The Best Dumplings in Paris

Paris is known for culinary arts of all kinds, but one thing it has never been particularly famous for is spectacular Chinese food. Thus, when a Taiwanese friend recently told me that handmade dumplings were to be found relatively easily, my forkful of magret de canard stopped abruptly in mid-air, and slowly returned to the table. “What? Handmade dumplings? Where? How do I get them?” We had been in the midst of reminiscing about gan mian (Taiwanese noodles) and zhenzhu naicha (Pearl Milk Tea) when I had proclaimed it had been over a year since having tasted one of my all time favorite dishes, Chinese dumplings—or as they say so elegantly in France, les raviolis chinois. Shu Zhen suddenly looked a little hesitant, as if information not destined for my ears had been unwittingly revealed. “Well…” she hesitated, groping for a suitable way out of this blunder, “actually, you can’t find them everywhere. In fact, the only place I know of is the Taiwanese Student Center.” I quickly fumbled for my notebook and pen, before she had time to come up with a suitable reason for not telling me everything. “O.K., Taiwanese Student Center. What’s the address “Um…well you have to go the thirteenth arrondissement, on Avenue de Choisy, and it’s on the seventeenth floor of an apartment building,” she paused, “Or maybe it’s on Avenue d’Ivry. I can’t remember.” “Right. What’s the address?” “84—but you can’t go now. It’s an old lady who makes them, and she’s going back to Taiwan for the Chinese New Year. You’ll have to wait until she’s back in France, probably in about a month.” So in the nick of time, my friend was saved by the bleating arrival of the Year of the Sheep, and I was forced to spend a sleepless February, haunted by visions of steaming bowls of dumplings, dipped in a succulent mixture of soy and chili sauces. When last Saturday finally rolled around, I concluded that I had waited long enough; it was time to seek out the best “Chinese raviolis” in Paris. A little after three o’clock, I existed the metro at Place d’Italie, and began my quest.I had pictured the Taiwanese Student Center numerous times in my head. There was a dark hallway, a heavy wooden door, a secret knock for the dumplings. An eyehole would slide open. “Password?” My voice would tremble. “Vive Taiwan! Retake the Mainland!” “OK, how many do you want?” “Two dozen please.” A wrinkled pair of hands would pass out two freezer bags filled with the dumplings, in exchange, I would hand over a red envelope containing ten euros. By the time I had relived this fantasy for the thirteenth time, I realized that I had already arrived at 84 Avenue de Choisy. I looked around, 86, 82…but the tallest building in the vicinity was only four stories high. A Chinese knick-knack shop, a restaurant, a run down apartment building. None of these places looked like they were secretly harboring seventeen floors, or an aging Taiwanese bodhisattva who tirelessly made dumplings for the sanity of the rest of the world. I stopped, confused, and pulled out my notebook again. But of course! Shu Zhen had said it might be Avenue d’Ivry, not Choisy. As I hurried down Rue Baudricourt towards Avenue d’Ivry, I spotted a cluster of high rises looming on the horizon. That must be my target. The numbers raced by as my stomach led me on, 102, 94, 90. The block ended at 86, the high rises now just in front of me, across the intersection. As I came to the entrance, I noticed the number above the door said 64. “That’s odd,” I thought, “there must be some sort of mistake.” But in scanning the list of names for the seventeenth floor, I was unable to find anything even remotely resembling a Taiwanese Student Center. “Maybe it’s in the next building over,” I murmured to myself, but suddenly without the confidence I had had a moment ago. Looking up and down the listings repeatedly, 58 Avenue d’Ivry proved equally void of anyone who might be selling dumplings. I walked back out on to the street dejected. There must have been some sort of misunderstanding. By now, my original intentions of supporting the Taiwanese independence movement, through contributions to dumpling makers worldwide, had begun to fade with the successive rumblings of my stomach. The autonomy of Taiwan no longer seemed as important an issue as, say, the survival of the Vietnamese noodle shop immediately across the street, or the Tang Freres supermarket, which also sold frozen dumplings—although they were more along the line of Oscar Meyer’s bologna in comparison with the real foie gras which I wasn’t going to be having any time soon. “Maybe there’s another high rise nearby, and I just mixed up the numbers by mistake,” I said hopefully. But just glancing around, I was able to discern at least fifteen other tall buildings, all spread randomly throughout the surrounding neighborhood. It didn’t seem like a good idea to start wandering haphazardly. I had to face it; there would be no raviolis drenched in soy sauce tonight. Five minutes later, in the midst of eating possibly the best Vietnamese noodles to be found in Paris, I thought back on the last lunch I had had with Shu Zhen. I remembered asking her if there was any way she might be able to pull a few strings, and get me the dumplings before the New Year arrived. She just smiled charmingly and shrugged her shoulders. At the time I interpreted that to mean, “You know I would love to help, if only there was something I could do.” Now I realize what she was really saying: “Tough luck buddy. When was the last time you went and did something for me?” Bonjour…