The urbane writer/artist/gourmet Ludwig Bemelmans (author of the delightful “Madeline” children’s books), once wrote that a good meal helped heal the pain when one was thwarted in love. HG agrees (Based upon personal experience). One of HG’s first romances was in Rockaway Beach when HG was 13. The object of HG’s love was a prematurely shapely young woman (also 13) named Sydelle. HG was a money earner from HG’s earliest days. During the summer, HG earned six dollars a week carrying women’s beach chairs and umbrellas to the beach and returning them at night (Six bucks was a tidy sum 73 years ago). When back in The Bronx (when not playing football or street games) HG would earn tips by carrying the heavy shopping bundles of women to their apartments (Few buildings had elevators in those days so HG developed a sturdy pair of legs). Thus, HG had enough money for a movie and lunch date with Sydelle after the romantic duo had left Rockaway for the regular school year. Sydelle lived in Union City, N.J., a quick bus ride to mid-Manhattan. The date was for a Saturday. The meeting place was the Paramount Theater on Broadway. The time was 10:30 AM. The plan was to see the early show (25 cents admission) replete with a film, live orchestra, singers, comedians. HG mused that the couple would watch the live show and then do serious canoodling during the film. This was to be followed by a spaghetti lunch at Romeo’s on 42nd Street (50 cents for the spaghetti and 20 cents for soft drinks plus a 10 cent tip) and a frozen custard (10 cents) dessert at Grant’s across the street. Sadly, Sydelle never showed up for the date (Later phone call revealed that the vixen had a New Jersey boyfriend). Gloomy HG waited in front of the Paramount for an hour. Gave up and bought the morning papers (Times, Herald-Tribune, News, Mirror). Even at that young age, HG was a devoted fan of newsprint. Walked to a nearby Automat. Sat down to a lavish lunch of beef pot pie, macaroni casserole, baked bean casserole. Coconut custard pie for dessert. No smoking in the Automat so HG left for nearby Hector’s Cafeteria (with newspapers under HG’s arm). Many cups of coffee and numerous cigarettes (Yes, the 13-year-old was in the grip of the nicotine habit. Smoked incessantly for 50 years until rudely interrupted by throat cancer). Read the news, sports sections, theater sections and the many columnists (including the legendary Walter Winchell). Blues were banished and the wound of rejection was healed.
I longed for dumplings before I even knew what longing meant. Yes…the classic Chinese, crescent-shaped, fried dumpling filled with pork and chives. My sister, LR and I loved them. We loved the ritual mixing of the soy sauce and vinegar; we loved that they came first at any Chinese meal; and finally we probably loved that there were never enough — at 6 to an order, our family of four always had 2 orders…3 each! Not Enough!!!!! When LR first got a boyfriend who had a car she quickly got him take us to this Chinese Restaurant in Teaneck, New Jersey whose dumplings were bigger than average, seriously juicy and had a fine balance between a crispy bottom and tender exterior. It was an act of true kindness to an annoying younger brother. With no parents around to say no, my sister and I went for the pay load — we ordered 8 orders of dumplings. We were finally going to have our fill. And we did. And it was genius. It was better than we could have imagined to shuck off the trappings of a meal and simply focus on what we really wanted all along. Needless to say, the boyfriend knew that he had been used by two dumpling obsessives as he pitifully tried to order Egg Foo Young. He did not last, and my sister ended up marrying a wonderful man who would happily join us for a mad 10 order dumpling fest with narry a blink of the eye.
As the years went by, my dumpling obsession did not cease. I knocked off thousands of orders of fried dumplings and expanded my horizons with Russian Pelmini, Polish Pierogi, Uzbeki Manti, Korean Mandoo, Japanese Gyoza and more. In my 30s, I sat once again with my sister at New Green Bo on Bayard Street and, still giddy to be free of all parental constraint, ordered an ALL DUMPLING meal of Xioa Lung Bao (Shanghai style Crab & Pork “Soup” Dumplings), fried dumplings and Schezuan Wontons in hot chili oil. Delicious.
My wife, the lovely Maiko, is Japanese and we were married in Tokyo. HG and BSK were in attendance. After the wedding, we decided to take both sides of our respective families to Kyoto for our honeymoon. While we loved the company and Kyoto itself, translating between, not just languages, but some general cultural concepts was a touch trying and a bit stressful for both me and my new bride. One night, we escaped our families and walked down from our hill-side hotel into the center of the city; swaying through the ancient streets and narrow lanes, I spied a dank, dirty store-front pulsating with the neon visage of yes…you guessed it…a dumpling. It was a clarion call we could not avoid. Inside, the ancient chef/owner confirmed that they only made one thing. Gyoza, and one type of gyoza at that. Though stuffed from a dinner finished not an hour before, we made our order and watched as the chef, with custom-made implements coaxed out a plate of 6 (what? Is there a world-wide dumpling standard?) perfectly identical dumplings bound together with a lacy sheet of golden brown, fried rice flour. We sat together on a tiny bench, armed with chopsticks and cracked that crunchy crust, dipped them in the soy and vinegar sauce and lifted those gyoza to our mouths. The rice flour crunch acted as a hearty welcome as the silken dumpling skin began to dance on our tongues. Oh yes! It was dumpling excellence taken to a power of what seemed to be infinity. It was a dumpling that took the basic dumpling components and elevated them — where some dumplings could be heavy, these were light; and yet they were unctuous and bursting with juice and porky goodness. We smiled at each other and really had to laugh — we had just spent a week of incredible Japanese wedding banquets and traditional Kyoto style Kaiseki meals, but these dumplings, these luminous gyoza were the high points of our culinary adventuring.
Well…back in New York, we started our married life. While we both had two busy schedules, I began to discover that Maiko could cook. Seriously cook. I would come home to discover the lightest tempura or a 2 week stint where pig heads slowly bubbled away to create a broth for a ramen soup that took my breath away. And then one day I came home and Maiko promised me a surprise. I waited patiently, listening to the sounds of cooking and finally she came to me with a platter of what I can honestly describe as the most gorgeous dumplings I had even seen — it was an abundance of dumplings! 25 or 30 of those crescent shaped gems bound together with that lacy filament of delectable rice flour crunchiness. And best of all, there were no side dishes or main dishes or any other type of dish to distract from the very dumplingness of it all.
And so I ate.
Where those great Kyoto dumplings had one perfect note, one perfect flavor, Maiko’s reached that note, sustained it and then followed it with a back beat of other subtle tastes and nuances. Simply put, she ascended the heights of the Kyoto dumpling pinnacle, stuck her flag in it and somehow went even higher.
I had an epiphany at that moment. Like that delicate rice flour crust, my existence had always seemed so fragile. It was a life predicated on the galloping momentum of my ancestor’s random choices and lucky escapes which finally led to a sperm in a million hitting an egg and creating me. But, as that dumpling coursed through my system, I questioned that randomness for the first time. How could it be anything but fate that one of the world’s finest dumpling eaters would meet a woman from across the globe and marry her only to find out that she was the world’s greatest dumpling chef?
The answer to that riddle my friends, in the most simple of words, is love, sweet love.
