Grand Fortune Seafood Restaurant 鴻發海鮮酒家 — Authentic Cantonese flavors
in Every Dish

Four to a basket, pleated by hand, translucent enough to see the green through.

Three days of work in one basket. The order that tells us you know what you're doing.

Shatters on the outside, custard in the middle. Six to a plate and never enough.

Fish paste tucked into eggplant, steamed till it slumps. Spoon the sauce over rice.

The dish every tea house is judged by. Four to a basket, thirteen pleats each.

Cut small so every piece gets sauce. Whole fermented beans, never paste.

Beaten by hand until they bounce, on a sheet of bean curd skin that soaks up the juice.

Steamed overnight, seared hard, then tossed through XO. Crisp edges, molten middle.

Hours of low heat, until the tendon turns to jelly and the tripe forgets it was ever chewy.

Fried to blistered gold, with salad cream on the side. Trust the combination.

Crisped on one side only, so every bite is half crunch and half steam.

Four hours of stirring, so the rice forgets it was ever rice.

Silk sheets wrapped around sweet prawns, sluiced with warm soy.

Three ingredients and nowhere to hide. Crisp on top, soft underneath.

Both steamed straight onto the rice, so everything that runs off ends up where it should.

Yesterday's silk, seared today. Sweet soy, sprouts, chives, nothing else.

Fried flat into a golden disc, cut in wedges, the sauce poured over at the table.

Two garlics — one raw, one fried gold — over noodles that drink everything.

Straw mushrooms, sprouts, chives. Meatless without ever announcing it.

Nine textures in one plate — lotus root, wood ear, bean curd stick, cauliflower, glass noodle.

Split down the stem so the thick ends cook in the same breath as the leaves.

Bitter on purpose. Salted first to take the edge off, never to remove it.

Fried till it puffs hollow, then tossed dry with crisp shallot and green chilli.

The tentacles, not the tubes — more edges, more crunch, more places for the garlic to catch.

Seared hard, still pink inside, cracked pepper you can hear.

In and out of the wok in seconds. Overcook it by ten and it's ruined — we don't.

The smell of somebody's grandmother's kitchen, arriving at your table.

Pork belly rendered till the edges curl, green chilli that means it.

Poached in a master stock we have never once thrown away. Skin like lacquer.

The chef's own. Hours in the master stock, until the fat gives up and the meat doesn't.

The banquet dish. Abalone, sea cucumber, mushroom, all in one dark sauce.

Cantonese-style: silky tofu, minced pork and green chilli in a glossy sauce made for rice.

Picked from the tank, on the table in twelve minutes. Bring napkins.

Cured yolks mashed into butter until they foam, then folded through the shell. Messy, and worth it.

Fried dry and tossed hard, so the seasoning ends up inside the shell as well as on it.

One crab, two dishes. The legs steamed under garlic, and the body cooked into fried rice.

The noodles underneath are the best part. Everyone knows it. Nobody says it.

Fried hard with onion and scallion, then set down on a bed of e-fu noodles.

Tank to steamer in under a minute. Sweet enough that sauce would be an insult.

Eight minutes, hot oil, soy. The dish with nowhere to hide.

Fillet fried till golden, then back in the wok for ten seconds with ginger and onion.

Shell on, eaten whole, wearing a coat of golden yolk. That's the instruction, not an oversight.

Scored so it curls, cooked ninety seconds. Crunch on crunch on crunch.

Soaked three days before it ever meets heat. Texture is the entire point.

Wok hei you can smell from the door. Not one broken noodle.

Prawns, cured sausage, egg and sprouts. Dry, loose, never a clump.

Egg white only, so nothing colours it. Conpoy shredded by hand on top.

Blanched, shocked, tossed hot. Still squeaks when you bite it.

Winter cooking. The sausage fat is the sauce — there isn't another one.

Pork sliced thin and dropped in last, so the bowl finishes the cooking.

Four hours in a sealed pot, so it can't be made on the spot. Call ahead and it will be waiting.

Hours on the stove, so it cannot be rushed. Give us notice and tell us how many.