Hong Kong at night falls somewhere between Manhattan and Magaluf, combining the grandeur of the former with the trashy hedonism of the latter. I was there in September when the humidity was in the 90s and the streets were heaving with twenty-somethings moving from bar to club. It’s also home to one of the most international restaurant scenes in the world. You’re as likely to stumble across authentic Peruvian (Chicha) or North African (Kabash) or modern British (Aberdeen Street Social) cooking as you are Cantonese, the traditional local cuisine. The region’s position as the commercial gateway to the east (or west, depending on your perspective); makes restaurateurs go weak at the knees, HKD signs flashing in their eyes at the thought of all those nouveaux riche Chinese and high-flying ex-pats searching for the next hot place to spend their cash.