Dumplings are a Melbourne institution. Those Bite sized lumps of goodness are the panacea for all ills. A diminished wallet is no obstacle to dumpling heaven - ten bucks is all you need to have yourself a meal fit for a king and with the option to BYO you can't go wrong; the dumpling meal really does provide it all.
While each dumpling houe may differ in service, the chaos is much the same. Part of the bliss in the experience comes from accepting that while you may not always get what you ordered, you will always get a darned good feast.
Now a dumpling aficionado, I know the house rules well. I understand the terseness of the staff and embrace the fuss-free, no-frills service. I respect the little man who shouts at me—Seinfeld Soup-Nazi style—while I'm waiting in line at my favorite restaurant.
It wasn't always that way though. I was once a dumpling virgin. Back then I'd not yet learnt of the beauty that those lumps of joy possess. And, coming face to face with the disorder that's so intrinsic to the dumpling house, I wasn't sure I'd survive it.
Having arrived from small town Perth with no real dumpling culture, I was taken by the hand to Melbourne's China Town and into the splendid madness of the dumpling world. That first time as I entered the fluoresent dining area, replete with plastic tablecloths, I cowered. I didn't know my chilli oil from my chilli sauce. I didn't know what the plastic cups were for, nor where to find a bowl to eat from.
My friends, knowing locals, expertly navigated the menu, which looked as fat as a Melways directory. They poured jasmine tea into my humble plastic cup as I watched on bewildered. Staff staff flew past at light speed and I was instructed by friends to just sit; food would come and I would understand, 'trust me'. And I did and it did and I was changed.
That night I experienced the sheer magnificence of the spring onion pancake, the joy of vegetarian duck and the delight of steamed mushroom dumplings. I had been living a half-life until then. The meal was shared (the only way to do it) and the various dishes almost covered the table completely, plates overflowing with generous portions.
I became enchanted with the unpretentiousness of it all. There's no chitty-chat with a faux-friendly waiter sniffing for tips. No décor to speak of. There's definitely no niceties nor frills or flaffing about—just mountainous portions of lavish dumpling goodness.
That first time when the staff finally began circling like vultures, quick and ready to pick off our near empty plates, I realised my time there was almost up. I snaffled and burped, rubbing an aching pot-belly and it was then, in my post dumpling bliss, that I understood the simplicity in it all. The chaos was just an illusion. The terrain, now navigated, seemed far less harsh and with the rules of dumpling anarchy understood I fell in love, most firmly, with the perfect order in it all.
(Published in Catalyst)
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