Dim Sum Dumpling Quotes

I peered at the bowl, which was piled high with shrimp and vegetables, little cubes of what looked like meat or fish. The broth was a beautiful golden color, with little circles of orange oil floating on the surface, near the edge of the bowl. My heart rate slowed, oblivion averted. "More chances at wishes. But also, this looks damn good." I realized I was still holding the spoon with the dumpling, the steam not wafting out like a volcano anymore. So I closed my eyes and readied myself for another bite. This time the heat took a step back and allowed everything else to come forward. The savory richness of pork, a bite of ginger and scallions, the broth. Oh, man, the broth. I hadn't ever tasted anything quite like this before. I chewed the dumpling, which was starchy but also managed to melt away, letting its texture dominate. For a moment, I wanted to reach for something beyond the flavor, but failed. Would I recognize the taste of magic, if magic even had a taste? Then I let the flavor itself take over.

People who truly know how to wonder don't expend a great deal of energy talking about it; they are off catching snowflakes on hot tongues. They're folding themselves in half to smell the sweet potatoes in the oven just one more time. I no longer try to convince someone of the delight of soup dumplings; I take them to Dim Sum Garden on Race Street in Philly and let them watch me slurp. I let the steaming miracle broth run down my face and lap it up in remembrance. I think awe is an exercise, both a doing and a being. It is a spiritual muscle of our humanity that we can only keep from atrophying if we exercise it habitually.

A parade of servers came through with domed platters of incredible food---handmade Chinese dumplings and dim sum shaped like tiny pomegranates and tangerines, gorgeously presented noodles in every color of the rainbow, and dishes with ingredients Natalie could only guess at. A red tea called Da Hong Pao was served, and one of the people at the table said it was so rare that it couldn't be bought for any price but had to be received as a gift.

Baskets of dim sum rested on the glass lazy Susan: spicy phoenix claws, plump purses of har gow, shumai topped with green pea crowns, and airy wu gok. I had learned from previous meetings that the old man was adamant about following tradition, which meant I had to arrive with an empty stomach. Refusing offered food was an insult Old Wu didn't take lightly. I helped myself to a sample of each dish. Made of minced pork with a paper-thin wrapper, the steamed shumai was tender, and the har gow was juicy with the shrimp with bamboo shoots highlighted by a peekaboo skin. Then I bit into the wu gok, a fried taro puff with a wispy, crunchy shell and a dripping shrimp and pork filling. The powdery creaminess of the dish made this my favorite of the bunch.