This journey into the world of dumplings has been long in the coming. Like an amateur anthropologist or a social theorist, I have been exploring common threads across different cultural traits and ways of producing and consuming the world. In this particular instance, consumption is directly connected to our digestive potential. I may have chosen a long-winded way of announcing the reason for this encounter, dear readers, but I hope you end up excusing me for it, especially after digesting what I have been cooking for you.
My wondrous relationship with dumplings – especially manti, a delicacy from Turkish and Central Asian cuisine – started very early. I recall mum making the dough into a thin sheet and cutting it into small squares (we could call that my first experience of grids, which later on became an important part of structuring my understanding of the world, and acquiring a degree in mathematics – but we won’t go into analysing me here), then populating the squares with pieces of seasoned ground beef, which are then folded into small pockets. If we were to estimate, a thin sheet of dough would generate approximately 124 to 172 mini dumplings (insane!).
So, imagine a small square of dough, in its centre a tiny blob of meat (pre-mixed with spices and herbs, preferably parsley). Now, bring all four corners together, first by joining two opposite corners and then the remaining corners. Ensure you don’t entangle a finger – which happens to children or people with fat fingers. The result should look like a bundle of clothes that is likely to be carried by an approximately seven-centimetre-tall cartoon character. OK, I’m hijacking your imaginative powers here! Back to our choreography of folding hundreds and hundreds of small packages. As children growing up in that traditional setting of women-take-on-the-cooking-dues, my sister and I were encouraged and expected to support mum in her epic endeavour of folding an estimated 500 packages per sitting – all nicely oven-fired for about thirty minutes, in batches. This would be enough for two to three meals maximum, due to all the guests who would visit especially to consume manti together.
If you are thinking, ‘Brilliant, now we can eat,’ I am afraid we are not there yet, not even close. The mountain of packages is now neatly placed on trays without touching each other, like a big crowd standing on a giant square keeping a distance of two centimetres from anyone at any given time – already an erotic experience on its own. Precision and attention to detail are two other characteristic features of mine, but I don’t think we could base this all on my manti-making early childhood experiences. Life is more complex than that. After multiple trays have been in and out of the oven, the packages are left to reside in peace and cool down for at least an hour – when they are thrown into boiling water, where they puff and poff to achieve their soft swollen state, as the juices of the meat and the forces of the spices engage in a pas de deux with the rising temperature. The boiling liquid, initially clear, turns slowly calcitic as the packages grow in size – no longer able to be carried by that cartoon character, at least not on their own. Meanwhile, yoghurt sauce is prepared with diced garlic and water, and butter melted on a pan with red chilli flakes.
We are close, dear readers, almost at the culmination of all the laborious investment – a labour of love – towards a mouth-watering encounter. All the components are now ready to be served. First fill a deep dish with two scoops of tiny packages – which I will refer to as dumplings from now on – along with some of the broth, then top with the yoghurt sauce, with melted butter drizzled over. The yoghurt sauce starts dissolving into the broth while the melted butter creates pools on the surface. Here, the choreography of dressing your meal with drizzled chilli butter can be very creative and open to interpretation. You could, if you wanted, evoke the Janet Sobel or Jackson Pollock in you.
And now here we are, after nearly 700 words, tête-à-tête with manti, steaming before your eyes, ready for your spoon to be dipped in. That first bite is a climatic moment (which I would argue is true for any food). And any good chef knows the magic hidden in the second bite. Without the enchanting and titillating experience of the second bite, no meal experience lasts longer than the initial moment. For something to resonate there needs to be a pull and push after the initial surprise encounter, and I guess that is valid for more exchanges in life than a digestive engagement … Now, grab your spoon and submerge it in the dish and, akin to operating a crane, collect as much as your stomach desires to gulp in one go. It tastes so good, doesn’t it? Those five hours of heavy labour were worth it. Ah, and I do hear you, the smaller the dumplings are, the more enjoyable it becomes to gulp in groups of five or seven in one go. I’m not hungry at this hour of the day, but writing these lines has upped my appetite. And the good news is that we won’t be talking and thinking about just manti throughout this essay – it will be a spin around the world.
The premise and the promise of this essay are to bring the eroticism of dumplings to the surface. Their round, chunky shapes are not directly attractive, let alone erotic, but bear with me, dear reader: you shall be granted an exhilarating awakening of sorts. Think of the Cornish pasty – which is almost one and half times bigger in Cornwall than in other parts of the UK – or imagine Argentinian empanadas and Japanese gyoza. They all share the same principle of fillings of meat and vegetables chopped into a mix, with a dough coat wrapped around the filling. Before we start our journey, let’s look at these three examples from an ‘eatsthetic’ perspective. You may ask, ‘Where is the erotic appeal in all that?’ Following your logic, a potato is much more erotic, especially when you make vodka out of it. Who says potatoes are not used in the making of dumplings? In the southern archipelago of Chile, namely Chiloé, potatoes are native, which lend themselves to being the main dough ingredient for a variety of dumplings such as flat and boiled chapaleles and milcaos, as well as rolled and roasted chuchoca (even though phonetically and shape-wise they recall Spanish churros served with melted chocolate dip). And Cornish pasties are traditionally filled with potato – together with swede, onion and beef. We may debate if dumplings require fillings or flavouring with spices and dried fruits. German, Czech and Central Asian cuisines feature small boiled, leavened and unleavened dough lumps, served alongside stew, soups and roasts. And indeed they can be savoury or sweet, or both – Norwegians serve their meat dumplings with butter and lingonberry jam.
The word ‘dumpling’ originates from the state of a dough referred to as a dump. A very evocative word, not only phonetically but also visually – triggering thoughts of a lumpy entity at the mercy of gravitational forces it cannot resist and so must fall. In the case of a loved one, it may mean failure, that the once beloved partner is no longer desired, and hence can be referred to as a dumpling: dump(ed) darling = dump+ling. In our case, we won’t dive into unchartered territories of romance but contemplate the mysterious object of desire for all humans’ collective consciousness: the edible dumpling.
The term emerged in English in the early 17th century, referring to a small lump of dough cooked by steaming or simmering; however, traditions of dumpling-making date back almost 2,000 years. Chinese jiaozi, filled with minced meat and finely chopped vegetables and wrapped in a dough envelope, served alongside a dipping sauce made of vinegar, chilli oil and soy sauce, date back to the Eastern Han dynasty (25–220 CE). One narrative argues that Zhang Zhangying, a medical practitioner, came up with these dumplings to save those stricken by poverty and cold from frostbite and hunger by mixing specific herbs to aid the circulation of blood and provide nutrition. It is plausible that these dumplings were shaped into the form of a human ear – do I need to mention the erogeneity of the auricles, especially when nibbled on as well as whispered into? Another source suggests that the earliest jiaozi was found in Astana Cemetery in China, dating to between 499 and 640 CE. Hence we are addressing a tradition of nurture for over two millennia, and through time dumplings have become comfort, party and fast food that can be found in kiosks as a medicinal remedy and spiritual elevation when consumed on special days and in festivals, or eaten as everyday sustenance. The ritualistic consumption of anything, let alone dumplings, is enough to elevate its status of desirability. Marking a moment is a bold intervention that catalyses anticipation let alone wanting.
A nuance that transforms dumplings into mysterious entities is that they hold the key to the deepest, darkest desires of the culture they are made in. They take distinct names, are made of a variety of ingredients, and are treated differently. As social codes, they unearth migratory and colonial movements. The names of Central Asian and Southeastern European dumplings use different alphabets but share a phonetic root, while Portuguese and Spanish influence in South America is evident in their respective dumpling traditions and fusion with local ingredients.
Across the globe, dumplings are flour-based; however, the source of the flour (wheat, corn, rice, potatoes, and even tubers such as yuca and malanga) correlates with the main agricultural crops in a region and their accessibility. I do wonder if there is any other food tradition that is so expansive. They can be fried, boiled, steamed, simmered, roasted, and deep-fried after being boiled. The multifarious ways of preparing dumplings are evocative of the role that rituals play in building anticipation and desire. As the arduous process progresses, so the pleasure grows. They are mostly served with a dipping sauce or accompanied by dairy products from cheese to sour cream and yoghurt. They are either round lumps or shaped into the form of a package with a filling, and at times appear ear-shaped (Romanian urechiuse, Polish uszka, Ukrainian vushka, Belarusian vushki, Russian pelmeni, Chinese jiaozi, Italian tortellini and Jewish kreplach).
According to national and regional gastroin-testinal and gastro-orgasmic tendencies, dumplings are dry on the outside yet juicy on the inside (Cornish pasty), thin and elastic (Chinese jiaozi), thin and crispy (Japanese gyoza), elongated (Haitian doumbrey and Chilean pantrucas), juicy on the inside and soft on the outside (Russian pelmeni), wet and soupy on the inside and moist on the outside (Chinese tangbao), and crispy on the outside and moist on the inside (Peruvian papas rellenas) or have a slightly wet, tender consistency (Puerto Rican pasteles). The outer layer of a dumpling appears in off white, cream or light brown, and the contrast between the inside filling and the outside makes this a desirable characteristic. In correlation to the collective local or national desire as well as touristic projections, dumplings might have stronger or weaker contrast between the inside and the outside. Dumplings may partially reveal or entirely hide the filling, which will also allow the flavours to unfold quickly or more slowly. This threshold between knowing and not knowing is what Slavoj Žižek refers to as Platonian agalma, the state in which a pleasing gift gets endowed with magical powers beyond its apparent superficial value, in his analysis of the Kinder egg – an edible hollow candy for children with a surprise toy hidden in the centre, covered by layers of white and milk chocolate and wrapped in branded aluminium foil. According to Žižek, a Kinder egg is more than just a commodity. The surprise introduces a delicate balance between what is bought and what you receive for free – the hidden toy. In the case of dumplings, the dough covers, disguises and contrasts with the filling – which introduces intrigue and curiosity. For any exhilarating experience, psychologists would also argue that anticipation is key. Instead of an immediate reveal, there is a series of steps. There is the time- and labour-intensive preparation of the dough and the fillings into small forms, followed by cooking, which provides a blend of mouth-watering smells and catalyses the fantasy of that first bite, followed by many more bites until your stomach revolts. One aspect of dumplings is that you can never have only one. Reenactments of that first bite are necessary until your senses are fully sated.
Žižek argues that the higher goal is to enjoy the surface of an object. In the case of a dumpling, I would argue that its surface projects an iconic image – something beautiful, something to be treasured. It takes you on a deeper voyage, connecting you with Proustian personal time. I believe the desirable objectness of dumplings has been disguised for centuries due to the eroticism experienced being personal and inexplicable, but is yet so common that it lacks a sense of uniqueness to hold the leash of the erotic.
I hereby invite you to your deep voyage into the erotic core of dumplings, to discover the agalma in Lacanian terms. When you next consume one, please slow the process of eating it and think of all the emotional and laborious investment that wrapped its dough around that juicy or dry filling. Can you mark what it makes you feel? Moreover, can you trace the deep tones of desire emanating from a certain geography? Where does yours reside?