Writing the book on dumplings — no matter how you stuff them, they’re an emblem of global culinary culture: Read an Excerpt

Perogies. Ravioli. Shumai. Har Gow. Samosa. Gyoza. Tamales. Every culture has a version of dumplings, those tasty doughy creations you find everywhere from grocery store freezers to street food stalls to restaurant menus. In “What We Talk About When We Talk About Dumplings,” edited by John Lorinc, writers contemplate the importance of dumplings — their populism, cultural significance and, of course, their deliciousness. To whet your appetite, read an adapted version of the book’s introduction, written by The Star’s Karon Liu.

The more I write about food, the more I come to realize that … dumplings are universal — it’s why they’re such an easy entryway into a culture’s cuisine. At the same time, there are so many dumpling variations: steamed, fried, or boiled; filled or not; sweet or savoury; big or small; in soups or on their own. There are nuances to cuisines that vary between regions, cities, and — heck — households and generations that no one person can ever fully grasp.

Technically, the matzo balls in Ashkenazi Jewish cooking, the xiaolongbao or soup dumplings in Shanghainese cuisine, and Jamaican spinners used in soups and stews are all categorized as dumplings. But there’s not a lot else these dishes have in common — aside from their deliciousness. I remember being introduced to spätzle as a teen, when I was invited to a friend’s home to try Austrian home cooking. I gobbled the spätzle along with the schnitzel, perplexed but mind-blown that dumplings existed beyond the wontons I ate growing up.

Heck, even with the wontons, everyone in my friends’ and family’s circles prefers a different filling or fold. One friend prefers the squeeze method — literally putting a bit of filling into the wrapper and then squeezing her hand into a fist to seal it — because that’s the fastest method (and most common among sifus at restaurants). My mom, meanwhile, prefers the fold that makes the dumpling look like a person wearing a bonnet ’cause that’s what her mom taught her. Don’t even get me started on the differences between a wonton, a water dumpling, a potsticker, and a soup dumpling … mostly because I’m still learning the different techniques and regional variations of each of these as I dive ever deeper into Chinese cooking.

To live in a city where there’s no monoculture or definitive way to define a dish is to be spoiled with a seemingly infinite collection of flavours, culinary knowledge, and memories that people are eager to share. Here’s a story about what dumplings mean to me.

For as long as I can remember, when my mom had run out of ideas for dinner and was in a rush, wontons would be one of her go-tos: ground pork, napa cabbage, a mix of dark and light soy sauces with some cane sugar, and a package of store-bought dumpling wrappers. I’d watch her pinch a walnut-sized lump of the filling from a large metal bowl and lay it in the centre of the wrapper. She’d dip a finger into a rice bowl filled with water, swipe the edge of the wrapper, and — through a series of pinches and folds — a dumpling would appear in seconds.

In the early months of COVID-19, in January 2020, I went with some friends to a noodle spot in Markham called Wuhan Noodle 1950 to order its dry pot noodles and a side of dumplings. Months before the pandemic emergency was officially declared in Canada, Chinese restaurants had begun to see their business plummet due to old, racist stereotypes about Chinese food and cleanliness, all of which had resurfaced amidst simmering fear about the virus.

This particular place had been inundated with racist prank calls that were perpetuated on social media. Sensing that the place could use a positive boost, I went, had a great meal, and wrote about it for the Toronto Star. I explained the restaurant’s regional Chinese cooking and how a place like this fit into the evolution of Chinese food in the Greater Toronto Area. In recent years, we’re seeing a greater proliferation of regional Chinese cooking from both independent owners and international chains using the GTA as a test market before expanding elsewhere. The Chinese food here evolved from the Canadian-Chinese chop suey houses to more Hong Kong and Cantonese cooking as the GTA saw an influx of immigrants in the eighties and nineties. Then more people from Mainland China came, bringing their regional cooking — as well as international Chinese chains serving everything from hot pot to different styles of noodles.

Chinese food is no longer lumped into one giant category, and diners are increasingly aware that hand-pulled beef noodles are representative of Lanzhou, and in order to get a steamer basket of xiaolongbao, you have to go to a Shanghainese place. While the circumstances of how I found out about this place serving Wuhan dry pot noodles are unfortunate, it gave me an opportunity to talk about the dish stemming from the Hubei province.

Dumplings popped into my life again during the initial months of the pandemic lockdown in Toronto. Bags of frozen potstickers became a bit of a saviour in my household in the pre-vaccine days of the pandemic, when every trip to the supermarket seemed like running to get supplies during a zombie apocalypse.

We bought frozen potstickers in bags of a hundred from a wholesale shop called the Northern Dumpling Co. in our Scarborough neighbourhood. During the many days in those early months when I could barely get out of bed, let alone cook a meal from scratch, the dumplings kept me fuelled to carry on for another day.

Similarly, in the spring of 2022, church basements and restaurants across Canada churned out varenyky by the thousands to raise relief funds for Ukrainian refugees. Diners wanting to show support ordered the dumplings by the dozens and became more interested in learning about Ukraine’s answer to the pierogi.

What I’m trying to say is that everyone has a different relationship when it comes to food, including something as seemingly commonplace and traditional as the dumpling. As people move, generational attitudes and values shift, ingredients and techniques are adapted or evolve, and as technology changes the way we cook, the role food plays in our lives also changes.

Who knows? Maybe, five years from now, if you ask me what my relationship to dumplings is, I’ll be able to say they’re one of my go-to, quick weeknight meals. Perhaps I’ll add masala spice because an Indian restaurant owner gave me a few jars of his dad’s mixes and boasted it could be used in anything. Or I’ll add finely chopped mint to the filling as a nod to the Vietnamese restaurants I always turn to for takeout — and as a way to use local ingredients — because I have a serious overgrown mint problem in my yard.

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