Breath of fire: How Hong Kong chefs are defining the future of ‘wok hei’
The wok disappears into flame, only to reemerge, spitting smoke and sparks. The chef’s hand flicks the pan forward and back with a rhythm so practised it seems unconscious, almost a heartbeat. I watch thin ribbons of beef catch against the metal, searing in seconds, the air around us thick with a smoky and slightly sweet aroma. It’s the smell of food on the verge of combustion.
This is wok hei, the “breath of the wok”. Not a technique, but a moment; a whisper caught in the rush of fire and steel. In Hong Kong’s kitchens, where Cantonese heritage collides with modern ambition, wok hei remains a measure of mastery. Once the domain of open-air dai pai dongs, where cooks wrestled with coal fires and roaring gas burners, it has since risen from the streets, to become sought after in restaurants across the world. But as a new generation of chefs takes the helm, the question simmers: how do you preserve smoke—the breath of fire? How do you hold on to something that, by its very nature, is meant to vanish?
At JW Marriott Hotel Hong Kong, chef Jayson Tang treats the wok not just as a cooking tool, but as an instrument of precision. “To me, wok hei is a culinary science. To master it,” Tang says, “we must first understand the chemical reactions.” He mentions the Maillard reaction, the moment when proteins and sugars, under fierce heat, transform into something darker, richer, more complicated.
Sweet and sour pork belly and shrimp mousse in fried dough stick, by Jayson Tang at Man Ho, is a refined, double-textured tribute to Cantonese flavour
“Acting fast with precision is key,” Tang stresses. “We have to keep tossing the wok and flipping the ingredients to ensure contact between the food and the blazing hot wok surface. The browning and caramelisation can happen very quickly, so meticulous control is required to avoid burning.”
In the raucous open kitchen of Ho Lee Fook, chef ArChan Chan commands her battleground. Here, wok hei is not brute force, but a negotiation. “Understanding the intense heat and knowing how to control it is the number one factor,” she says. “Knowing when to add ingredients, like Shaoxing wine or soy sauce, so that they add flavour without burning is crucial. You’ve got to know how to use the heat at different points.
“Fried rice is the perfect dish to practise wok hei,” she adds. The humblest dish, perhaps, but also one of the most unforgiving. It demands heat in stages, not a relentless blast of fire. An escalation, like the swell of an orchestra before the finale.
This is the new guard: chefs who chase both sensation and certainty, who know that the hand must move fast, but the mind must move faster. Stir-frying is a dance of seconds. Teaching wok hei, they both agree, is like teaching someone how to breathe differently. Tang urges his young chefs to train every sense. “The basic rule is to observe the food with your eyes and see if caramelisation has occurred. You need to listen to and smell the wok hei.” Chan advocates for a more iterative, learning loop: “Observe others. Observe yourself. Practise. Taste. Try different approaches. Then repeat the process. That’s how you learn to feel the fire.”
ArChan Chan, executive chef of Ho Lee Fook, commands the kitchen with instinct, rhythm and reverence for heat
At Shanghai Plus, chef Edmond Ip brings it back to foundational knowledge, critical for any generation: “First, you must understand the ingredients and whether they can withstand the heat,” he says. Meat, for instance, must turn tender but never fall apart. Too long in the pan and it weeps moisture; too short and it clenches against the fire. He sees wok hei as intrinsic to Chinese stir-frying, regardless of the dish’s novelty. “Every Chinese chef’s stir-fry will have wok hei; the only difference is how well it is executed.”
Its roots may lie in humble street stalls, but wok hei continues to make the biggest impact on specific dishes, even on today’s refined menus. “Wok hei is the essence of local food staples like fried rice and noodles,” says Tang, “It elevates the aroma and concentration of flavours.” Chan adds: “Vegetable dishes, or anything with noodles or rice, are where wok hei really shines and you can taste the difference.” Meanwhile, Ip talks of technique impacting everything, down to the simplest item: “When stir-frying scrambled eggs, if the heat is too high, the eggs will turn tough; if the stir-frying movements are too slow, a burnt flavour will develop.”
This vanguard isn’t only preserving; they are also adapting and experimenting, navigating the demands of modern diners and kitchen realities. Tang acknowledges practical adjustments: “To cater to the preferences of some guests who prefer us to cook with less oil for health reasons, we can stir-fry using a frying pan as an alternative.” What’s more, “A frying pan allows food to be heated evenly to create caramelisation for ingredients such as scallops.”
Stir-fry king by ArChan Chan of Ho Lee Fook captures the bold and blazing wok hei moment with this dish
Unlike the wok, which concentrates fierce heat at its base and creates a rising zone of steam along its tall sides, the flat surface of a pan maintains steady, uniform contact, better suited for ingredients that benefit from even browning rather than quick tossing. The wok, by contrast, excels at fast, high-heat cooking that builds layered flavour and aroma.
Tang extends the experience beyond the kitchen pass: “The final stir-frying steps of some dishes can be done with hot clay pots served tableside,” bringing wok hei directly to the diner.
This adaptability can also manifest with playful creativity or even cross-cultural experiences. Chan says, “When [American chef] Mario Carbone [of Carbone] was in town, we did a video of him cooking his signature spicy vodka rigatoni with a wok at Ho Lee Fook. We jokingly said it should be renamed to rigatoni alla ’woka.” This willingness to experiment, even in a tongue-in-cheek manner, signifies a confidence in their mastery of the core technique.
Yet Ip voices a concern pertinent to the modern culinary landscape: “Nowadays, a lot of dishes focus on plating and presentation, causing wok hei to lose its authenticity, in my opinion,” he says. It’s a reminder that the soul of the technique must not be sacrificed for aesthetics.
Edmond Ip, executive chef of Shanghai Plus, champions wok hei through foundational technique and ingredient mastery
Ultimately, wok hei endures because it leaves not just flavour, but memory—vivid, smoky and lasting. It is Hong Kong itself: battered by heat, remade by fire, impossible to counterfeit.
“Cantonese cuisine plays an integral role in shaping Hong Kong’s food culture, while wok hei is a legacy,” says Tang. Chan agrees, viewing it as the bedrock: “The wok is a fundamental part of Chinese cooking. Wok hei and the wok itself, are deeply symbolic of Hong Kong cuisine.” For Ip, “Wok hei is the soul of Chinese cuisine. It is essential.” All are right.
For these chefs, this element of Cantonese cooking is a living, breathing craft. It is meant to be studied, adapted and wielded with the precision it demands; a skill forged at the edge of fire. And as long as there are chefs willing to brave the heat, wok hei will not disappear. It will keep breathing.
Sauteed string beans with minced pork and pickled olives, by Edmond Ip of Shanghai Plus, is a dish of humble ingredients transformed by high-heat stir-fry
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