Preparation for a dim-sum meal is a delicate art. The appetite must be expansive enough for a gorging, but not so great as to impair one’s judgment when ordering. A packed dining room, carts whizzing by, babies crying and an empty stomach can be a dangerous combination. For, “in the heat of action,” as Kasper Gutman says, “men are likely to forget where their best interests lie and let their emotions carry them away.”

But being smart never stopped anyone from being stupid. Within 15 minutes of sitting down in Paradise Fine Chinese Cuisine, we find ourselves surrounded by an army of tiny dishes. The room, perhaps in preparation for a Sheena Easton music video, has been dipped in gold and wrapped in mirrors. Faux or not, the shiny surfaces give a glint that sexes up even the humble bamboo steamers. Bo Lai tea is served in posh, remarkably non-Tap Phong tableware, complemented by real tablecloths.

Fresh you tiao (fritters not unlike savoury churros) are served with “million-year-old” egg (don’t worry, it’s closer to a three-to-12-week-old egg, fermented in clay, ash, salt, lime and rice straw) and pork-loaded congee ($4.95). The reduced rice porridge glops comfortably on the end of the you tiao and, if we’re not careful, we could fill up on this alone (like the old men who spend their mornings in Chinatown’s cafés). A boatload of pepper and black-bean sauce has been massaged into steamed beef short ribs ($2.95). The Chinese contingent of our party assures us that it’s permissible (for the chopstick novice) to pick them up with our fingers and suck the fatty meat off the bones.

Then comes an onslaught of dumplings. Every culture has their own way of stuffing a little meat or fish or whatnot inside a pocket of dough. But the Chinese are epically proficient at it. The har gau ($4.95) — some say the litmus test of any dim sum establishment — sees shrimp mixed with bamboo shoots and steamed inside a pouch of wheat flour and potato starch dough. More shrimp, puréed and deep-fried, is coated in crispy rice noodles ($4.95). Everything takes a little dip in fiery chili sauce.

The cha siu bau ($3.95) comes both baked (with sweet sesame glaze) and steamed. The steamed ones, open at the top, blossom out like cakey flowers. Inside the fluffy dough is Cantonese barbeque pork, the ubiquitous red meat flaunted in Chinatown windows, sweetened with soy, hoisin and honey. The chiu chao fun gau ($3.95) are more of the glutinous rice flour, this time packed with chicken and peanuts.

Our appetites began to crumble under the starchy barrage of dumplings. But still more pork comes wrapped in a blanket of wide rice noodle roll (cheong fun) doused lightly with a sweetened soy sauce ($4.95). When done poorly, it’s wet and the filling slips out. When done properly, like here, the noodle is a little sticky and really hugs the pork.

A couple of disappointing dishes allow us a resting period. Somebody in the kitchen gets cute and serves perfectly crispy shrimp rolls with a daffy kiwi dipping sauce ($4.95). A bowl of cow tripe ($2.95) has a bit too much fight left in it. The Asians and gweilo at the table agree that, though nicely infused with ginger, they’re still too second-stomach (reticulum, the webby looking one) for us to stomach.

Surrounded by a flanking attack of two more dishes, the appetite rallies behind one last defence. Wu gok, a cannonball of deep-fried taro, is filled with more pork ($2.95). Siu mai, minced pork wrapped in bean curd, is gussied up with thin slices of scallop and salmon roe ($3.95). Defeated, the appetite concedes.

Who can say how much tea we’ve had? As the opposing forces of caffeine, sodium and rice flour meet in our digestive tracts, there are no winners. That doesn’t stop us from demolishing a couple of flakey egg tarts ($3.95). They’re still warm from the oven and the buttery crust crumbles in our mouths. In two hours our stomachs will be casualties of a war that no one needed to fight. But what else are we to do on Sunday?