Since 1979, this cavernous room on the edge of Sydney's Chinatown has been where generations learned the rhythm of yum cha. Push-cart trolleys still do the work here, trundling between tables laden with bamboo steamers while the staff call their cargo over the din. There is no app, no set sequence, no curated tasting menu; you flag down what looks good and let the meal assemble itself. The scale is part of the character, several hundred seats spread across a floor that fills with families, off-shift kitchen crews and Saturday crowds who have been coming for decades. Order in the old way. Har gow and prawn dumplings, barbecued pork buns, lotus-leaf rice, chicken feet braised until they slip from the bone, and the hot custard puffs from the neighbouring bakery counter that cost almost nothing. The Cantonese cooking is unfussy and consistent rather than reinvented, which is precisely the point, a working institution rather than a reinvention of one. Come at the busiest hour, when the trolleys move fastest and the room is loudest, and you understand why it has outlasted almost every contemporary. A rite of passage that has quietly kept its nerve.