The rain was light but insistent, the kind that makes Bangkok’s streets gleam like a black lacquered table. From the lobby of the Radisson Blu Plaza, the city outside looked like it was holding its breath. I took the elevator up, chasing the promise of steam, ginger, and the soft clink of porcelain.
China Table welcomes without fanfare. It draws you in with the quiet confidence of a place that knows exactly what it’s doing. Inside, the world softened with dark wood, muted gold, and that warm, almost conspiratorial lighting that flatters everyone at the table. Somewhere in the kitchen, woks hissed, the air fragrant with star anise and soy.
The dim sum arrived first, steaming baskets cradled like secrets. Har gow, so delicate you could trace the pink curve of shrimp inside; siu mai crowned with a scatter of roe; buns that broke open to reveal molten custard, sweet enough to stop you mid-sentence. Every bite felt precise, not fussy, just intentional, as though someone had edited away everything that didn’t belong.
Then came the Peking duck. It unfolded with a sense of tradition, each step deliberate with the paper-thin pancakes, the glossy hoisin, the skin that shattered with a sound so soft it was almost a whisper. Sweet, salty, smoky, all in balance, all exactly where it should be.
Seafood followed with the quiet elegance of a tide coming in. Poached grouper swimming in a ginger broth that warmed without overwhelming. Scallops seared just long enough to catch a kiss of wok smoke. Crab fried rice, indulgent but somehow clean, the grains separate and glistening.
By the time dessert landed chilled mango sago, sesame balls with their crisp shells giving way to red bean silk, the city outside had slipped fully into night. The rain had stopped, but I wasn’t in any hurry to leave.
China Table isn’t just a place to eat; it’s a place to settle into. To let the night breathe between courses, to let flavors take their time telling you where they came from. At dusk, with steam curling above the table and the lights of Bangkok just out of reach, it becomes its own small world. One you’ll want to return to, even if only to hear the hiss of the woks again.
