Three weeks in Hong Kong, and I thought I have gotten the hang of ordering food in Cantonese:

Me: Mm goy, yat gor yong zao chau faan, lor zau. (Excuse me, one Yang Zhou Fried Rice to go)

Waitress: Yum meh ye ah. (What do you want to drink?)

(Having anticipated the question) Me: Dong leng cha. (Iced lemon tea)

Waitress: Yi sap yi maan. (Twenty-two dollars)

I hand over the money, perform a mental victory dance for having successfully ordered dinner like a local. Then:

Waitress: exmk won we pojrm xwenu hswhyb wimm?

Me: Huh?

Waitress: exmk won we pojrm xwenu hswhyb wimm?

Me: Huh?

Waitress (in the manner of speaking to a deaf man): exmk won we pojrm xwenu hswhyb wimm?

(Red faced) Me: Mm ho yi si wor. Ngor mm hai hiong gong yan, mm sek gong dong wah... (Please excuse me. I am not a Hong Konger and don't know Cantonese)

Waitress: Orh....you volleyball? (I was in workout clothes)

Me: .... No. Gym, gym. No ball.

Waitress: Orh.... zor lah zor lah. (Sit, sit)

Volleyball, fried rice. Volleyball, fried rice. Ordering food could not get more confusing.