Tucked away in Central Hong Kong, Neighborhood is the low-key bistro that keeps sneaking onto Asia’s 50 Best Restaurants list every year since 2018. Owner-chef David Lai—Berkeley art grad, ex-Bay Area slacker, and Alain Ducasse indirect disciple—shows up in a plain white T-shirt and cooks whatever looks good at the market that morning. No fixed menu, no theme, no ego. Just creative, seasonal sharing plates that somehow taste French, Japanese, Italian, and totally like David. Think smoked local fish with sauerkraut in rice pilaf form—because why the hell not?

The Guy in the White T-Shirt Who Doesn’t Need a Toque

If you walk past Neighborhood on a narrow Central backstreet, you’ll probably miss it. No neon, no velvet rope, no influencer queue. Just a discreet door and, inside, David Lai looking like he’s about to grab coffee instead of running one of Asia’s most admired restaurants. The man has been rocking the same plain white tee since forever. “I don’t need to prove anything with clothes,” he shrugs. Same goes for the food—zero fireworks, maximum flavor.

From Art Studio to Kitchen Chaos

David grew up in Hong Kong, moved to California as a kid, and somehow ended up with an art degree from UC Berkeley. Translation: he spent college skipping class to eat at Alice Waters’ Chez Panisse instead of, you know, studying. Eventually he thought, “Screw it, I’ll just cook.” He insists jumping from ivory tower to sweaty kitchen wasn’t traumatic. “Any first job sucks—whether you’re flipping burgers or flipping spreadsheets.” But art gave him a superpower most chefs don’t have: an obsession with originality. “Cooking is just self-expression with lunch attached,” he says. While half the industry is busy copying Noma’s ants-on-a-log phase, David is over here asking, “What if I wrap a pigeon in fig leaves because… vibes?”

No Theme, No Problem

His earlier spots—On Lot 10 (rumored Stephen Chow favorite), Bistronomique, Fish School—each had a clear identity. Neighborhood? David refuses to label it. “Call it a French bistro and suddenly everyone expects steak frites and snails. Nah.” The menu changes daily, sometimes twice daily, based on whatever he grabs at the market after rolling out of bed at the very chef-ly hour of 10:30 a.m. (Neighborhood only does dinner—lazy genius move.)

“I Daydream About Snow in the Tropics”

Hong Kong doesn’t really do seasons, but David pretends. “I close my eyes, imagine it’s snowing outside, and suddenly braised root veggies feel right.” He travels whenever he can—Kyoto trips make him rotate the menu even faster—and comes home annoyed at himself for not changing dishes often enough. That’s the level of self-roasting we’re dealing with.

The Kitchen Where David Isn’t Allowed (Much)

The kitchen is tiny—four cooks max. David mostly stays out. “I like swearing at people, and they don’t like it when I’m in there.” Instead he barks short, efficient orders and sips white wine during interviews because “it loosens the tongue.” The head chef has been with him almost a decade; they communicate in grunts and mutual eye-rolls. Peak marriage energy.

In a city full of flashy tasting menus and 18-course ego trips, Neighborhood is the rare place where the chef is more interested in making you happy than making you Instagram. David Lai just wants to cook what he feels like cooking, in a T-shirt, while daydreaming about snow. And somehow that’s enough to keep celebrities, food nerds, and regular hungry humans coming back for more.