Dim Sum – Touching the Heart

By Madeleine Greey

When it comes to eating, the Chinese do things a bit different than the Western model. They round off a meal with soup rather than begin with it, and slurp without reproach – especially when noodles are involved. The art of eating rice is perhaps an even more obvious example. Since it’s considered gauche to lean over a rice bowl, Chinese etiquette allows you to pick up the bowl, place it below the lower lip and work the chopsticks like a fast shovel. And in China, a meal without chaos is like digestion without a burp.

This rule applies most readily to that fine Chinese culinary invention, dim sum. Some 1,000 years ago, before the British had discovered Yorkshire pudding or haute cuisine had even come to be, a few wise and venerable Cantonese dreamed up dim sum because, quite simply, they needed something to go with their tea. Their clever solution was mouth-sized morsels of various shapes and fillings. The inventors were so delighted with the results of their efforts that they named the tea-time treats dim sum, or “touching the heart.”

Despite its Cantonese origins, dim sum has now reached its zenith in nearby Hong Kong, where hundreds of cleaver-wielding Cantonese chefs have explored the possibilities of this cuisine without the distractions of the Communist revolution in their homeland next door. It is also here, in this crowded British colony of 5.5 million people and 100,000 square kilometers, that every traveller ought to give dim sum a try. For if your chopsticks haven’t graced a har gau or a ho yip fan, you just haven’t been to Hong Kong.

Hon Kong’s dim-summeries come in two categories; traditional teahouses opening as early as 6 a.m., and modern restaurants offering lunch. In the former, the clientele is generally male, geriatric and venerably Chinese. In the latter, coliseum-sized rooms are the norm, the noise level is full blast and businessmen are the main customers through the week. Weekend patrons include just about anybody, along with his or her brother, sister and at least five lusty-lunged kids.

Regrettably, the traditional teahouse is disappearing in fast-paced Hong Kong, where the locals don’t walk but run. In the past, it was a place of relaxation, serving as a home away from home for mostly men, mostly retired, a place where a guy could go to shoot the breeze and nurse a never-empty pot of tea, or to eat a breakfast of steamed, shrimp-filled dumplings and a bowl of congee, thick rice porridge. Midmorning papers beside a pot of Iron Goddess of Mercy tea and a dish of pai gwat (steamed spareribs with red pepper sauce) was the order of the day. And the management didn’t mind at all if an entire lazy afternoon was lulled away playing cards and lingering over a basket of plump au yak (steamed minced beef balls). Card playing, chess, Chinese checkers, mahjongg, grasshopper races, storytelling and pet-bird admiring were all popular activities condoned by the management. The patrons may have raved about the chef’s rendition of cha shiu bau (steamed barbecued pork buns), but in most instances dim sum played a secondary role in these establishments. Dim sum was not a teahouse’s raison d’être; it was there to keep stomachs from growling. Accordingly, the city’s best dim sum is not always found in the teahouses, though in terms of atmosphere there is no better place to be.

The Luk Yu Teahouse and Restaurant was founded 50 years ago and stands as the most famous survivor of the teahouse’s decline. Three stories high, the Luk Yu exudes Cantonese respectability with its stained glass windows, wood-panelled walls, marble-topped tables, wooden ceiling fans and brass spittoons. Many of the clientele have been patronizing the establishment for decades, and with this kind of loyalty, the Luk Yu management has never felt inclined to roll out the red carpet for the gawking tourists landing on its doorstep. It is best to visit the Luk Yu accompanied by a Chinese friend or be prepared for the Cantonese cold shoulder.

In any dim-summerie a little knowledge goes a long way. Most Chinese ogres turn to mush when a predictable-looking guai-lo (foreign devil) does the unpredictable – knows what he or she wants to eat and throws in a word or two of Cantonese for good measure. But few people have the memory or the desire to go to such great lengths for one dim sum experience. So first things first: visit one of the several Hong Kong Tourist Association offices and pick up a handy little pamphlet called Some Popular Dim Sum Dishes. It lists many different dim sum dishes, each introduced by its Cantonese name (written both in Chinese characters and the Romanized form), the English translation and a photograph. The next step is to learn two important phrases: mm-goy (Thank you) and ho-mho-sik? (Does it taste good?). These are passwords guaranteed to put a smile on nine Cantonese faces out of ten.

To see the Luk Yu at its finest hour, be there at 7 a.m. Not only is the largest and freshest selection of dim sum available at that time, but all the old boys are there too. If it’s summer (May to October), undershirts and rolled-up pants will be the preferred attire of the regulars, most of whom will smoke voraciously and enjoy at least one hearty throat-clearing during breakfast. When choosing your table, pick one near a busy aisle full of trolleys, fairly close to the kitchen door. Avoid any table in a quiet corner, where spider webs grow on chopsticks from lack of movement. You will probably find yourself in the advantageous position of sharing your table with some strangers. Your Cantonese tablemates know what to order, and unless your stomach turns at the sight of something, try what they try.

The Cantonese refer to the teahouse tradition of drinking tea and eating dim sum as yum cha, which literally means tea drinking (the partaking of snacks is implied in the name). Therefore, when sitting down to yum cha, tea selection is first on the agenda. It is likely that a pot of tourist jasmine will be plunked down on the table upon your arrival, but you do have a choice, and this is the time to exercise it. Luk Yu Teahouse is named after the great T’ang Dynasty (618-907 A.D.) scholar Luk Yu, who wrote Cha Jing, an eighth-century treatise elaborating on the tea ritual. Here, and at teahouses and restaurants throughout Hong Kong, they offer a wide selection of teas, which fall into three main categories: fermented (or black), unfermented (or green) and semi-fermented. The favourite tea of most Cantonese is Bo Lai, a fragrant black tea that is said to stimulate the appetite, help digestion and even keep the waistline in check. Bo Lai is not an inexpensive tea but, like wine, its taste and cost are relative to age. For tea connoisseurs, Loon Jing (Dragon’s Well) and Tit Gun Yaem (Iron Goddess of Mercy) are considered two top-of-the-line teas. Loon Jing is a green tea that must be drunk a few months after it has been dried. The best hand-picked variety can sometimes cost several hundreds of dollars per kilogram. Tit Gun Yaem is considered so precious it is drunk from thimble-sized cups. Its price tag can run from 10 to 20 times higher than regular tea. Other teas include Heung Pin (jasmine), Shou Mai (white peony) and Huang Cha (orange pekoe).

Another very notable teahouse in Hong Kong is the Wan Loy, right in the heart of populous Mongkok in western Kowloon This teahouse is quite literally for the birds. Every morning the third floor of this multilevel teahouse is filled with caged birds, hanging row upon row from the ceiling. The bird owners gaze lovingly at their fine feathered friends between sips of tea and baskets of dim sum.

An early breakfast in a traditional teahouse may not be everyone’s cup of tea, so to speak. The establishments vary throughout Hong Kong, located in hotels, cavernous restaurants or in smaller, family operations. But regardless of location, red will dominate all other colours in the décor, and lunch time will be busy, busy, busy. Gilded dragons with red light-bulb eyes, tinsel streamers, fire-engine red ceiling tiles, electric double-happiness signs and elaborate moon-gate arched entrances are favoured decorations in these restaurants, which usually serve full-course Cantonese meals at lunch and dinner, but also offer dim sum from noon to mid-afternoon. It is comforting to know that there is an alternative menu to fall back on if the dim sum experiment doesn’t pan out.

Whether a traditional teahouse or modern restaurant appeals to you, the heart of the matter is dim sum. These treats come steamed, fried, deep-fried, baked, stewed, and either sweet or salty (a Chinese distinction). The steamed varieties have become best known for the little bamboo baskets in which they are cooked and served. The delicate dim sum pieces (usually four to a basket) sit in the bottom on a piece of banana leaf or an aluminum plate. If a small cloud of steam comes tumbling out when you take off the lid, freshness is guaranteed. In the old days, waiters carried dim sum in big wooden trays hanging from straps around their necks. Most teahouses and restaurants in Hong Kong have replaced the trays with trolleys, some equipped with small stoves or grills for on-the-spot cooking. As the waiter passes your table, don’t hesitate to open the top basket on each pile and examine the contents. The Cantonese, on the other hand, don’t bother to look inside; as they push their trolleys, the waiters sing out the name of the dim sum they are offering.

The most popular steamed dim sum is har gau, a crescent-shaped, translucent dumpling bulging with shrimp. Most large restaurants prepare at least 1,000 har gau on a busy Saturday or Sunday, and the har gau maker is considered one of the most skilled workers in the kitchen. Other steamed dishes include shiu mai (open-faced dumplings of minced pork and shrimp), fun gwor (crescent-shaped rice-flour dumplings filled with pork, shrimp and bamboo shoots), and gai chuk (chicken roll with bean curd wrapping). Perhaps the most elusive dim sum for unpracticed chopstick users is cheung fun (slippery rice noodles wrapped around barbecued pork, shrimp or minced beef). A special soy  sauce mixture is poured over this dish, creating a laundry hazard for even the most adept. Ho yip fan (fried rice, barbecued pork morsels, egg, chicken slivers and bamboo shoots, wrapped in a lotus leaf) is a steamed dim sum arriving not in a basket but on a plate. Nor mai gai is a variation on the theme, filled with sticky, glutinous rice and assorted meat. Half of a huge, dried lotus leaf is used to make this dim sum. While the leaf smells musty on the outside, the contents are infused with its subtle, aromatic flavouring. Unwitting guai-los have been known to try to eat the leaf. Resist the temptation, especially if you are in the company of Cantonese hosts. And, by the way, some of the mysterious bamboo baskets hide such bizarre Chinese delicacies as stewed duck’s feet, beef stomach, coagulated pig’s blood or quail eggs. So it is always wise to look before you order.

Tsun guen, the deep-fried spring roll, is familiar to Westerners acquainted with its Americanized cousin, the egg roll. Other deep-fried dim sum dishes include woo kok (taro vegetable puff), and seen chuk guen (a bean curd roll filled with pork, shrimp and oyster sauce). Try dipping these in the small dish of mustard and chili found on the tables of all Cantonese restaurants. This red and yellow condiment is usually prepared in a decorative yin-yang motif.

The king of the dessert dim sum is daan tart (hot custard tart) which, when properly prepared, is a heavenly bite into a flaky crust filled with warm, fresh custard. Chien chang go (thousand layer cake) is a great example of the poetic license used so frequently by the Chinese when referring to the number 1,000, while woo lai (sweet mashed taro) is one of those rare desserts that sound better in Cantonese than in English.

When a long, relaxing lunch of dim sum comes to an end, your table should be piled high with bamboo baskets. A waiter tallies the bill by counting the number of dishes on your table. A pair of crossed chopsticks placed on top of the pile indicates that your dishes have been accounted for. It is likely that the waiter will return with a bill so ridiculously low that you’ll leave the restaurant laughing – unless you took the matter to heart and ordered all of the more than 70 different dim sum dishes available at most large Hong Kong restaurants.

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