Asian

Most people think of wontons as being fried and in soup broth, but they may also be served like Italian ravioli in a light coating of splendid sauce. Here, the sauce is nutty, spicy chile oil punctuated with fresh garlic and soy sauce. Feel free to dial the heat up or down by varying the amount of chile oil. The full amount is definitely not for the faint of heart. If you have semi refined, cold-pressed peanut oil on hand (the kind employed for making the chile oil on page 216), use it instead of the canola oil for an extra roasty dimension. These wontons make a terrific snack or an elegant, eye-opening starter. If you can, substitute the greens below with 1/4 cup thawed and well-squeezed shepherd’s purse, a mild vegetable that’s sold frozen at Chinese-American markets.

I’ve met few people who dislike fried wontons. They are irresistible: they fry up to a wonderful light crispness, staying true to their Cantonese name, which literally means “swallowing clouds.” Wrapping the filling in a thin skin is the secret to generating such an ethereal quality. Most commercial wonton skins are, sadly, on the thick side and turn a bit chewy after frying. For better results, look for Hong Kong–style thin wonton skins at an Asian market or, better yet, make your own at home. Fried wontons are most often enjoyed dipped in sweet and sour sauce, but they can also be served in a bowl covered by hot broth; the skins turn chewy and contribute a delightful richness to the soup.

One of my favorite sources for fresh wonton skins is a market-cum-noodle shop in Oakland’s Chinatown called Hop Yuen. A three-hour round-trip excursion to this shop is worth it to me because I can get pliant, thin skins that are made without coloring or other additives. Those are the benchmark for these homemade ones, which are just as nice, and they come together handily with just a few ingredients and a low-tech, hand-cranked pasta machine. The Chinese term for these wrappers is pí, which literally means skin, and they function as a light, supple casing that protects and contributes texture to a dumpling. You may have a source for excellent Chinese skins, but do try making them yourself. You can control the thickness and cut them to whatever size you like, and it is a fun project. The dough can be made in a food processor or by hand, and a pasta machine makes rolling out the dough an easy and quick job. Moderate-gluten flour, such as Gold Medal all-purpose, produces terrific results that are neither overly chewy nor too soft.

Nepalese cooking combines Indian and Tibetan cuisines, and these classic dumplings illuminate that wonderful marriage. In this filling, Indian garam masala is combined with Sichuan peppercorn, an important spice in Nepal and Tibet. Nepalese momos often feature water buffalo, but lamb pairs exceptionally well with the aromatics. You can opt to substitute ground beef, pork, or dark-meat chicken or turkey. Regardless of the meat, these dumplings are like their Tibetan brethren (page 57), full of flavor and delectable juices. If there are left overs, panfry or deep-fry them the next day. Note that these dumplings are eaten with fork and spoon. Chopsticks are the standard and prevailing utensils in only four Asian nations—China, Japan, Korea, and Vietnam.

Practically the national food of Tibet, these hearty steamed dumplings are full of fragrant ginger, garlic, and Sichuan peppercorn. Momos are festive foods which are often prepared as a group activity for parties and special celebrations, particularly Losar, the Tibetan New Year. To minimize the karmic damage of eating meat, Tibetans favor larger animals for food, since one can feed many people. Naturally juicy and rich-tasting yak meat is typically hand-chopped for sha momo, but ground beef, particularly chuck, works well. Fatty ground pork or lamb, or dark meat chicken are excellent too. If you have time, hand-chop or grind the meat (instructions are on page 158) yourself for a nice toothsome bite. Adding oil and water enriches and hydrates the filling, making it extra succulent.

These delicate dumplings bursting with flavor were invented in the late 1800s in Nanxiang village outside Shanghai. Despite their name, they are not served floating in soup. The soup is contained within the thin, chewy-soft wrapper, along with a rich pork mixture. A delectable culinary trick, these “little bamboo steamer buns” (the literal translation of the Chinese name) are the quintessential Shanghai snack served at dumpling restaurants as well as small food joints. To get the soup into the dumplings, broth is gelled, chopped, and then mixed with the meat to produce a firm filling that can be stuffed efficiently into the wrapper. Under steam heat, the broth melts back into soup. Gelatinous pork skin is traditionally simmered for the broth, but many modern cooks employ agar-agar (see Note) or unflavored gelatin to insure proper gelling. For a robust soup, I infuse homemade chicken stock with smoky American country ham, which is often sold in slices at Chinese markets as “Virginia” or “Smithfield” ham; scrape and discard the black pepper coating, if present. Combining bread flour (Gold Medal brand, which has 12 percent protein, is what I use) with all-purpose flour for hot-water dough produces thin and elastic wrappers that don’t break during cooking or when picked up by chopsticks at the table. Fatty ground pork, the less expensive option at a Chinese market, or ground pork belly (cut it up into 1/2-inch cubes before processing), makes the most succulent filling. Prepare and gel the soup the day before to lessen your workload.

Tarkari momo are strikingly similar in concept to Italian ravioli with a ricotta-based filling, but the seasonings in these Nepalese dumplings reveal their Asian roots. Cumin, ginger, and Sichuan peppercorn commingle with chenna, or crumbly curds of Indian cheese (a precursor to paneer). Those ingredients combine with fresh chile, vegetables, and butter to make a wonderful vegetarian dumpling. The eye-poppingly spicy tomato sauce is a fabulous pairing with the delicate, rich filling. The cheese is very easy to prepare, but you can substitute 1/3 pound paneer, crumbling or mincing it before using. For a pretty presentation, consider tinting the wrappers orange or gold by using some carrot juice or turmeric (see page 23).

A traditionally nomadic people with little arable land, Mongolians have a small variety of vegetables and spices to enhance their cuisine and instead enjoy a hearty diet of mostly meat and dairy products. The creative use of a few ingredients is a hallmark of Mongolian cooking, and these very popular deep-fried stuffed pockets prove that less can be more. Cultivated in Mongolia, caraway leaves its warm yet sharp imprint on the filling, which remarkably amplifies the natural sweetness of the wheat wrapper. (If you have whole caraway, lightly toast it, then grind it in a clean coffee grinder.) Fresh mutton or air-dried meat called borts is traditionally featured in the filling, but beef or lamb is a fine substitute. The wrapper fries up to a nubby, chewy-crispness that’s hard to resist. In a pinch, stir together a spicy-sweet sauce of ketchup and Sriracha sauce or Chile Garlic Sauce (page 216), instead of the roasted tomato sauce. This filling can be used for boiled and steamed dumplings, which are called bansh and buuz, respectively.

One of the common ways to enjoy Korean dumplings is in a fragrant beef stock. A hot bowl of mandu guk is extra satisfying on a cold winter’s day. It’s easy to assemble if you’ve got frozen mandu and stock on hand. Any dumpling filling will do, but meat dumplings are generally preferred. For fun, you could mix different kinds or even make them out of different colored doughs (see page 23). The shape of choice for Korean dumpling soup is the big hug, though you can shape your dumplings anyway you’d like. The stock imbues the wrapper with its flavors and also thickens a tiny bit from the starches in the dough. For Korean New Year celebrations, chewy slices of dense rice cakes called duk are added to the stock for bowls of duk mandu guk.

Meat and vegetable dumplings such as these are a standard offering at Korean dumpling and noodle shops. A favorite way to enjoy them is poached in broth for a warming mandu guk soup (page 49), but they are equally fabulous when fried. However, don’t expect the standard Chinese pot sticker. Korean cooks like to panfry at least two sides of their dumplings for a greater amount of crispy-chewy goodness. When made with extra chewy dough comprised of wheat and sweet rice flour, the dumplings are even tastier. Gun mandu may also be quickly deep-fried in 1 1/4 inches of oil heated to 350°F for 2 to 3 minutes total; the resulting pebbled golden skin is a delightful reminder of American frozen egg roll snacks.

Nothing says “Korean dumpling” more than one filled with kimchi, the spicy pickled cabbage that’s essential to the Korean table. Mandu are the Korean version of Chinese jiaozi and Japanese gyōza. The fillings often incorporate firm tofu as a binder and protein substitute—tofu is used in these kimchi mandu. In addition, the ground Korean red chile pepper used for making kimchi turns the filling a pretty orange color, and there’s plenty of garlic pungency to wake up the palate. Though these can be pan fried, deep-fried, and steamed, I love them boiled. The dryish filling gets a boost of succulence from the hot water bath. Purchased or homemade napa cabbage kimchi, especially older (stinkier) kimchi, works extra well. A side of shredded Korean or daikon radish tossed with a little salt and equal parts rice vinegar and sugar is a refreshing accompaniment.

“If I can’t have sushi, I must have gyōza,” says my friend Makiko Tsuzuki, a self-described gyōza otaku (dumpling fanatic). The Japanese love pot stickers, ordering them at ramen noodle shops, patronizing gyōza restaurants, and visiting the Gyōza Stadium food theme park in Tokyo. They consider the dumplings essential to their cuisine, despite the fact that gyōza were popularized only after World War II, when Japanese soldiers returning from China brought back their taste and knack for making Chinese dumplings. Gyōza is the Japanese pronunciation of jiaozi. Like their Chinese parent, gyōza can be boiled, steamed, fried, or served in soup (see Variation). Pan frying is the most popular cooking method, which is why gyōza are commonly known as pot stickers. The filling strays from Chinese tradition by including a kick of garlic, a touch of sugar, a dose of black pepper, and a smidgen of sake. Sesame oil has a lesser role in the filling but a bigger role in pan frying the dumplings. Sesame oil has the same smoking point as butter and thus cooking with it is fine.Gyōza may be dipped in vinegary soy dipping sauce or biting hot mustard.

If your preference is for seafood, substitute this fish filling for the ones given for boiled Pork and Napa Cabbage Water Dumplings (page 31), the pan fried Meat and Chinese Chive Pot Stickers (page 33), or the Steamed Vegetable Dumplings (page 35). Regardless of cooking method, you’ll produce dumplings filled with the elements of classic Chinese steamed fish. For the best results, select the freshest fish possible—it should have a bit of sheen and be devoid of any off odors. Because this dough filling is light in color, I often encase it in jade green dough made with spinach for a pretty presentation (see page 23).

Whereas boiled dumplings have crinkly skins that are tender from having been immersed in hot water, and panfried dumplings have skins that are a combination of crisp bottom and chewy top, steamed dumplings are texturally in between—the skins are slightly chewy and soft. Gentle steam heat also protects the filling flavor and you taste it more, a bonus for delicate combination such as this one. Unlike many other Chinese dumpling fillings, this vegetarian filling is cooked first to allow the cornstarch to work its cohesive magic, binding the vegetables and pressed tofu together so that they are easier to control when you are assembling the dumplings. I like to use some of the liquid from soaking the mushrooms to season the filling with an earthy savor; if you do too, remember to strain the heady liquid through cheesecloth or paper towel to remove any bits of grit. For details on brown, meatlike pressed tofu, see page 17.

I first tasted pot stickers in the late 1980s at the tiny Mandarin Deli in Los Angeles’s Chinatown. Behind the glass window, a dumpling maker steadily worked, rolling out thin wrappers, filling them, and creating large pea pod–shaped dumplings. I watched intently, distracted only when my fragrant pot stickers arrived. The hearty dumplings were so hot that I burned my mouth, but they were well worth the minor injury. Pot stickers supposedly started out as boiled dumplings that a chef forgot about in the wok (guō) and they stuck (tiē) after the water had cooked away. His guests loved the contrasts between succulent filling, tender-chewy skin, and crusty bottom, and thus the pot sticker was born. The modern way to mimic the chef ’s delicious accident is to cook pot stickers in a skillet with water and oil, which steams the dumplings and fries their bottoms to a golden, toasty finish. They are technically called jiānjiao in Chinese, which means shallow-fried dumplings; but in the West, we commonly know them as pot stickers and pan fried dumplings. “Fried” dumplings can be pan fried or deep-fried.

This dough is the foundation of many excellent dumplings, including Chinese jiâozi, Korean mandu, and Nepali momo. The process of making the dough is easy to master, especially with a little help from modern tools such as a food processor (though you can mix the dough by hand). Asian wheat flour wrappers may be made with cold or hot water—the temperature is traditionally dictated by the cooking method. Boiled dumplings are said to require thicker skins made from cold-water dough in order to withstand the pressures of boiling, whereas pan fried and steamed dumplings require thinner skins made from hot-water dough for their gentler cooking processes. Over the years, I’ve found that homemade wrappers of medium thickness, a scant 1/8 inch thick in the center and about 1/16 inch thick at the rim, work well for all cooking methods. If dumplings are gently boiled as described for shuijiao on page 31, there is no need for thicker rappers. Producing medium-thick wrappers is easier with hot-water dough as it is more yielding than its cold-water counterpart. The resulting wrappers taste superior to store-bought ones, and they need no water to seal. Grocery store all-purpose flour with a moderate amount of gluten, such as Gold Medal brand, works exceptionally well.

Bursting with flavor, these northern Chinese dumplings are a specialty of Beijing. Dating as far back as the late Han Dynasty (25 to 220 c.e.), plump boiled morsels such as these are members of the jiaozi family of dumplings, which include pan fried guōtiē (page 33) and steamed zhēngjiao (page 35). Jiaozi are not just for a modest snack or meal, they are a must-have for northern Chinese Lunar New Year celebrations. Their shape resembles gold ingots, harbingers of good fortune. Easy to make for a crowd, shuıjiao (which means “water dumpling”) are especially good hot from the pot and tumbled in a soy-vinegar dipping sauce piked with chile oil. Pork and napa cabbage comprise the classic jiaozi filling, but you can use one of the lamb, beef, vegetable, or fish fillings on the following pages. Or substitute chopped shrimp or reconstituted dried shiitake mushrooms for half of the pork.

You might consider this simple recipe the Korean version of New England baked beans: sweet and salty at the same time. The beans are slow-cooked to give the flavors time to meld, and served accompanied by some cooked greens, a salad, or some rice for a complete protein.

My first introduction to Thai curries came while I assisted a friend in preparing a luncheon for Nancy Reagan at the Reagan Presidential Library in Simi Valley, California. What a surprise: the curry sauce was red! Although Thai curries have many ingredients in common with those of neighboring India, they tend to be tinged with a hint of sweetness from the combination of coconut milk and a traditional dash of sugar, and they are often colored red or green by the red or green chiles in them, rather than the more familiar yellow color of Indian curries. As with most Thai curries, serve this over rice.

Even my meat-eating friends, quietly polite when invited to a dinner featuring tofu, rave about this one. It is easy and delicious and contains flavors traditionally considered typical of both Japanese- and Korean-style cooking. Serve over brown rice.