[Incidental] “The Foodie Poo Review: Under the Table with Mojo Kaye”, translated by his human Sadie Kaye

As soon as you approach the restaurant premises, your senses will explode at the welcoming sweet-and-sour aroma of charred meat and sweaty feet. Take a moment to breathe it in and savour it before sampling the complimentary starter.

Always start with the toes of strangers before nibbling your way to your human’s toes. Bear in mind that toes are not just an apéritif; you can always enjoy your human’s toes at home as a nightcap. But look out for big-toe foot claws. They are the number-one cause of gum disease.

Try to steer your human towards a table where there is a toddler having a tantrum. A toddler having a tantrum is a Foodie Poo’s best friend, as there is an excellent chance their entire meal could miraculously find its way into your lap. However, it is important to be realistic and not set your expectations too high. For some reason, my humans tend to avoid sitting next to a table where there is a toddler having a tantrum, unless there are no other options.

Try to avoid being seated next to a table occupied by the Selfish Elderly. If the Selfish Elderly accidentally spill food on the floor, there is a very good chance they will pick it up, blow on it, and eat it before you have a chance to reach it. Millennial parents are also best avoided due to their strict adherence to the “5 Second Rule”. The rule dictates that it is perfectly safe, and a good source of protein, for you to eat food that has fallen on the ground as long as you pick it up and eat it within five seconds. Whereas, if you leave it six seconds, your teeth will fall out, your tongue will drop off, your bowels will explode, and it will kill you.

If you are really lucky, a menu might fall on the floor. A menu is like a thin book. I like books. I like the smell, I like the pictures, I like the shape of the words. But most of all, I like to eat them. You know that phrase “everyone has a book in them”? Well, I have a library. Where’s Wally? He is lodged inside my digestive tract. I treat Bookazine like a buffet. My greatest literary ambition is to finish off Moby Dick. But be sure to contact your vet if you experience any unpleasant itchy-butt symptoms. You could have bookworms.

Ignore the villainous and self-serving attempts of the other dogs around you to distract you from your purpose with idle banter. These mutts are not your friends. They are your competitors for that tasty morsel of flayed chorizo that has just landed between your tables. Poodles, Yorkies, Pomeranians, and Corgis are the worst offenders for employing such base tactics. Under the hum of human conversation, you can hear them plotting and forming alliances. You quickly pick out the kill zones, the no-go zones. There are unconfirmed reports of a blue poo under Table 2 and orange sick near the toilets.

The ninja-like waitstaff shimmy expertly between tables at a speed that defies physics, barking orders. You know you are in a classic smart-casual Hong Kong restaurant when the waitstaff treat you with the tender affection of a drill sergeant.

“Chopsticks Virgin!” a Shiba Inu huskily barks to his partner in crime, a Miniature Schnauzer. I spin around. A self-conscious expat, eager to impress his Chinese girlfriend’s family, is waging war on slippery shrimp-wonton noodles with his chopsticks. The family observes with a mix of amusement and subtle judgement, their own chopsticks gliding effortlessly through a labyrinth of shared dishes. Each failed attempt draws a slight, knowing smile from his girlfriend’s grandfather, who, without skipping a beat, snags three dumplings in one deft motion and slides a bowl of rice his way in a gesture halfway between pity and encouragement. The expat, cheeks flushed, is painfully aware that every move is on display, especially when the waiter offers him a spoon to rescue the drowning swimmer.

Under the table to my left is a Yorkshire terrier. I overhear his humans call him James Brown. He is humping the table leg with pneumatic stamina. An elderly Dachshund under Table 6 surveys James Brown with the imperiousness of a sneering gastroenterologist and growls, “Do you mind! This is a smart-casual Hong Kong restaurant filled with elegant diners!” He nods at a table of topless Triads. “And there are puppies present!” He nods at me. But the insatiable Yorkie only increases speed. He inches closer to me and waggles his eyebrows. I watch James Brown humping and watching me. Slowly, his tail starts to wag.

The table wobbles. I realise James Brown is not a humping machine. He is a foodie. A tray of dim-sum delights judders its way onto the floor. Every mutt under the table gets tongue erections watching the conniving Yorkie guzzling the gourmet delicacies. “What do you think is in that sauce?” the elderly Dachshund pants. “Liquid Viagra?” I guess. We lock eyes, allies. Then we start vigorously humping our own table legs as if our stomachs depended on it. Soon, every mutt under the table has joined our band of feckless foodie-provocateurs engaged in gastrointestinal struggle. Like a disgruntled gang of culinary terrorists, caught at the scene of our crime, we form a gourmet collective in the pursuit of salivation.

Chaos erupts above the tables, which rattle wildly with each rhythmic thrust. There is a smash, and a luge of red wine spills into my mouth. It is a 2013 Pinot Noir. It tastes of wet dog, with a hint of freshly chewed garden hose, and has the forest-floor aroma of rich dark currants, like a fine wine gum. I start to feel a little woozy. Stray pineapple buns resemble alien organs. Stifling flatulence is a full-time job. That spicy Mala Siu Mai I gobbled is the least of my concerns. I spent the morning eating magnetic fridge letters. The next foodie poo I do could spell “disaster.”

James Brown has multiplied. There are now sixteen of him, all humping and watching me. They are all inching closer and waggling their eyebrows. I start to feel a little self-conscious. A scrum of black kites huddle in a banyan. They look to me like they are planning a coup.

A Chinese toddler having a tantrum on Table 1 transforms into a snack-slinging tornado, his tiny fists catapulting morsels of lightly fried crispy squid around the tables with the precision and enthusiasm of a caffeinated chimp flinging poo. It is pure performance art. Every mutt under the table immediately stops humping and starts barking, “Hey, kid! Over here!”

Gourmet missiles whizz by and are met with a flurry of hopeful snouts. A piece of squid lands tantalisingly close to my table. I shake off my hangover with a wiggle and set off. A French bulldog is approaching the squid from a different angle. It soon becomes clear we will arrive at the same time. Time slows. Recognition detonates. Our eyes lock. The French bulldog’s squat muscles tense, nostrils flaring, as he calculates the best approach. Every second counts!

In a dimly lit corner of the restaurant, a table of grinning Triads lay their bets. The stakes are high, and the two canine gladiators about to clash are already legends in their eyes. Soon, every spectator, be they families, couples on dates, Triads, waitstaff, mutts, even the kites dangling from the banyan, are wagering bets on which mutt will scoop the prize in the ultimate canine Squid Game. Our every move is scrutinised for any hint of a false start or tactical error. This is not just about speed; it is about strategy and stealth.

Triad Name	Favourite Dog	Odds	Bet Amount (HKD)	Remarks
Red Dragon	French Bulldog	2:1	$5,000	“Bulldog’s got muscle.”
Golden Phoenix	Toy Poodle (me)	5:1	$2,000	“Underdog with flair.”
Black Lotus	James Brown	10:1	$500	“Sex machine – long shot.”

Now, in smart-casual Hong Kong restaurants, the rule is that you cannot sprint. Sprinting in a crowded smart-casual Hong Kong restaurant is the fastest way to get you ejected and leashed to a lamppost, well away from the tables. Somebody might howl, “Stop! Squid thief!” at any time. But beyond that, it is just plain undignified. Instead, you must walk slightly faster than normal, but nothing too obvious that will attract unwanted attention. It must appear a fluke of natural pace that you happen to reach the squid before your competitor.

I start to walk very quickly. Very, very, very quickly indeed. Having seen me increase my speed, the French bulldog ignores acceptable smart-casual Hong Kong restaurant etiquette and does the unthinkable: he breaks into a little jog. I am yapping, borderline zoomie. What manner of mutt is this? The sheer cheek of it. My nemesis is overturning decades of smart-casual Hong Kong restaurant Squid Game protocol. I break into a full-throttle turbo-zoomie.

As life-or-death smart-casual Hong Kong restaurant squid games go, it is a thriller. We are two mavericks eschewing the rules, two loose cannons willing to do whatever it takes to get to the squid first, no matter the cost in dignity.

I woofing won though!

The thrill of winning lasts about two nanoseconds. An unaccompanied passing Tong Gau saunters in and casually snaffles the squid from my jaws of victory to cheers. Everybody loves a Tong Gau. Motherwoofer!

I want to howl, “CHEW YOU!” but the victor is twelve times my size, so I roll over, waggle my eyebrows, and wish him “Bon appetite!”

^{How to cite: Kaye, Sadie. “The Foodie Poo Review: Under the Table with Mojo Kaye.” Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, 22 Apr. 2026, chajournal.com/2026/04/22/foodie-review.}

Sadie Kaye is a storyteller from Hong Kong who creates quirky podcasts, offbeat documentaries, and independent films. Her humour columns for RTHK Radio 3 and essays on mental health have been published by the South China Morning Post and featured in numerous anthologies by the Hong Kong Women in Publishing Society and the Hong Kong Writers Circle. She has produced two feature films for Contro Vento Films: the first, Transference (2020), went viral on YouTube with over 29 million views, while the second, To Love a Narcissist, is set for release in North America on 19 May 2026. [All contributions by Sadie Kaye.]