Chinese

The Chinese repertoire has many kinds of rolls—savory, sweet, thin, fat, fried, and unfried—and they’re all hard to pass up. The Cantonese fried version is bigger than its Shanghai kin, and it is encased in a large version of a wonton skin. Cantonese spring rolls, also known as egg rolls, have gotten a bad rap in America because they’re often greasy, overly doughy, and bland. However, when made from thin skins and a savory-sweet mixture of fresh vegetables and meat, Cantonese spring rolls reveal their worth as a splendid snack. Resembling gold bars and symbolizing wealth, prosperity, and good fortune, spring rolls are savored during the Lunar New Year, which is called the Spring Festival in Chinese. Cantonese spring rolls often combine pork and shrimp, but I prefer to keep the focus on tasty roast pork, which is best when homemade. Finely chopping and shredding the ingredients is time consuming, but you want the filling to be compact so that it fills out the long shape of the roll. Lighten your workload by making the filling and skins in advance.

There are numerous fillings for fried spring rolls, and this one is my take on an old-fashioned Shanghai filling. The surf-and-turf combination of pork and shrimp is punctuated by earthy bamboo shoots and shiitake mushrooms. Whereas the Cantonese filling on page 79 is savory-sweet (and can be used here), this filling is more robust and offers wonderful depth, so much so that dunking them in a touch of vinegar is all you need to create a wonderful mouthful. Most spring roll fillings are cooked first because the frying is fast, and you want to ensure that the meat is cooked and that there’s a minimum of moisture, so the skins don’t soften up too much as they sit once out of the fryer. When preparing this and other similar fillings, cut the main ingredients so that they match in size and roll up well. I typically buy pork tenderloin steaks and freeze them for 10 to 15 minutes to make them easier to cut. Canned bamboo shoots work well so long as they first are boiled briefly to eliminate any tinny flavor. Spring rolls are great as a snack but also terrific for a light lunch along with a green salad.

These open-faced dumplings are a requisite part of the Cantonese dim sum repertoire. In contrast to their dainty size and frilly edge, shāomai (siu mai in Cantonese) are packed with a pork filling that’s typically punctuated by earthy mushrooms and crunchy water chestnuts. The dumplings here are made from thin wonton skins that have been cut into circles. Don’t confuse them with the Jiangnan version from the area between Shanghai and Nanjing, which is made from hot-water dough wrappers and filled with a sticky rice mixture. Both go by the name shāomai, which literally means “cook and sell,” reflecting their perennial popularity. Feel free to add chopped raw shrimp to the filling (cut back on the vegetables) for variety. Any of the wonton fillings can be used, too; but do remember to double the pork and shrimp filling on page 41 or quadruple the shrimp filling on page 70, adding a beaten egg white in each case to insure a smoother texture. The shape of siu mai enables them to hold a lot more filling than other dumplings of the same size.

Soup marks the beginning of many Asian meals, and a little bowl of delicate wontons floating in fragrant broth is a fine way to kick things off. The clean flavors prepare the palate for anything that may follow. Shrimp-laden dumplings star in this simple recipe, but you may want to adorn the finished soup with some blanched leafy greens, such as spinach, bok choy, or watercress, and perhaps even slices of roasted Cantonese Char Siu Pork (page 224). Instead of the shrimp filling, you can use a half batch of the pork and shrimp filling for the Fried Wontons on page 69.

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.

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.

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.

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.

One of our favorite home-style dishes at Hong Kong Restaurant in Ithaca’s Collegetown, this is the Chinese version of scrambled eggs and ketchup!

Why order takeout when you can create classic Chinese flavors so easily at home?

Here’s a meatless variation of a classic northern Chinese noodle dish. We love the contrast between the hot, saucy noodles and the cold, crunchy raw vegetable toppings. The sauce will keep in the refrigerator for 3 or 4 days, so you can make the sauce and prepare the toppings ahead of time and then cook the noodles when you’re ready to eat.

This is called a “stew-fry” because both cooking techniques are employed. There’s a little bit of stir-frying, and the flavor profile is decidedly Asian, but enough liquid is added in the form of low-fat chicken broth that not a lot of oil is required, keeping things nice and light.

Chinese food has always been a favorite of mine—and apparently of just about everyone else in America. Even in the smallest towns, there is almost always a Chinese restaurant. The balance of sweet/sour/spicy flavors—and the fact that it’s already cut up into easy-to-eat bite-size pieces—might be part of it. Making restaurant-style Chinese food healthy means getting rid of the sugar first, and then the fat. Using a large nonstick pan over high heat reduces the fat. A good low-fat, sugar-free Asian stir-fry sauce does the rest.

Sweet and spicy General Tso’s Chicken was likely invented in the kitchens of Chinese restaurants in New York City (its first known mention was in the New York Times in 1977). Some say it’s similar to a classic Hunanese dish the general is said to have loved—a dish that is more sour than sweet. It’s usually made with battered and deep-fried chicken thighs bathed in a glossy sauce flavored with ginger, garlic, soy sauce, chiles—and lots of sugar. This chicken breast version is breaded and baked until crisp, then tossed with a reasonable version of Tso’s sauce that is low in fat and contains no sugar but is still sweet.

Make your own take-out. When you MYOTO, you control the salt, fat, and quality of ingredients. This dish is not only healthful, but you also don’t have to make any decisions like whether you want chicken or pork. This recipe has got everything in it but the kitchen sink.