The Last Dim Sum Carts: Metropol Restaurant

Editor’s note: On September 27, 2025, one year after this article was published, Metropol closed permanently after its premises were acquired by the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology. Its owners have said most of the roughly 100 employees will be transferred to other restaurants run by the Heichinrou Group.

There is a tree shaded garden over Queensway where birdsong can be heard. For two decades the garden has been well tended, and in the quiet morning peace, light streams through those trees and in through the windows at Metropol Restaurant (名都酒樓), already abuzz with activity.

Metropol’s chefs get to work long before the waking city’s bustle rises to its crescendo. The beating heart of any dim sum restaurant, the kitchen runs a race against the morning rush. “The moment you walk into a zau2 lau4 (酒樓, banqueting restaurant) til the moment you leave, it is a show – an entire experience and a performance to take you out of your every day,” explains Mamoru Hayashi, whose family established the business.

Each player has their mark. At 7:30am the stars appear: the dim sum cart ladies (sau6 dim2 jyun4 售點員 or teoi1 ce1 ze2 推車姐). They help in preparing dim sum baskets and when the clock strikes 8am, the breakfast crowd enters. By 11:30am the place is awash with sound and excitement. As if on cue, a delightful parade of trolleys rolls out. Each is pushed by a smiling attendant calling out her wares: “Siu1 maai6! (燒賣) Haa1 gaau2! (蝦餃)” 

Metropol’s gilded sign has graced the entrance of United Centre since 1990. Owned by the Heichinrou Group, it is part of an F&B tradition dating back to 1884 with roots in the Chinese diaspora of Yokohama. Metropol is a family business run in the intensely focused style that has come to be associated with the culture of Japan, particularly in terms of exacting standards and dedication to craft. At 19, Hayashi decided that he would work in finance IT and then join the family business before turning 30. He finally approached his father in 2008, expressing a desire to join the family firm. “Yes,” replied the patriarch, “but go to Hong Kong and learn Cantonese cuisine, culture, and language.” Hayashi complied, learning the ropes with every job from floor to kitchen.

On its face, Metropol is similar to many other dim sum restaurants, but it was actually a forerunner. Helping to set a standard in Cantonese cuisine, Metropol was amongst a few establishments that started traditions and a mode of service that have become archetypal. Many have come to expect and, perhaps, take this style of dining for granted. In a culinary landscape where consumers are constantly looking for the next trend, Metropol emphasises continuity. It values the importance of preserving traditions even when it is expensive and difficult to do so.

“It may seem unremarkable now but when we started very few, if any, restaurants elevated Cantonese dining,” Hayashi explains over a table heaving with steamed delectables. “For instance, we were among the first to have table cloths. We might not have been the very first but we recruited a hotel-trained service team [early on], and we custom designed hotel-style uniforms including black jackets, vests, open collar white shirts, ties, and ribbons. We served dim sum on carts.” Before carts, it was common to convey dim sum on large trays – a precarious mode of service still used in some small neighbourhood shops.

The carts themselves come in several varieties. A shelved, unheated cart with windows of acrylic showcases barbecued items (siu1 mei6 燒味), while a gas-heated variation on the same displays fried items (zin1 zaa3 dim2 sam1 煎炸點心). A steamer cart with a shallow bath of heated water keeps steamed items (zing1 dim2 sam1 蒸點心) piping hot.  Another version is used to serve desserts (tong4 seoi2 糖水) and a trolley equipped with a gas fryer handles pan-fried dishes (zin1 dim2 sam1 煎點心). Made in China, the basic units come with a body and four wheels which are then customised as needed to accommodate gas heating or a stove. Metropol has deemed factory standard wheels sub-par in terms of staff and customer safety, further customising their carts by installing larger, sturdier castors. 

From being one of the earliest to serve dim sum in this way, Metropol is now one of the last. Very few tea houses still use carts. Including Metropol, there are likely as few as four: Lin Heung Tea House (蓮香樓), London Chinese Restaurant (倫敦大酒樓) and Maxim’s Palace Chinese Restaurant (美心皇宮).

Perambulating round the restaurant, the cart ladies deliver baskets of steaming delights with a side of charm. “What do you have?” a diner shouts over the lively ambience. “Caa1 siu1 baau1! (叉燒包)” comes the cheery reply. In fact, the bill of fare is clearly marked on acrylic placards slotted into the front of her cart but this simple interaction is a major part of the fun for diner and server alike. Few other styles of service have the nuance of these ladies. Who else would remember details as minute as preferred level of spice or portioning of rice?

One of the cart ladies, Ms. So, has worked at Metropol for 24 years. A paper forage hat perched jauntily atop her head, she cheerfully stamps an order card with her specially numbered chop. “There are some customers who have been dining with us as long as I’ve worked here!” she exclaims. “I know what my regulars like and I bring their favourites right to them.” 

“It takes very specific types of people to do this work,” says Hayashi. “They need to be comfortable interacting with people – in part like entertainers. They are very important in creating a connection with the diners and with some of the regular customers, they really do have a relationship, to the point where they remember certain customers’ likes and dislikes.”

“I know many of my regulars,” says  Tse Man Yam, another of Metropol’s charming cart ladies. “I have many and we have good banter between us. When you’ve been bringing them dim sum for all these years you have a lot to talk about. There’s a nice rapport because they love eating here so much. The service, the food, it’s all good! I love it here!”

Between eight and ten cart ladies are working the floor today, down from 12 to 15 at their peak. The tradition is slowly disappearing. Deputy shop manager Eleanor Shek strides through the dining room towards a point of sale (POS) terminal. The computer indicates that, under Shek’s steady management, Metropol moves between 1,000 and 1,500 pieces of dim sum per seating. That includes 600 har gow (haa1 gaau2 蝦餃) inhaled per lunch rush, making these delicate dumplings Metropol’s star dish. Many restaurants would be unable to handle such high volumes but volume is what allows Hong Kong’s few remaining dim sum cart restaurants to operate. Without turnover like this, food wastage would be staggering. 

Many restaurants operate with POS software alone but with such a large dining area to cover, old ways are best. Shek says it’s better to stamp the order cards when customers take food from the cart, rather than ringing it through the POS. “They are in a hurry, they only have one hour for lunch. It’s easier to have the food immediately – with a POS a waiter needs to approach the table, take the order back and return with the food. That takes an additional 15 to 20 minutes. This saves time.”

As far as Shek is concerned, much of Metropol’s turnover can be attributed directly to the cart ladies. In the moment, the ladies themselves cannot tell exactly how much they have sold. “It’s hard to guess,” says Tse with a shrug. “The chefs are constantly cooking and the carts are constantly replenished. The moment the cart is emptied it fills up again. We don’t have a moment to stop and count.” But they know the carts are effective. “The customer sees what they want and they can have it immediately. Hidden away in the kitchen, dishes can’t be seen,” says So. “If you see something with your own eyes it brings delight because whatever you want you can just have it. It’s spontaneous and fresh.”

If there is no downside to speak of, why are dim sum carts disappearing? Covid hit restaurants hard and led to a steep decline in the number of cart ladies with many simply not returning post pandemic. “It’s the labour,” says Hayashi. “These precious trolley ladies – there is a shortage. When we watch them go, they are gone. We usually hire through referrals and introductions. There are chat groups for dim sum chefs and floor staff and when we need help, we find them through connections.” But even through such avenues, there are fewer and fewer people who are willing to take on physically taxing work that requires excellent interpersonal skills on top. 

For the dim sum ladies who remain, there are few complaints. “The management is good and the Boss never chiselled us over wages during the pandemic, not one cent,” says Tse. Floor workers like Tse are paid cash in hand after each shift and the schedule suits their lifestyles. “It’s very convenient for us homemakers,” says So. For the few people who are left in the industry, pushing dim sum carts would have been ideal at a certain point in their lives. “After work I could go to the wet market, which meant I could look after the kids when they were young. But now they’re grown. It’s still manageable for an older lady.” Ultimately even they will age out of the job.

In a time when society flirts with the thrill of automation, Metropol sees things differently. “We are searching,” says Hayashi. “We would like to bounce back to pre-Covid numbers but [cart ladies] are hard to find. We would be happy to work with young, old, male, or female. We welcome anyone with a friendly personality, not shy, with enthusiasm for dim sum.”

Asked why he is so adamant in his resolve to uphold traditions, Hayashi is forthright. “It is my duty!” he exclaims. If Hong Kong were to lose its dim sum carts, it would mean far more than the loss of a nostalgic practice, symptomatic of a larger loss of identity. It would mean the disappearance of a certain type of human interaction and an expression of kindness in a city often browbeaten for its brusque reputation. 

“Hong Kong will lose its touch,” says Hayashi. “Dim sum cart tea houses are Hong Kong’s signature. Tourists come to Hong Kong to our restaurant to see the trolleys. To see the trolley ladies. Every Japanese tourist guidebook about Hong Kong will always show tea houses and there will always be a photo of a dim sum trolley and a lady pushing it.” 

Looking across the restaurant at a cosmopolitan crowd, it is clear that the ladies are doing more than pushing trolleys. With their warm smiles, loud voices and kindly rapport, they are ambassadors, chatting with regulars but also gently guiding visitors. “They deliver happiness,” says Hayashi.

He elaborates: “The three Chinese characters of Heichinrou (聘珍樓) mean “a place welcoming distinguished, good, and wonderful people.’” (The name is pronounced ping3 zan1 lau4 in Cantonese.) Metropol may serve food but equally important is warmth and human connection and in this charming place where friends and family gather, the meaning of dim sum is realised. The heart is truly touched.