Cantonese Shumai with Pork and Shrimp (烧麦, Shao Mai)
When I want dim sum at home, I make these Cantonese shumai with a juicy pork and shrimp filling, thin yellow wrappers, and a simple steaming method that takes just minutes. The wrapping is so flexible and easy to work with, which makes them one of the best dishes to recreate in your own kitchen.
Derek Lee shivered as he walked down Jackson Street, hands in his pockets. The brisk, cool weather of San Francisco was something he would need to get used to. While his family was practically roasting in Tempe, the fog blanketing the city had barely burned off by lunchtime, and was already rolling in early for the evening.
Derek had restaurant recommendations from the locals in his dorm, but he liked to explore. He definitely wasn't interested in tourist traps, or "re-imagined" bistros attached to celebrity chefs, anointed with Michelin stars. Chinatown was a living, breathing piece of immigrant history in America, and once you got past the overpriced and gaudy facade, there was something ironically genuine about it.
His favorite part so far had been the alleys. Tucked in between tenement apartments with iron bars and fire escapes were narrow passages full of signs marking benevolent societies, stairwells leading to basement businesses, and the clacking of mahjong tiles reverberating off the brick. Derek felt like he had stepped off the bustling streets and into the pages of a Dashiell Hammett novel.
Most of the signs in Chinatown were bilingual, but there was one, above a descending stairwell, that caught Derek's eye. The sign looked especially old and out of place, with gold lettering on a faded red. He pulled out his phone and used the Translate app. The hanzi read '饺子', or 'Dumplings.'
It was almost 3. He could go for something to eat.
Derek descended the stairs and opened a wooden door. It was dark inside, but he could make out the glow of a light.
The first thing he noticed was the space was much bigger than he had thought from outside. It appeared to be an old dance hall or banquet room. Round tables with white tablecloths flanked a parquet dance floor. There was a small kitchen where the sounds of Cantopop music and flourescent lights cast a cool, greenish tint on the rest of the room.
"Hello?" Derek called out. "Are you open?"
A middle-aged Chinese woman emerged from the kitchen. Her salt-and-pepper hair was worn up haphazardly in a bun, and a dingy apron covered her house clothes. She looked confused, and addressed Derek loudly in annoyed Cantonese.
"Is this a restaurant?" Derek asked, speaking clearly. "The sign says 'Dumplings'?"
"English?" the woman asked, pointing at Derek. "No Chinese?"
"Oh. I'm Chinese, but I only speak English," Derek admitted. "American born."
This drew a vigorous nod from the woman. Derek thought she was probably very attractive in her day. "We open later. You by yourself?"
Derek smiled cordially. "Yes, I'm new here. College. First time in San Francisco."
"Ahhhh! Welcome." The woman's grin was slightly unsettling. "I make you something. Off menu. You OK wait?"
"Wow. That's great. Yes, please."
The woman motioned to the closest table and pulled out a chair, dusting offer seat with her hand. "OK. I bring tea?"
Derek nodded and sat in the empty chair. The woman came back quickly with a teapot, a glass, and an incense stick and holder. She lit the incense and placed it on the table, and poured some water into the glass on top of what looked like a little green pod.
The woman pointed to the glass. "Chrysanthemum," she said. "Flower bloom, very pretty," she smiled, as she made a motion with her hands. Then she shuffled off back to the kitchen.
Derek watched the flower in the glass slowly open up from the pod. After about a minute, it had expanded into a bright yellow blossom, and the water had taken on the same hue. The tea had a delicate, slightly sweet flavor, unlike the green or jasmine tea Derek typically had in Chinese restaurants.
As he sipped the tea, he had to admit he was impressed with the presentation. A trail of smoke rose from the incense, and Derek wafted it towards him. It was certainly a strange odor. There was an acrid sweetness to it he couldn't quite place. There was an earthy, woody smell and some citrus notes, a common scent to half the herbalists on Grant Street. But that sweet smell was very unusual, and Derek smelled it again, trying to place it.
Feeling relaxed, Derek looked around the dark room. It had a slight musty odor from the poor underground ventilation. The decor was like what you might find in Chinese restaurants across the country, but in a more reserved, less kitschy manner. On the walls were vintage photographs of pretty young Chinese women in cheongsam dresses, their short hair curled at the ends.
Derek imagined laborers getting off their factory shifts, tired and maligned, but cleaning up nicely and coming to this place to cut loose and dance with pretty girls. He gazed dreamily at one photo in particular. She seemed to be calling to him, his thoughts drifting off to a bygone era.
Derek blinked. Must be tired, he thought hazily. Zoned out a little. He sipped more tea. It tasted different. A little stronger. More bitter. More… floral. Like drinking perfume. Thicker, even. More tea at his parted lips. Swallow. Again and again, until it was gone. Eyes heavy and unfocused. He felt sweaty. Breaths shallow. Smoke, curling into his nostrils. The burnt sugary odor, swirling. In his brain.
Fresh air, yeah. Derek tried to stand on wobbly legs. Like that baby cartoon deer, they buckled, and he hit the wooden floor with a thud.
His eyes fluttered. The woman from before was helping him up on his feet. He tried to stand. Fuck, he felt so hot. She pulled his t-shirt off his clammy back. Laid him down on the table. She left him there, as he curled into a fetal position on his side. Pupils blown wide, he stared into the darkness, drooling.
By the time it registered that she was removing his clothes, his pants were off, boxers going with them. He was naked but indifferent. He just wanted to sleep.
The woman spoke, her voice soothing and melodic. Had Derek been more lucid, he would have noticed her posture was now upright; her demeanor more authoritative. But first, he'd notice she'd dropped the broken English. "Perfect. The raw ingredients are ready, now the real work begins."
She reached into a steel mixing bowl, coating her hands with an amber liquid which she spread on Derek's body, starting with his chest. "This is the binder," she cooed. "Very important. You must be properly seasoned, yes." The liquid, thinner than honey but thicker than cooking oil, had an intoxicating scent. Flowers, peonies possibly. Ginger. Something spicy, like pepper. Star anise. Sesame. It went on cool, then it tingled, before quickly adding to the warmth inside. Especially as the woman began to massage and knead his flesh.
"However," she continued, working the oil into his thighs, "it cannot just be coated. The filling has to be molded. It has to be worked in." As she rubbed his muscles, they became loose. Supple. She gave a small chuckle. "Ah, yes. Softening up the meat. Breaking it down. Otherwise it will be tough." Sliding her hand along the length of his leg, she collected the loose body hair the depilatory salve had removed onto a towel. Satisfied, she gave his skin a playful slap.
Derek moaned softly as she worked the oil into his soft cock and balls, rolling him on his side, coating his ass, and sliding her slippery fingers around and into his hole. He felt the heat building, relaxing him, teasing him. Then he felt something unusual. Arousal, but unlike what he had experienced before. It originated deeper in his core, away from his penis. An inner hunger. He clenched around her finger as she slid out of him, trailing along his sensitive perineum and grazing his sack.
"Ah, there. It's starting. You feel it, don't you? The ingredients coming together, the flavors combining. The moment mere food becomes a meal." Her voice was like her touch, light and delicate, but firm where it needed to be. "Now the filling is ready, the binding has taken hold. Without the binding, you would fall apart before you could be devoured, and no one wants that to happen."
Derek said nothing in response. Completely overwhelmed, he merely sighed in contentment. The taste of the tea on his tongue, the dizzying smoke and aromatic fragrance in his nostrils, the soothing balm reshaping his body, and the woman's soothing words all wrestled for attention in his dulled mind.
"Now it is time for the wrapping. Otherwise, the filling is just a lump. The wrapping shapes the filling, makes it beautiful. Edible art." The woman pulled an end of the tablecloth over Derek's bare front, tucking it tightly under his left arm. It's unlikely Derek would have noticed the table was not lined with a thick linen tablecloth, but several layers of thinner cloth, smooth and delicate, nearly translucent. The woman moved with speed and grace, enveloping Derek tautly inside the sheet like a cocoon. The white fabric clung tightly to his oiled form, and with her prodding and adjusting, it began to take shape - slightly androgynous, slender, soft curves forming, with a muted bulge.
The woman stood back, assessing her work. "Lovely," she said with confidence. "Now I steam it gently. Keep the outer skin smooth and soft, while the filling becomes juicy and succulent." Using large tongs, the woman took the lid off an ice chest and laid large steaming hot towels over the encased young student. Inside the safe and cradling fabric, they felt the suffocating weight and sultry warmth permeating their skin. The moist heat seemed to further activate the ingested and topical agents, intensifying the sensations. It felt like all of what they once were was oozing from their pores, and being replaced by what they were becoming. "That's it, the imperfections are cooking off.
"Almost ready, my little dumpling. My little siu mai."
-----
District Attorney Ron Mitchell finished the last of his whiskey, placing the empty glass on a tray. He looked around the room, shaking his head. Normally, he would like to put half these people in jail. However, since the mayor, half the Board of Supervisors, those venture capital guys, the CEO of Panacea Tech, and last year's Best Actress winner were all here, looking the other way was part of the game.
This place really did clean up well, he supposed. Over the murmurs of hushed conversations, and through the haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke, he admired the ornate Oriental fixtures, installed a century ago when this was the most notorious brothel in Chinatown. Bright red lanterns provided ambient charm, and the crystal chandelier over the dance floor was a nice touch.
Mitchell spotted Madame Chen, the organizer, talking to the head waiter, and made his approach. An elaborately embroidered gold dragon adorned the right flank of her stunning red cheongsam dress. Her hair was styled up, and a 24-karat gold braid draped her neck with jade earrings dangling from her lobes. Though she was probably his age, she had a youthful complexion and a classical beauty about her as timeless as this old dance hall. Still, Mitchell was familiar with her skills. Which meant treating her with caution.
"Madame," Mitchell offered.
"Mr. Mitchell," Madame Chen smiled wanly. Her voice had a soporific cadence to it that made him a little uneasy. "A pleasure, as always. Will you be placing a bid tonight?"
Mitchell shook his head. "No, too rich for my blood. Was a surprise to get an invite on such short notice, but this is an impressive turnout."
Madame Chen flashed a calculating smile. "Well, my dumplings are best served fresh, for their peak enjoyment." She motioned to the dance floor. "It's time, please."
The lights in the room dimmed and a spotlight shone on the dance floor. The scratch of a dropped record needle filled the hushed room, followed by the old Shanghai Jazz melange of brass horns and a woman singing in Cantonese.
A female figure stepped out from a curtain into the spotlight. Her dazzling red silk cheongsam clung tightly to her lithe figure, as she strode forth in matching heeled pumps. She began to sway and dance with the music, gracefully lost in the rhythm, her arms extended like a ballerina. Her dark hair stayed tightly in a bun, her painted crimson lips parted, and her eyes closed as she occupied the attention of everyone in the room. A delicate flower blossoming. A piece of art imbued with life.
The song ended, and the woman bowed slightly. And finally, she opened her chestnut eyes and smiled demurely.
"Let's hear it for Siu Mai!" a voice bellowed from the speakers. "Who would like to bid on this young virginal morsel? The bidding begins at one-quarter-of-a-million dollars."
As men and women alike began to hold up numbered paddles, Mitchell leaned over and, in hushed tones, said to Madame Chen, "Congratulations, Madame. You've outdone yourself once again." His brow furrowed slightly. "Why do you call them dumplings, anyway?"
Madame Chen pursed her lips, her eyes glinting with malice that turned Mitchell's blood cold. "Because dumplings are beautiful, delicate, and finely crafted," she said, "and because dumplings are made to be stuffed with meat."
