Dumplings Meet Bible Belt

Dumplings say stuff about the world - and Sydney, my adopted city, is no exception to the rule.

I could make up some elaborate tale about the above su sai jian jiao (which translates as pan-fried vegetable dumplings). 

I could say how the GPS didn't even know how to get to the hidden eatery in a barely converted former dry cleaners in some obscure neighbourhood.

I could self-righteously say there were only Chinese patrons there and that I could only order by pointing to the exotic green ones steaming on the neighbouring table. 

I could tell you the owners greeted this big white guy like a visiting dignitary - the way they might have greeted an exotic green one (guy, that is).

I could tell you about the owner's sharing the secret of the unusual imported flour they use to make their dumplings green.

Or, I could just tell you the facts ma'am.

Fact 1: I bought these dozen dumplings for $9.80 at the food court of my local suburban shopping mall, Castle Towers, in Castle Hill. 

Fact 2: The Lok Lok Dumpling House shares the food court with McDonalds and Pizza Hut.

Fact 3: Their vegetable filling is a lovely and juicy blend of shitake mushrooms, bean sprouts, buk choy, watercress and Asian cabbage; the tender dough's green because they add food colouring to it.

All of which says a fair bit about the rearranging kaleidoscope that are the suburbs of Sydney. Until recently, Castle Hill was Tip Top white bread, cricket on Channel 9, and Bibles. Lots of Bibles. That's clearly changed as - in the last five years alone - Sydney's China-born community has grown by nearly 40%. Wonderfully, my own street now has five Asian families where it had none five years ago. (Hello capital appreciation!)

Politicians can be silly to talk about Asia as someplace we should "relate to" or "understand more" or "seek greater engagement with". That makes it sound like Asia's out there someplace. Maybe, they just haven't leant over the backyard fence for a while. 

Asia isn't someplace else - it's Castle Hill, Strathfield, Hurstville, Parramatta, Chatswood, you name it. 

Chinatown's an increasingly a redundant term; it's just our town.

Indeed, Asian is our new normal - with all the social, economic and cultural benefits that go with it. 

Including really good dumplings. Lok Lok's are as good as I've had in "only for locals" backstreets in Beijing, Shanghai and Hong Kong. Maybe, part of the reason is our amazingly fresh and readily available Aussie ingredients. Maybe, part of the reason is really proud migrant owners where everybody chips in.

Indeed, in the back of the kitchen at Lok Lok, the owner's dad was there feeding his 4 year old grandson (in a uniform from a local public pre-school) some dumplings. In the usual way of 4 year old dictators, he barked orders in English: "Green one!" "More!"

On a lot of different levels, I agree.

Dumpling Sociology

How probable is this? Four people walk into a Chinese dumpling house; one decides to order dumplings for only himself and does not share his little morsels of yum with the others. No way, no how.

You can get better odds at the Wentworth Park dishlicker track everyday.

Indeed, dumplings seem to be mostly eaten in group settings and shared around. That would say they're communal and, yes, they partially are. Unlike the dishlickers, we're not "dog eat dog" or rather "dog eat dumpling". 

But, that's not dumplings' whole story. For mine, dumplings are the delicate balance that is society and the constant trade-offs we make to find a way to live with each other and for each other. 

Or, to put it a loved one's way: "It's amazing how we overcome the urge to garrotte each other on the subway eventhough some part of us wants to do just that!"

Look at the physical reality of dumpling-dom.

Like society, dumplings are together and dumplings are apart at the same time. They are served together on a plate or in a bowl, but are all individual food packets. Us? We need to live together and we need our individuality too.

Too many dumplings together is overcrowded and unsustainable; one dumpling on its own begs the question 'is something wrong?'. Us? We crowd ourselves as much as possible into cities and then we seek individual solitude - solitude that the majority often struggles to condone.

When we go out to eat dumplings, you see folks trying to strike that delicate balance between "us" and "me" in action. Yes, we share the servings before us between us. And, whether I like to admit it or not, the caveman in me looks to get his fair share. Dumplings are too good to resist and my inner Neanderthal wants to be ready for the long winter.

At the same time, my dumpling "better angel" or my karmically-inspired and enlightened dumpling self emerges. I make a trade-off. I want to make sure everybody else at the table has had as many as they want too because I love them. And, I practically know that without my others, without relationship, without the attempt at shared understanding, we are all but poorer.

That's why it's been wonderful to get your emails and Facebook posts on this Dumpling Quest. A Jersey friend reminding me of knishes served at baseball games. A sophisticated Sydney eastern suburbs type inquiring where the local Eastern Europeans go to get their "pirogy" fix in the western suburbs. A childhood mate sharing tales of his baba's best. Wonderful - and thank you.

And, today, a car-borne photo from Irene from New York City, our global capitol in all things including food vans. A photo of the Rickshaw Dumpling Truck bringing the quest to a street near you (if you happen to be in Manhattan). How cool is that. 

If I ever have the chance to partake of that van's goodness, I'll order for all of us - and for me too. It's how we live with each other and ourselves.

Dumpling DNA: Introducing the "Varenyk"

It's time for me to admit that dumplings are part of my genetic make-up. I come from a long line of dumpling makers and eaters.

My folks, who now kick on into their 80s, were refugees to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania and Brooklyn, New York respectively after World War II. They came on old US troop carriers with only a leather trunk or two, no English, no money, many recent experiences of war-time tragedy, hopes of a better life - and Ukrainians' love of their national dish, the "varenyk"*.

The "varenyk" is about as big as one's palm and shaped like a half moon. It's got a substantial dough pastry and the basic filling is a potato and Farmer's cheese blend. They're generally served boiled and smothered in the following list of things that don't get the heart-tick of approval: butter, sour cream and fried onions.

Those who are even more health conscious (not), sometimes add "shkvarky" which is little cubes of fried speck.

And, the real health freaks (really, really not) also muck around with either pan-frying or even deep frying the "varenyk". I suspect though that's the point at which it becomes a hang-over cure rather than a culinary experience.

Depending on season, region, family inclination, wealth and taste, folks in the old country and now all the other countries such as US, Europe, Canada, South America and Australia where Ukes, as we call ourselves, are scattered will also make fillings from beef and pork, cabbage, cabbage and mushroom, and even blueberries and plums in summer. (And don't hold back on the sprinkled sugar on top for those fruit-based babies).

When Ukes from distant points of the diaspora meet each other, there's often discussion of where to locally hook-up with some "varenyky", and who's baba makes the best ones, and who's mate set the record for the most eaten in one sitting. (The most I've ever seen was 48 which probably amounts to around 20,000 k/calories or so!)

And people wonder why we're big people.

The "varenyk" is simple, substantial and, in its own way, stoic. Like the people who make it, it just kind of get's on with things regardless of the circumstances, be it wars at the worst of times or weddings at the best of times.

When I don't have "varenyky" for a while, I lose my longitudes and latitudes. Like many in the modern world, I have many identities that I inevitably need to cycle through, be it Australian, American, Ukrainian, Catholic, Buddhist-curious, husband, Tato (dad), ex-politico, ex-garbo, writer, long-suffering Mets fan, rugby league tragic etc. But the "varenyk" - perhaps for all its starch and stodginess - is the thing that anchors me on a sea of many ways to be, many things to present, many expectations to meet.

The "varenyk" is the dumpling that is less food for me and more part of my essential being. It doesn't just fill my stomach - and how - but soothes my soul. It takes me back to upstate family Christmases covered in snow, to a warm and high-piled waiting plate at my mother's dining room table after a long flight from Oz, to summer camps where we Americanised them by calling them "sliders", to walking around ancient churches with newly-met cousins in an old country of much pain and more promise....

The "varenyk" is my 47th chromosome. It makes me a bit different and I wouldn't give up that difference for the world.

* Poles make "pyrogi" which are very similar if not identical; Russians make "pelmeny" which are similar but smaller. "Pelmeny" are probably more akin to the Ukrainian and Polish "ushka" which means "ears" due to their shape (and is generally not a very appetising translation). Russians generally eat "pelmeny", which have a variety of fillings, in their own right, with dashes of vinegar and very regularly; Ukrainians and Poles tend to put mushroom-filled "ushka"in soup, such as beetroot "borscht", and sometimes only for major holidays.

Carramelle - Power of the Now

There are different kinds of dumpling journeys and the best ones can be the kind where the travellers don't know they're on a journey.

Sometimes, I like other dumpling questers specifically decide to go out for a dumpling I've had many times before in a restaurant I know as well as my own lounge room. Say, the scientifically-precise and wonderfully-named shrimp and pork jiao zen at Din Tai Fung in World Square in Sydney (or any of their other Macca-like shops around the world).

That's about going back to something from the past that's deliciously delivered - all 21.4 grams of goodness steamed for precisely 180 seconds, that is. It's reassuring and comforting. Dumplings as convenient and useful as the TV's remote control in my lounge room.

Sometimes, it's about setting out to experience something totally new. That usually involves research and GPS journeys to distant points and family-based joints around Sydney's sprawling 'burbs.

I like to think of it as using a dumpling to "move one from one's fixed position", as Australian author Tim Winton talks about his art and other things. It's enlivening. Dumplings as renewal.

But like journeys on airplanes, journeys to past dumplings and journeys to new dumplings are not without their mild mid-air turbulence.

In the case of the former, the cook may have changed someplace and, on sampling the fare, one of my fellow diners will inevitably seek some solace: "Well, it's not quite as good as last time, but it's still really good." We know it's not really, but it's what we say as our small part of the social contract.

In the case of the latter, expectations of new and great dumplings can be premeditated resentments. An unhappy companion: "Well, that was a long way to go for a pirogi." We know it was, but we don't respond as our small part of the marital contract.

So, it's wonderful every once and a while to come upon the unexpected ones, the dumplings that just happen to be on the menu and then in the mouth without either memories or wilfulness about how good something's meant to be. Dumplings that are just meant to be - dumplings of the moment.

Such was the great treat that were the snapper and tomato carramelle cacio e peppe, leek and marjoram at 42 Bannerman Tratorria in Glenhaven yesterday. A special family lunch to celebrate great endings and great beginnings - the end of HSC exams for Pixie, the beginning of Appalachian Trail and other American adventures for Tim.

Delightfully delectable fish inside a tender pastry - named after its candy wrapper shape. Joyful and juicy and genuine - and made by the Italian family owners' Nona from good stuff grown and gathered from local farms in this market garden district of Sydney. It's a tratorria - not a restaurant - which the owners attest is "more akin to an eating club".

A club we were happy to be members of. A club where I don't ask how fish can be so beautifully but improbably cooked inside a boiled dough pasta wrapper, as I fear disassembling will but diminish. Or, as one author says: "Grace examined - he suspected - was grace denied."

A club of laughter and love and carefully breaking the home-baked cheesy cristini into even portions for all four of us.  A club of kitchen glimpses of the chefs at work, smart insights from 'are they really mine?' adult children, and silly 'selfies' in the car park.

A carramelle club where what came before and what may come next kind matters much less than what we have right now for at least this little while.

How many momo?

Dumplings can be a very numeric food.

Yes, the number of dumplings does seem to matter.

"How many do you want?"

It's a question laden with temptation. For mine, the optimal number of dumplings is represented in the mathematical equation N - 1. I can always go for one more. At least. Self-discipline walks out the door when the dumpling monster comes to visit.

But it's not just the consuming, it's the making of dumplings that appears to require quantification.

"How many do you make?"

Whether in the making of gow gee or agnolotti, there seems to be a pride and shared smiles associated with breaking triple digits of made dumplings. It's where the dumpling economy seems to start.

And, dumpling makers love to say how many they've made.

So, I smiled a lot and he smiled a lot when Shashun, Sydney's seeming master of the Nepali momo, told me today that he makes about 8,000 momo each week for the three or so street stalls he works around Sydney, including today at the Parramasala South Asian Arts Festival in the Church Street Mall in Parramatta.

Well, not just Shashun, but his three fellow proprietors of O!Momo! and the five ladies who work with them. So that's about 1,000 per person per week that's paying some bills.

Momo have a thin but sturdy dough. Think the texture of fresh caught and perfectly-prepared calamari.

Their straightforward filling is chicken mince, Spanish onion, coriander - and apparently a couple of Himalayan ingredients like timur only to be found at the top (or probably bottom) of some peak.

On top, they get a splash of achar, a hot and spicy tomato and sesame seed sauce, that creates this great contrast to the simplicity of the dumpling itself.

Spicy and simple. Maybe, that's why we count. So, we can remind ourselves of striking the balance. In dumplings, as in life.

Something about the dumpling...

There's something about the dumpling. 

I look at the world and I see dumplings. 

Chinese pot-stickers, Korean mandu, Nepalese momo, Ukrainian varenyky, Russian pelmeny, Polish pirogies, Thai money bags, Jewish matzoh balls, Indian samosas, Italian ravioli, Maltese pastizzi - so many different places and cultures and so much similar and singular commitment to wrapping dough around protein.

A veritable, edible archetype. A pan-fried, deep-fried, boiled, or steamed (but never microwaved) dollop of deliciousness.

Travel far and wide, and the dumpling has appeal. 

How's it possible that so much goodness comes in this one little packet?

Who struck on this simple, efficient and elegant design?

Will its contents be saucy, sweet, savoury or spicy? 

Will it explode on to my shirt on this embarrassing first date or appeal to her with worldliness? 

Who are the people and the cultures that make these succulent sensations?

How are they the same as me and how are they different - the folks that is?

Are dumplings just about the stomach or also the soul? (And, you know which way that's gonna go.)

What do I learn about others and about myself as I eat folk's dumplings in their restaurants, homes and market stalls?

I look at my city - Sydney - and I see dumplings across our splendid suburbs. Diverse dumplings and myriad stories. Stories about migration, stories about identity, stories about families and growing up, stories about making a living...

So, this blog will start with wandering Sydney's kaleidoscopic suburbs, looking for great dumplings, taking Instagram photos, and most importantly listening to stories about what we share. Come along for the stroll.