, all in an excellent broth. It practically melted in your mouth the consistency was so perfectly done.

Then, Marvin, a Chinese-American student, noted that the fish head had yet to be touched. He grinned slyly, as if we didn't know the tradition that the guests of honor were served the fish head, expecting them to eat it in front of everyone else.

Continually, everyone shied away from it. Matt, from Berkeley, wanted to take a sliver of the cheek meat, which looked exactly like any other part of the fish. Well played for sure.

Then he goes, "You know, I kind of want to try the eye ball. Isn't that a special part or something?" Marvin nodded, and dared for him to try it. He only would try it if someone would take the other eye with him.

What the heck.

So I did. Everyone laughed, and Marvin spun the Lazy Susan our way. Apparently, you have to use the chop sticks to sort of lodge the eye socket away, and then spoon out the gelatinous ball for eating.

I didn't quite have the tact for the first part, but it made its way to my plate. A big, narsty eye ball, black in the center, oozing something or other onto the plate. Using my chopsticks, I applied a very centered amount of pressure to grab the slimy concoction, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I would pop it, making it disappear forever.

But alas, I held it. Matt tossed it into his mouth. I followed.

I grimaced. Then I chewed.

Nothing.

Chewed again. Nothing again. This eyeball tasted like nothing.

Then a final chew, and I hit something like a pebble. Swishing it around, I promptly spit it and some shell-like membranes onto my plate.

"Yep, there's the pupil," Marvin said.

Oh yeah, there's the pupil. Which apparently is a solid, bone-like structure in fish. Well. That's that. The dinner continued, and I wasn't growing any weird appendages yet.

Next. Chicken. An entire chicken. Like. An entire chicken, only sans feathers and feet, which were probably pickled or something for later. Our waitress had far given up on serving us by this point, and we hopped into fighting mode to wrangle a good part of meat. I ended up with a nice couple bites' worth of breast meat, and was very satisfied.

Marvin spoke up again. He challenged us to try another part, "the favorite part of the Chinese." He moved it to Matt's plate. I knew I would end up taking the next bite. Matt goes, "Oh, I know what this is." And he takes one bite cautiously. Then he pushes it onto my plate. "Wanna try?"

At this point, anything was possible I guess. So I did.

And after the bite, it really was quite good. The spices were very intense, and it was a good blend of meat and a small lining of fatty tissue. Optimal, even.

"You just ate chicken butt," Marvin said.

I stared back. I took another bite. That was that.

And with that chicken head staring us down, we only tried maybe a half dozen more, less interesting dishes before the night concluded. We definitely had no less than 15 courses, and I was stuffed, and stuffed tired. By now, we had the free time to walk a little bit away. Because I'm in love with the night here, I'll leave you with images of the city at night, as if the walk and ride home was a final spotlight and glimpse of town. Maybe, just maybe, it was the final night that I resisted embracing this place as my new home.

I'm studying in Hong Kong. But here's what else. I'm  living here. Fish eyes, chicken butt, and all, I'm not just looking at the sights. If I don't immerse myself, I won't gain a thing. I want to be able to miss something when I leave, no matter how willing I am to go home. And by taking down my final defenses and subjecting myself to whatever life throws me here, I can probably find that. Growth. It'll happen for better or for worse. Hong Kong has its good days. And it also has it's not so good days. Learning to deal with both is a microcosm of the fact that this shouldn't be viewed as just a stop. Life happens here. And it will continue to. Sure, it's a slightly different brand of life, but all of the essential elements, in their most fundamental states, remain. There's day, there's night. There's good, and there's bad. Everything can still somehow be related. It's all common experience at this point. Even as trivial as the fading skyline lights.