I spent this past weekend in Pusan, Korea, ostensibly for the purpose of covering the best that Asian cinema has to offer at the 2009 Pusan International Film Festival. I say ostensibly because while there are a number of worthwhile pursuits in life (avid filmgoing among them), I consider them all ostensible when stacked against good food. Food in Pusan was definitely good, though it may very well have been great if I spoke even basic Korean and could communicate anything beyond kimchi pancakes, bulgogi BBQ, chicken galbi, or kimchi tofu soup (alas, all the basic, boring – but good! – staples).

In fact, probably the only food I tried that I could confidently say was less than good was the Korean equivalent of Chinese soup dumplings, otherwise known as xiaolongbao – or, if we’re getting really cutesy-smart-alecky here, XLB. Soggy all over, crunchy in some bewildering places, and the filling tasted like lunchables meat.

Sorry to bury the lede, folks, but this post is dedicated to all the xialongbao lovers out there – a defiant, decisive lot and not a one of you willing to settle for anything short of pure soup dumpling heaven… which begs the question: What exactly is a perfect XLB? And can one even find it in Shanghai, the self-proclaimed soup dumpling mecca of the world?

Let’s start by tackling the more difficult question. Unlike its cousin, jiaozi, XLB is a harder beast to tame. Its folds are more tightly, angrily wound, the filling a bit of a shot in the dark given the patchwork-like consistency of meat in China. The dumpling’s skin ranges from lumpy to firm, from gooey to doughy, but only one of these qualities passes muster: Without exception, the standout XLB has skin that can best be described as firm, yet supple. It should yield to a bite that’s at once decisive and tender; one-bite-fits-all practitioners and around-the-edge nibblers need not apply.

Then, there’s the soup, which, if we’re really being honest, is actually pork fat juice. Sure, not exactly something you wanna be chugging on a hot summer day, but without it, you might as well stick to steamed veggie baozi. Here, soup-to-filling ratio is your first, your last, your everything. The liquid should fill your mouth with its warm, soothing, slightly intense coating, but if it’s surging toward the back of your throat like a wrathful tidal wave, then either the dumpling or your technique needs major improvement.

XLB fiends know all of the above like an instinct, but if knowing is half the battle, the other half is figuring out which bunker to hunker down in. Ask the Shanghainese – or anyone else, for that matter – where the best XLB are in town, and you’ll get a wide range of authoritative responses that, if anything, demonstrates the total futility of those who claim to be the ultimate authority on a subject with this much of a sliding scale.

To wit: Nanxiang Xiaolong, a local institution found near the Old City, where all day long, a staggering line of (mostly) tourists hailing from far and wide (mostly Taiwan and Japan) waits to eat overpriced, overhyped, overly thick-skinned (and not in that firm, yet supple way) xiaolongbao. There are tourist traps, and then there’s this place: where long lines and loud, gleeful noises signify nothing.

Jia Jia Tang Bao is another local “treasure,” and while its XLB are nowhere near as egregious as Nanxiang Xiaolong’s in their pricing or their lack of quality, they seem to suffer from a case of too many cooks and spoiled broth. Their pork either tastes slightly gamey or slightly chemically (un)enhanced. Their skin isn’t a failure, but could benefit from dedication to the craft – a luxury that a place with so many frothing mouths for customers simply doesn’t have.

Once upon a time, Fuchun Xiaolong in the French Concession was the cat’s meow. Its dingy, cafeteria-like atmosphere did nothing to spoil the wonderfully modulated textures found in its XLB, which were nothing fussy and all the better for it. The price was right, too: 50 cents for eight dumplings, whereas Ding Tai Fung, the Taiwanese XLB specialty spot-turned-international franchise, charges close to a whopping seven dollars for the same amount! Notice that I’m keeping mum about Din Tai Fung’s merits, partly because its reputation needs no further burnishing and partly because – all things considered – Din Tai Fung simply doesn’t deserve the five star pedigree it’s mysteriously garnered over the years. But I digress. Return visits to Fuchun have yielded diminishing returns, revealing a sickly-sweet aftertaste reminiscent of the canned, sauce-happy quality that seems to plague much of local Shanghainese cooking. Now, the only thing consistent about Fuchun’s XLB is their inconsistency.

Of course, all hope is not lost. Not when you have a place – simply called Nanjing Xiaolongbao – that offers none of the frills of a Din Tai Fung-style restaurant, but more than enough perks to make up for it: service with a smile, steamers upon steamers of XLB delivered to your table nearly instantaneously (and if you ask nicely enough, accompanied with freshly diced ginger), and even the occasional belly rub from an owner who refreshingly believes in a more, uh, hands-on approach. But, about those XLB: superbly knotted folds that leave no wrinkle of the dumpling flesh unexplored? Check. Filling that tastes uncorrupted and unbeholden to China’s assembly-line meat factories? Check. A soup that won’t scald and a skin that won’t break, steadily bending to the contours of your mouth, so that each bite courses through your body in shockwaves of pleasure? Checkmate.

Are they perfect? I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure. Great XLB, even pretty good XLB, defy the most articulate palate in favor of a more carnal embrace. They’re gorgeous and heartbreaking to look at, but a lascivious nibble here, a careful bite there, and the whole package comes apart. The instant gratification that presents itself with each dumpling successfully downed is too self-evident for me to aspire to loftier heights. So I crush away, pausing only to dab a little vinegar, to stuff each crevice with bits of ginger as each bite melds together, an experience that becomes increasingly fraught with the primal instinct to smother that which I love. Forgive me for not crowning perfection in the form of a soup dumpling – even if it’s the best you’ll find in Shanghai.

Now, If you’ll excuse me, I have some xiaolongbao to devour.

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This entry was posted on Thursday, October 15th, 2009 at 11:26 am and is filed under Shanghai.