As a light rail train lumbers into On Ting station in the northwestern New Territories, a man reading a newspaper takes a sip of milk tea. He is sitting outdoors beneath a green vinyl canopy attached to a building that looks oddly like a shiitake mushroom.
Nearly 22 kilometres away, in Kwong Fuk Estate in Tai Po, an identically shaped structure welcomes weekend cyclists in search of iced tea and French toast. Another 14 kilometres from there, across the Lion Rock, diners feast on wok-fried dishes inside yet another one of these strange pavilions, this one shaded by the towering horsetail trees of Kai Yip Estate.
Three distant parts of Hong Kong, three different public housing estates, one distinct structure: the mushroom hut. Officially known as cooked food stalls, they are nicknamed dung1 gu1 ting4 (冬菇亭) in Cantonese because of their resemblance to the umbrella-shaped fungus beloved in many Chinese cuisines. Unique to public housing estates built in the 1970s and 80s, they are less renowned than dai pai dongs, but no less beloved – both offering affordable meal in a lively al fresco atmosphere.
And just like dai pai dongs before them, mushroom huts risk dwindling in number. Local media report that fewer than 25 are still operating in their original format as eateries, although this number is hard to verify. It’s clear that many mushroom huts are now occupied by retail shops or community spaces. Others stand empty, a testament to the high rents and slugging demand that now plague Hong Kong’s economy. A growing number are being demolished to make way for new development.
Mushrooms by accident, eateries by design
Despite their nickname, any connection between the cooked food stalls and mushrooms is purely in the eye of the beholder. For one, their canopy-like rooftops are not bulbous like a shiitake. Instead, they are steeply pitched on four sides, with gently concave slopes curving between ridge and eaves. Each side is double-curved: the ridge rises in the centre, while the edges flare outwards and downwards, producing a parasol-like form. The roof rises towards the centre of each hut to accommodate a chimney.
“From an architectural perspective, it is reasonable to follow the basic design principle of [the] stack effect for natural ventilation, where the exhaust vents are at the high point,” says Wallace Chang, associate professor at the University of Hong Kong’s Faculty of Architecture. The way the roof tapers down towards the edges serves a similarly utilitarian purpose by helping to shelter diners in the open-air huts. Chang says the design reminds him of the Trenton Bath House, an influential pitch-roofed bathing structure designed by renowned architect Louis Kahn in 1959. “Probably the architect from the Housing Department was inspired by this project,” he says.
There was another source of inspiration, too. The first mushroom huts in Hong Kong were built as part of Oi Kwan Estate, which opened in Ho Man Tin in 1975. At the time, officials from Hong Kong were looking to Singapore for inspiration in how to build well-functioning public housing estates. One of Singapore’s key innovations was the provision of hawker centres that were designed to house food vendors who had previously worked on the streets. Open air, well ventilated and designed to be comfortable in a sweltering tropical climate, the government-owned hawker centres also provided low rents that kept food affordable for working-class Singaporeans.
Mushroom huts were Hong Kong’s answer to Singapore’s hawker centres. Housing Department officials even went so far as to curate the tenants to ensure a range of different types of food for estate residents – though as Ming Pao Weekly noted in a 2020 article on mushroom huts, many restaurant owners quickly changed their menus to compete directly with one another. They also added vinyl awnings to the edges of their huts to extend the dining area; tables and chairs spilled outdoors to welcome diners looking for everything from beef offal noodles to seafood to Garden bread sandwiches.
Hong Kong moves indoors
Mushroom huts sprouted across Hong Kong in the late 1970s and 80s, but they were excluded from public housing estates built from the 1990s onwards. Hong Kong was turning inwards, away from its streets and even away from naturally ventilated markets and eateries located in housing estates. Enclosed, air conditioned shopping malls were seen as preferable to mushroom huts that created noise and reportedly attracted rats and cockroaches.
Not only did Hong Kong stop building mushroom huts, the ones that already existed came under fire. In 2005, the Legislative Council Panel on Food Safety and Environmental Hygiene issued a discussion paper that cited concerns about “excessive noise and cooking fumes, fouled buildings, grease and wastewater blocking underground drains” and dubious food hygiene standards. The same year, the commercial premises of many Hong Kong housing estates were sold by the government to Link REIT, an investment trust that had the mandate to increase profits. Atmosphere and affordability weren’t part of the picture.
That marked the beginning of a slow decline in the number of mushroom hut eateries across the city. But, as history has shown, when beloved parts of Hong Kong begin to disappear, Hongkongers fight back. That was the case in Wong Tai Sin, where a local district councillor helped convince Link to preserve the mushroom huts in Lower Wong Tai Sin Estate, the first phase of which opened in 1985. Wallace Chang, who grew up in the area, became involved as a consultant. “The intention was simple and straightforward,” he says. “To preserve local culture where people can relate themselves to both the place identity and food produced by restaurants still operating there.” 
Mushroom huts, version 2.0
The mushroom huts in question were occupied by three restaurants open around the clock: Chui Kee, known for its stir-fried dishes; congee specialist Sam Wo; and a cha chaan teng named Lee Hing. Link renovated the mushroom huts and partially enclosed them to allow for air conditioning. It also convinced the owners of the three huts to join forces and merge into one business: Chui Wo Lee.
“The three shops always had a close relationship and often exchanged culinary techniques,” says former Sam Wo owner Cheung Fat-keung. “Management from Link REIT felt that separate operations made rent collection inconvenient and suggested we merge for more streamlined management and leasing. After discussions amongst ourselves, we agreed to jointly operate as one restaurant.”
Cheung notes that each of Chui Wo Lee’s three co-owners are the second generation inheritors of their respective family businesses. “I began to take over in the 1980s, which means it’s been more than 40 years,” he says. “In the early days, it was my father’s generation managing the stalls – back in the 1930s and 40s, they would try to run stalls whenever circumstances allowed, but difficult social conditions often forced them to close and take up work elsewhere.
“In the 1950s and 1960s, the stalls reopened from time to time. At one stage, they were based in Shek Kip Mei, but after the fire and subsequent relocations, the business shifted to Wong Tai Sin. Most setups were street stalls and small temporary booths. Sometimes a lottery was needed to obtain a pitch, and eventually, we were fortunate enough to secure a site in the mushroom hut.”
The three restaurants faced some challenges when they joined forces in the renovated huts. “Many regular customers assumed we had been forced out when they saw the layout had changed,” says Cheung. “Some longstanding customers did not recognise the new restaurant name or interior, and others even thought the original owners had left. We had to stand outside ourselves to explain the situation to local residents. Although the renovated mushroom hut featured air conditioning and better comfort, many former patrons still preferred sitting outdoors.”
Today, Chui Wo Lee is still open 24 hours, and it still offers outdoor seating for customers who don’t like the air con. But the late-night trade has declined since the pandemic as people lost the habit of going out after work; others save their money to spend on weekend trips to Shenzhen, where food and entertainment is notably cheaper. Cheung also laments that the merger has left each of the co-owners with less time to connect with customers. “It’s just not as lively or as free as the old dai pai dong days,” he says. “Now it feels more like a cha chaan teng or typical restaurant. That freewheeling ‘neighbours gather as they please’ vibe isn’t the same, though we all still try our best to keep up the teamwork and mutual support that’s always defined us.”
Still, the mushroom huts remain and are a gathering place for the neighbourhood around them. “Maybe it is good to encourage more of these initiatives,” says Chang. Otherwise, “they are at risk if their cultural and community values are underestimated.”