![]() This Chinatown hole-in-the-wall with a vaguely beach-hut aesthetic serves made-to-order dim sum such as taro root dumplings and steamed lotus-paste buns. This staple-steamed wonton wrappers stuffed with ground pork and shrimp, here topped with bits of dyed-red egg “crêpe”-is China Pearl’s best dim sum seller.Įditor’s note: Bubor Cha Cha closed in November 2019. They’re first fried, then poached and marinated, and finally steamed before serving.Īn accessible entry point for the dim sum novice, this is essentially Chinese calamari: lightly seasoned squid deep-fried in cornstarch and then stir-fried in a wok. More-adventurous eaters appreciate chicken feet, which are time-consuming to make. Here it contains pork, shrimp, cilantro, and carrot. The name nods not to the ocean predator but rather the pinched look of the thin, pastry-like white wonton wrapper. There’s a savory appeal to these quintessential Cantonese buns-baked golden or steamed-with honey-barbecue pork spare ribs inside. The flower root is stuffed with sticky rice, candied, and topped with strawberry sauce. This is the only place in Boston you’ll find this dish, inspired by a Hangzhou chef. They’re nicknamed “Golden River” bao for the stream of salted egg yolk inside. We’ll do it again.A newish spin on steamed buns, these savory-sweet treats are sometimes decorated like cute animals for celebrations. It was a little glimmer of aspiring normalcy. But the things that mattered - the food, the friends, the notion of some kind of autonomy over our lives - outweighed the weirdness. ![]() Was eating dim sum outside a bit like swimming on dry land? Yes, sort of. The initial awkwardness wore off as we tasted those familiar dishes - the shrimp noodles splashed in sweetish soy, the crunchy chive dumplings with crispy little corners. We were operating gingerly, like new humans who’d just been issued a “how to be a person in a park during a pandemic, but with dumplings” handbook.īut we were also hungry, and so glad to be together. ![]() Normally, we’d dig in like Vikings, chopsticks poised above the communal plates. We took turns approaching each container, careful not to cross-contaminate. It is not easy to navigate dim sum while six feet apart. The dumplings are us we are the dumplings. Normally, platters of dim sum are displayed on enormous carts like jewels in their confined vestibules, they looked like angry pets. Is takeout dim sum a contradiction in terms? An insult? A false promise? We reached into a plastic bag and pulled out little Styrofoam containers, each holding a wee portion of dumplings, shrimp noodles, fried sesame balls, spring rolls. We knew without knowing that life was about to change and that our time there was limited. Usually, dim sum confers a feeling of suspended time and recklessness once you settle into a round table and start pointing, well, you know you’re going to be there for a while. Back then, there was a vague sense of unease: Is everything about to change? Is it safe to be out in public? We dug in with tentative resignation: This might be our last hurrah for a long while. ![]() This was right before COVID-19 upended our lives. This was the scene in late February at Winsor Dim Sum House in Quincy, a lifetime ago now, where I inhaled dumplings with two dear friends. Snap apart those chopsticks you’ve arrived. Then - plonk! Almost immediately, a treasure lands on your plate whether you’ve asked for it or not. The feeling of smug triumph when your number is called, and you’re ushered past other mere mortals still vying for a taste. Even the RMV-like lines as you wait to be summoned inside, a mixture of hangry urgency and dutiful patience. ![]() Instant gratification when a heaping portion lands on your plate. The anticipation as a cart cruises past your table - an array of shimmering delights -and you flag down its steerer to select your bounty. The circular tables that heighten the communal spirit among strangers, united by similar timing and the luck of a few empty seats. As far as immersive restaurant experiences go, nothing beats dim sum for pure hedonistic overload. ![]()
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