One of my strongest childhood memories is making pork dumplings with my grandmother in her apartment in Brooklyn. Despite the language barrier between us, dumplings were the first food I ever learned how to make.
The whole process was an artistic alchemy. Mesmerized, I could only watch as my grandmothers’ hands moved of their own accord, flying over the store-bought flour wrappers. She would tuck the meat and vegetable filling into the doughy circle and fold the wrapping like a punctuation of goodnight. She would transform the lumpy half-moon into a pristinely pleated dumpling ready to be boiled or pan-fried. The apartment walls echoed both the stovepots’ murmurs and hisses.
The next part was pure magic. My grandmother would drop the dumplings into a pot of boiling water with a definitive plop! and scoop them up only minutes later with a ladle. She would place them in a porcelain bowl in front of me and add a drizzle of ponzu and soy sauce.
I would eat it while the steam still curled from the edges, completely ignoring the burning sensation in my mouth. I could have eaten the whole batch if sharing with your brother didn’t exist.
Then I was my grandmother’s apprentice, crimping the edges of my dumplings, except my dumplings were bursting at the seams with filling, and my pleats looked more like wrinkles.
Nevertheless, I loved what I did, particularly because each step she taught me was essentially a sentiment she was communicating. When she showed me how to properly pleat the dumplings, she was really saying, Try again. You will get it right. When she gave me a slight smile of approval, that was I love you.
Perhaps this is why I had and will always have a special relationship with dumplings, for their powerful ability to bridge the gap between generations. When dumplings are in front of me — whether home-cooked or in a restaurant — I understand that it is more than food, more than a quick bite made for consumption.
I see nourishment. I see my grandmother’s hands over my own, guiding me in that apartment over a decade ago. I see I love you.
— Sammie Yen
If her dumplings were Brooklyn’s love, I needed to seek out the dumplings that say I love you in the greater Los Angeles area. This list is a compilation of all the dumplings and dumpling variants that exceed the rubric of “home” to me.
So, what is home?
1. The First Bite
Ding’s Garden
First impressions matter. A good dumpling is not about how it simply appears on a plate but more so the first bite feeling. The first bite is the precursor, the premise. I could not look any further than my hometown for the perfect first bite: Ding’s Garden, a true staple. It has two dishes that are guaranteed to satisfy your dumpling cravings.
The first is the Shanghai-style Pan Fried Dumpling. The first bite in this spherical dumpling is crucial. Although it has largely to do with the other components below, there’s just something about this first bite that will give you the perfect preview of the entire dumpling. It is both steamed on the top and pan fried on the bottom. In the first bite, you get fluffiness and crunchiness.
The second must-try is the pork xiao long bao. Personally, I like to put one dumpling in my spoon, bite off a tiny hole in the side of the dough, watch a sliver of steam escape the dumpling, and pour a bit of vinegar into the spoon. For this smaller dumpling, the first bite is the entire bite. You get a combination of everything from the one spoon: the warmth, the soup, the dough.
2. Texture
Mr. Dragon Noodle House
Pan fried dumplings are the crowning jewels of this Rosemead gem. The dumplings are served “upside down,” held together with a golden-brown sheet of crispness. This crispiness is largely the reason for my love of Mr. Dragon Noodle’s half-moon bites.
It all melts together in your mouth.
3. Familiarity
Little Pan
With a grand opening last summer, Little Pan is conveniently only minutes away from the university campus. If you can spare a few moments to walk out to Figueroa, you should give Little Pan a try.
Part of why I enjoy its dumplings is because of its familiarity. It reminds me of the soft doughy exterior and tender filling that I love in Ding’s Garden’s dumplings.
It may be situated next to more popular chains, but you can see Little Pan hand-making the dumplings.
4. Exploratory
CHD Mandu
Located in Koreatown, CHD Mandu spins the traditional dumpling Korean cultural twist. You have the option to try pork, galbi, or kimchi dumplings, the latter two of which I have never seen at a dumpling place.
The crown jewels at this location are the kimchi dumplings — they’re buttery, crunchy and spicy. They go perfectly with the banchan, or various Korean side dishes that come with the meal.
You also can’t go wrong trying the restaurant’s tteokbokki. It augments the spicy flavors of the dumplings.
5. Flavor
Ken’s Potstickers
The components of a good dumpling speak to each other. The flavors are in constant conversation with each other. Ken’s pot stickers accomplish exactly that.
I first encountered Ken’s Potstickers in the middle of a parking lot. They — a catering-delivery hybrid — were one of a handful of food vendors that comprised a small, small food market. (Think 626 Night Market, then imagine only two percent of those merchants, during the blazing midday, and no inflatable signs.)
It was there that I ate the most flavorful dumpling in my life.
Taste is subjective. I can’t tell you what their exact recipe is, how many parts green onion they have to soy sauce, but all I know is that it’s all the right things.
Ken’s Potstickers does not have a brick-and-mortar presence yet, but they both cater and deliver batches of frozen dumplings around the San Gabriel Valley.
So the best part is, you can make these at home with your loved ones.
Bonus: all dumplings are made better with H-Mart’s Wei-Chuan Dumpling Sauce!
This story is in Capsule’s Spring 2024 collection.