HUNGRY GERALD

Friends…When a Soup Dumpling calls, you might as well just give in, because really there is no escape. A Soup dumpling or a Xiao Long Bao to be proper, is a pork and crab meatball wrapped in a pleated wrapper of flour dough which is then steamed. The meatball is infused with a solidified ge’lee of broth, so that when it steams, this ge’lee reverts back to soup. When properly made (which is tough as a lot can go wrong! A soup dumpling requires MAXIMUM timing, freshness and technique) the end product hits the pinnacle of taste sensations; silken wrappers, rich soup, delectable meatball. When I first encountered this treat back in the late 90s at the famous Joe’s Shanghai, I went crazy. I found myself there at least twice a week with steamer after steamer arriving to fulfill my seemingly unquenchable Xiao Long Bao lust. I became an expert at deftly transporting the delicate dumpling from steamer to spoon without rupturing the delicate skin and losing the soup; I developed a methodology of cooling, adding ginger, red chile, malt vinegar and finally slurping that maximized my enjoyment — a methodology I adhere to and try to extort others to follow. Witness the family of Texans that told me to “mind your own business! We know how to eat!” when I tried to explain the ground rules of soup dumpling etiquette as they were attacking their treasures with forks and losing all the unctuous broth. In short I had a problem, and that problem took me a few years to finally reign it in. Which I did…Barely.

There is a new restaurant that has opened up on Bowery, right by the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge. I pass it every day. Right above the door is a grand billboard, a high resolution image of a perfect Soup Dumpling — white wrapper crested with the orange roe of a Hairy Crab. You can sense the soup bubbling inside, the heat and deliciousness coming together…

It took only two days. I couldn’t help myself. I grabbed my wife, Exquisite Maiko and headed for lunch at our favorite Soup Dumpling spot, Shanghai Cafe. I would have tried, and will try the new spot — but when the call of the dumpling was this severe, I could not risk disappointment.

When the first steamer basket arrived Exquisite Maiko and I sighed. Eight perfect dumplings encased in steam. I lifted the first up, gently placed it on my spoon and nipped off the top of the dumpling. Using a spoon (which you have to ask for!) I dripped some vinegar and shredded ginger into the center of my dumpling. Preparing myself for the scalding, delectable heat, I then slurped up the broth. With something that can only be described as sensual, that rich broth flooded my senses…I took a breath and then devoured the dumpling skin and the interior meatball. Silken. Rich. Layers of pork flavors mingling with the heady inclusion of crab and that final tang of vinegar. A perfect bite. A bite for the ages.

The soup dumpling had called. We had answered. Let the obsession roll once again!

The wonders do not cease. Last night Exquisite Maiko prepared Japanese summer rolls. HG tried to deconstruct but failed. Essentially, these resembled the traditional Vietnamese rice paper rolls. However, EM’s version enclosed a super-thin egg crepe, soba (rather than rice) noodles, slivers of cucumber and scallion. The rolls were dipped in mentsuyu. Bliss. This was followed by chunks of swordfish cooked by EM’s saute-braise-steam technique. The result was, once more, succulent, juicy fish that tasted as if it emerged from the sea only moments before. EM made a sauce of blender pureed onions, sesame oil and a hint of garlic. Simple. Perfect. The fish dish was served on a bed of fresh greens.

Please note: Outside of the one egg used for the crepes there was neither meat nor fowl used in this meal and only a tiny bit of grapeseed and sesame oil. Yet, the tastes were lush and deeply satisfying. Does this mean farewell to steak for HG and BSK?

SJ is back in Brooklyn tending to biz but daughter-in-law Exquisite Maiko and grandson Inimitable Haru remain in New Mexico for a few more days. This means pure Maiko Magic in the kitchen. HG and BSK were dazzled last night by a halibut, salad and Soba noodle dinner that exemplified the Maiko approach: Simplicity. Purity. Taste. Visual beauty.

HG watched the preparation carefully but might have missed some steps or ingredients. First, Maiko sliced cucumber paper thin, washed and dried baby arugula and some other field greens; sliced garlic very thinly. Halibut was cut into slightly larger than bite size pieces. Garlic and seaweed went into a sizzling pan. The garlic and seaweed quickly crisped and were placed on a paper towel to drain. The garlic was perfectly crisp and brown with none of the bitterness that burning can cause — its a cooking trick HG has never mastered. Then came the real magic part. Heat under the pan was raised to moderate. The fish went into the pan with some white wine and a bit of sesame oil. The pan was covered and the fish was alternately seared by the heat and steamed to perfection.

Maiko arranged a platter. An enticing circle of cucumber and a mound of salad greens as the base for the fish. Acting upon some clock in her head, Maiko removed the fish from the range, placed the pieces on the base of greens, sprinkled all with pan juices and topped it with the crisp garlic and seaweed mixture. There was room temperature Soba on the table, enriched by Mentsuyu (a broth of sorts) and thin strips of nori (the dried seaweed that wraps sushi rolls and hand rolls). Wasabi was at hand. HG and BSK were startled by the halibut. Not a favorite fish, considered tasteless. But, this was halibut full of juice and flavor. The garlic chips didn’t mask the taste but just added a crisp counterpoint to the lush halibut. There will be more fish tonight. We are grateful to the Shinto gods, Japanese culture and Maiko’s wizardry.

Eggplant Parmigiana is a bad dish. HG never enjoyed it. Basically, a piece of oil soaked fried eggplant, rubbery mozzarella and insipid tomato sauce. What’s to like? Same goes for Veal Parm. Good way to destroy delicate, tasty meat. HG opts for classic Wiener Schnitzel. HG never liked Minestrone. Why have this meaningless vegetable soup when you can splurge on Pasta e Fagioli (the beloved “Pastafazool” of Fiorello H. LaGuardia, New York’s best Mayor) ? Fritto Misto, the Italian melange of fried fish and shellfish pales in comparison to my daughter-in-law Maiko’s Tempura. Maiko’s Tempura is as exquisite as she is. Handling chopsticks with maestro deftness, Maiko produces pieces of shrimp, sole, halibut and scallops of ineffable lightness without a trace of oil. Just crispness. Fresh sea tastes. Eat her sea nuggets fast or they’ll float off the plate. Pass that chilled sake, please. Uh oh…Is HG getting in trouble with the Italian Anti-Defamation League?.

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.