In the dim sum parlors of southern China, siumai are juicy pork-and-shrimp meatballs that wear the thinnest of yellow skins like a shrug and are crowned with crab roe or a whole prawn. But their Hong Kong street cousins are filled with snowy-white fish paste and sold five to a skewer. Up north, dumplings bearing the same name (Mandarin: shaomai) sport a wrapping style best described as “makeshift sack.” Inner Mongolia makes a claim as the homeland of shaomai, with a mutton forcemeat and enough floppy wrapper on top that it can be snipped and styled into flower petals. Finally, the shaomai found in and around Shanghai is filled with greased glutinous rice.
photo by Alpha (Flickr)

Purists can have their har gow; those who get bored easily are more likely to appreciate the kitchen-sink approach of this dumpling from eastern Guangdong. The filling can include dried shrimp, chopped peanuts, dried radish, garlic chives, mushrooms, cilantro and jicama – bringing together crunchy, yielding and stringy chews in every bite. The mouthfeel fun of fun gor extends to the highly elastic skin (made from wheat and tapioca starch), and its rubbery frill.
photo by stu_spivack (Flickr)

Yuntun are better known by their Cantonese name, wonton. Their name translates to “swallowing clouds,” and they do look the part — but it’s just as useful to think of them as comets: small head, long tail. A pinch of meat is cinched shut while leaving ample amounts of wrapper, which billows like nimbus clouds once the dumplings have been boiled in broth. The wonton’s tininess also makes them more delicate and ephemeral in the mouth.
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Texturally profound, and much in demand at yum cha, wu gok—literally “taro dumpling”—deserve to be better known, if only because they look like Seinfeld’s Kramer in dumpling form. The crazed frizz of the outer layer is what results when the “dough” of mashed taro meets boiling oil. The top layer fries itself silly while the inner layer remains creamy and soft, protecting the pork parcels within. Warning: That taro paste is a powerful insulator, and the core filling can easily reach tongue-scalding temperatures.
photo by Meng He (Flickr)

These bronzed spheres, airily half-hollow and carpeted with sesame seeds, are a staple on dim sum tables and at Chinese bakeries across the world. The crisp-chewy layer of glutinous rice hides a cavern of sweet sludge (either lotus seed or red bean). This snack can be traced back to Xi’an’s glory days as the capital of the Tang Dynasty. In China’s south, they’re known as jeen doy (“fried pile”), but up north they’re better known as matuan (“sesame mass”) or maqiu (“sesame ball”).
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Their name may be generic (“steamed dumpling”), but don’t dismiss them as boring. First of all, the most elaborately pleated dumplings are always steamed, because frying would destroy delicate filigrees and boiling can lead to sagging and breakage. Secondly, the zhengjiao shape even takes the mode of preparation into account; crescents fit well in a round steamer. Finally, steamed dumplings are even healthier than boiled dumplings, because nutrients stay inside the wrapper instead of leaching into the water. But zhengjiao do get rubbery fast once they cool – all the more reason to gobble them up as fast as you can.
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In this dumpling, diced shrimp play second fiddle to chives, whose fresh hue peeks through the chewy translucent wrapper. The use of chives in Cantonese dim sum is unusual. Though the herb is an extremely common ingredient for dumpling fillings in northern China, their pungency can be a bit off-putting to southerners (especially as Chinese chives are more garlicky than regular chives). Still, in gow choy gau, that intense herbiness only brings out the natural sweetness of the shrimp.
photo by Alpha (Flickr)

This one’s for the slurpers (and anybody with nostalgia for Capri-Sun). Native to Jiangsu province, these giant versions of xiaolongbao each occupy an entire bamboo steamer (about the circumference of a large coffee mug). Into the dime-sized “eye” of the topknot is poked a straw, through which one proceeds to drink up the hot liquid. One can only imagine the ratio of pork to aspic in the filling – the latter, of course, being the thing that melts into soup during the steaming process. Given the size of these dumplings, the dough wrapper is far from delicate; in fact, guantangbao skins tend to be as leathery as a catcher’s mitt, but no matter, as it’s all just a delivery system for the soup.
photo by Philip Lai (Flickr)

Northerners say that proper potstickers should always be long, straight, and open on both ends, rather than crimped closed in the crescent shape of most other jianjiao (pan-fried dumplings). They are called guotie in Mandarin, but many Westerners know the dumplings by their Cantonese transliteration, wor tip. In the Boston area, potstickers are synonymous with “Peking ravioli,” thanks to the decision of chef-restaurateur Joyce Chen in 1958 to rename them on the menu of her restaurant, located in an Italian neighborhood in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
photo by Fan Yang (Flickr)

The secret to these chewy pork croquettes — staples of Cantonese dim sum — is in the flour. Some swear by potato starch, but any combination of thicker flours (glutinous rice, for instance) works for perfect deep-frying. These egg-shaped dumplings are often egg-sized, with a tender-crisp crust giving way to a chewy mantel and succulent pork core.
photo by See-ming Lee (Flickr)

The origins of most dumplings are lost to misty time, but we know the exact circumstances of the birth of dalian huoshao: in 1876, at Beijing’s most bustling bazaar, as an accompaniment for hot-and-sour soup. The bookmark-length dumplings are named after an old-fashioned carry-all known as a dalian. What’s that? Imagine rolling up your valuables in a long bag that lies flat enough to drape over one shoulder. Now imagine that your dearest possession is minced pork (tenderized by freezing both pre-mince and post-marinade), that the bag is made from wheat flour, and that the end flaps are snugly folded up and fried into place.
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In any dumpling tournament, the shengjian mantou (or shengjian bao, as they are known outside of Shanghai) should be a finalist. Above, it’s a steamed bun; below, it’s crisped to perfection. This popular Shanghainese breakfast is essentially crunchy xiaolongbao; the secret to the pork filling is a liberal application of Shaoxing wine. Rookies often err by popping the entire dumpling in their mouths or biting it clean in half, resulting in burnt palates, soup scorches and howls of laughter. Nibble a vent for the steam and slurp the soup first to look like a pro.
photo by kattebelletje (Flickr)

The deceptive simplicity of har gow (Cantonese for “shrimp dumpling”) makes it the ideal skill test for a dim sum chef. Can he roll out the dough – made with the same tapioca starch that gives boba pearls their tensile strength – thin enough to showcase the fresh pink shrimp inside? Might he keep the crustacean plump with a brief soak in a baking soda solution? Will he include diced bamboo for textural contrast? How’s his pleating game? These dim sum are so iconic that Puma collaborated with Hypebeast in 2013 on a sneaker that “features a subtle shrimp camo beneath a thin translucent layer, mimicking the wrapper skin of a Har Gao.”
photo by Gideon Tsang (Flickr)

Chaoshou (literally, “folded hands”) are essentially Sichuan wonton. The thin-skinned pork dumplings are often served in a tangy, numbing, peppery puddle of hongyou (red oil), but there’s no shame in opting to enjoy them in qingtang (clear broth) with a few sprigs of a leafy green and lots of cilantro.
photo by Philip Lai (Flickr)

Chinese fried dumplings are traditionally served “bottoms up” because inverting from the pan makes for easy plating, but also to show off the properly browned base that comes from using the shuijian (“water frying”) method. After the raw dumplings have been sizzled golden in oil, a bowlful of water is poured into the pan. The hot water cooks the filling inside and steams the dough, then boils off to reveal dumplings linked by a fried latticework of oil and residual flour. When done correctly, it looks like an golden doily.
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When is a wonton wont to not be a wonton at all? When it’s shuijiao! These dumplings are basically beached wontons, served out of soup but still as floppy and flimsy as ever. The fillings are limited only by one’s imagination. At Baoyuan Dumpling House in Beijing, the most popular fillings run the full gamut of textures: shrimp/cucumber, purple cabbage/ground pork/bean sprouts/crisped rice, and eggplant/egg/rice vermicelli/chillis.
photo by kattebelletje (Flickr)

The name of this popular northern snack translates literally as “chive box,” but their shape is more akin to that of a turnover. A wheat dough is made with hot water (to keep the gluten relatively quiescent); chopped chives are quickly stir-fried with scrambled eggs and rice vermicelli; the dough is rolled out, filled, folded over, and rope-edged; and the whole thing is slapped onto a big clamshell griddle to crisp the dough. The size of jiucai hezi can range from that of an empanada to a calzone.
photo by Alpha (Flickr)

Why are zongzi sometimes called Chinese tamales? Because both foods consist of various fillings encased in grain, wrapped in a leaf and steamed; both are also strongly associated with a particular festival, as they were traditionally too labor-intensive to make on a regular basis. (Zongzi are synonymous with the Dragon Boat Festival, a commemoration of the ancient poet-statesman Qu Yuan, whose suicide by drowning supposedly prompted grieving villagers to toss leaf-wrapped rice clumps into the river.) Southerners like their zongzi savory; typical fillings include fatty pork, chestnut, dried shrimp, mushroom and salted duck egg.
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Northerners celebrate the Dragon Boat Festival by eating zongzi with sweet fillings such as red bean or jujube paste. In some places, the tradition is to make fillingless sticky rice dumplings and dip them in sugar. Every year, the salty vs. sweet battle rages anew online between China’s netizens. In 2007, China Daily reported on a two-meter long zongzi made from 150 kilograms of glutinous rice and 50 kilograms of red dates. Any pride awakened in sweet-zongzi partisans by this feat must surely have been dwarfed by their jubilation in 2013 when Chinese taikonauts on the Shenzhou-10 space capsule dined on red-bean zongzi.
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Lo mai gai translates to “glutinous rice chicken” — and while sticky rice indeed plays a central role as the “wrapper,” the filling is rarely chicken alone. Look out for mushrooms, shrimp, or a golden nugget of salted egg yolk inside. Traditionally, these bundles are wrapped with a single lotus leaf, which imparts its distinctive fragrance to the rice. Though similar to zongzi, lo mai gai are distinguished by their filling (chicken), their shape (rectangular packets) and their availability (all year round).
photo by Jason Lam (Flickr)

Ubiquitous in Tibet, these dumplings were traditionally filled with seasoned ground beef or yak meat, but nowadays you can find meat (beef, yak, mutton, pork, chicken), vegetable (cabbage, potato), and cheese (paneer or chhurpi) varieties. But everybody agrees that they must be eaten with the fiery red chili-garlic-ginger-cilantro sauce called sepen. Though momos are a staple at any festive occasion, for some families, the dumpling’s resemblance to a purse makes them inappropriate for the first day of Losar (Tibetan New Year); their closed shape is simply not auspicious at a time when the focus should be on openness and generosity.
photo by Ritesh Man Tamrakar (Flickr)

Get your fresh hot beta-carotene here! These pumpkin cakes have a glutinous rice exterior, blistered crispy by a dunk in hot oil; inside, red bean paste awaits. In China, the nangua (“southern gourd”) that’s mashed into the dough – lending its earthy autumnal sweetness and coloring – is as likely to be a green-skinned kabocha or other orange-fleshed squash than the jack-o’-lantern gourds familiar to Americans.
photo by Alpha (Flickr)

True Shanghai wonton look like tortellini but are built like a tank, engineered to contain the maximum volume of filling. A single one will weigh down your spoon. At dedicated wonton shops, the number of fillings can run into the dozens, but the classic Shanghainese filling is minced pork mixed with the delicate wild green known as shepherd’s purse. They’re available for breakfast, but viable for dinner.
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Why do XLB, as all the cool kids call them, inspire such fierce obsession? Because they involve a ritual. They are among the few foods with “grapple factor” that hold diners at bay not with shells or bones or rinds but with terrifying heat. Some diners advocate a preemptive slurping of the soup while others advise cooling one’s heels until the entire dumpling can be popped into the mouth, soup-and-all. In Shanghai, the pork is often cut with luxurious crab roe; a few shops even sell a 100% crabmeat and roe dumpling that has no structural integrity whatsoever.
photo by kattebelletje (Flickr)

Southern-style tangyuan (literally, “soup spheres”) start off like most other dumplings – a filling is tucked inside a soft dough and sealed – but then it’s rolled into a ball between the palms. Black sesame is the most common filling, with red bean, jujube and peanut also traditional favorites, but supermarket freezer sections now feature tangyuan filled with chocolate, mango, blueberry, pineapple, rose, etc. Boiling turns the wrapper into a tender and gluey skin; the slightest tear unleashes a fast-oozing flood of sugary filling. Tangyuan are usually served in hot water or sweet broth, but in some Guizhou restaurants, it’s become a trend to serve these dessert balls stir-fried with pickled vegetables.
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Yuanxiao is the northern way of referring to sweet soup dumplings, especially those eaten on the 15th day of the Lunar New Year, which marks the official end of the Spring Festival period. Unlike their southern counterparts (tangyuan), though, yuanxiao snowball into existence. They begin as chunks of filling in big trays full of glutinous rice powder, tumbling about as they accumulate mass. Regular dips into water create an adhesive surface for each new layer of powder. The process works like an old-school 3D printer, resulting in all manner of elaborate colors, patterns, and even rippling effects that would make Willy Wonka giddy.
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For many Cantonese folks, nothing says Chinese New Year like a platter stacked high with these crunchy little purse-shaped dumplings: a snack to welcome all the family and friends who make their visits in the auspicious first few days of the year. The filling tends to be a sweet mix of peanut, sesame, and coconut.
photo by Ellen Leou (thehongkongcookery.com)

In Cantonese cuisine, if a raw wrapped wonton does not end up in a pot of boiling water (i.e. wonton soup), then it’s destined for the deep fryer, after which it gets smothered with sweet-and-sour sauce. In the latter form, they became wildly popular as an appetizer in Chinese restaurants abroad. Strangely, “deep-fried wonton” sometimes can refer simply to the crisp wrappers — a chip for dipping rather than a traditional filled dumpling.
photo by Amy Ross (Flickr)

Given their generic name (“fried dumpling”), these would seem to be identical to fried wonton. However, whereas the latter tend to be folded to feature miles of crunchy wrapper, zhajiao have a dorsal fin and a meatier payload.
photo by Juan Carlos Madrigal (Flickr)

This snack – a wonton casing filled with piquant cream cheese and something that may or not be real crab – has a real whodunit of an origin story. Was it invented for the St. Louis World Fair in 1904? Was it the bastard child of the British occupation of Burma? Most people credit its invention to Victor Bergeron of Trader Vic’s restaurant, where they have been on the classic tiki menu since 1956. It’s so beloved in the US that it has its own designated day. Celebrate National Crab Rangoon Day (February 13) by getting your sweet-and-sour sauce ready.
photo by jeffreyw (Flickr)

These are Sichuan’s version of the filled mochi chews that appear every Tomb-Sweeping Festival; they were tweaked and renamed “leaf rice mounds” in 1940 at the city’s Tianzhai Snack Bar. Ye'er ba filling can be either sweet (bean paste) or savory (pork and preserved mustard greens), but the ball of glutinous rice dough is always loosely wrapped in a leaf (tangerine, plantain, bamboo, or lotus) before being steamed. This serves two purposes: to infuse the pounded rice with flavor, and to keep these highly adhesive dumplings from gluing themselves to the steamer (or your fingers).
photo by inquartanorth (Flickr)

These egg-skin dumplings are made in a metal soup ladle, held directly over a low burner flame. A dab of ground meat suffices for the filling – the wrapper is the real star. Beat an egg, pour it into the ladle and let the tiny omelet form; when the edges have set but the center is still moist, place the raw meat, then fold the egg crepe over. Extract carefully. Re-oil the ladle and repeat. (Once you master timing, you can work on symmetry.) Interestingly, these high-maintenance creations are typically used as a supporting player in festive soups or ensemble claypots.
photo by airplangs (Instagram)