Dim Sum wasn’t part of my childhood. No restaurant near my suburban tract home served duck feet or jelly fish or buns filled with sticky red bean paste. It was the 1970’s and my people (Catholic, Italian, East Coast) would be hard pressed to put the words “adventurous” and “eating” together in a sentence unless they were also describing long bouts of incapacitating illness. Adventurous eating had consequences rather than rewards, we were warned.

 

Fast forward to the late 1980’s and my move to Seattle, where adventurous eating was already common place in this international city. There was palak paneer and tikka masala, ikura and yellowtail, mole and tortas, and sticky rice and chow fun–none of which I had tried before. Before foodie culture really took hold, international cuisine was already everywhere for the tasting. And I dug in with enthusiasm, if not enlightenment.

I first went to dim sum with a large work group one busy lunch time. The dishes plunked down in front of us were delicious, commandeered from rolling metal carts by a coworker who’d clearly done this before. I didn’t give much thought to the little plates still circling past on the carts, the ones not chosen. I was happily enjoying siu mai, pot stickers, hum bao, sticky rice, and egg tarts for the first time.

Eager to taste more, and to eat those goodies again, I adventured out with a friend who was also a dim sum newbie. The dishes I’d had before were easily recognizable, and I just pointed and smiled to make my selections. And then there were the dishes I hadn’t noticed when someone else was ordering. I confidently smiled and pointed at some of those too, even though I had no idea what they might be. They smelled good. They mostly looked good. The staff tried to tell us the names and ingredients, but their halting, heavily accented English was difficult to understand. No matter. We would try anyway.

That is how you end up eating jellyfish noodles that taste like garlicky rubber bands or duck feet. In both cases, my insides shuddered once I realized what I was eating. For a second, adventurous eating did seem like a bad idea.

Although I was undeterred and went back again and again for dim sum over the years, I would usually stick with the same dishes I’d enjoyed that first time I went. If I had The Dim Sum Field Guide written and illustrated by Carolyn Phillips years ago, I’d have easily expanded my dim sum menu selections–and avoided some unfortunate, uninformed choices.

This compact little hardback is full of great information. There is a simple, full-page line-drawing of each dish, accompanied by a smaller cross section image and the English name. The second page for each entry gets into the Genus, or Chinese name and pronunciation, a description or Identification paragraph, and details on fillings, origins, recommended sauces for dipping and how a dish is typically served, or Nesting Habits.

This is truly, as the subheading reads, “a taxonomy of dumplings, buns, meats, sweets, and other specialties of the Chinese teahouse.” The book is true to the field-guide formula, adding a cute but gimmicky touch.

The idea of a field guide, or even a physical book, seems a bit dated. I find myself wondering why this isn’t an app. While I can’t picture myself taking this cute little book along to a restaurant, I know I will page through it before I go to dim sum again. I searched to see whether any dim sum apps are already available, and there are. None are as thorough or as sweet as this little book though.

With this guide, you can order dim sum with greater confidence, try new things, and avoid anything that might be too adventurous for your taste. Even very experienced dim sum diners will learn something with this book. I recommend it!

I received this book from Blogging for Books for this review.