Dumplings on the Silk Road

Zhang Zhongjing, a father of Chinese medicine and a Han Dynasty scholar, was a loyal civil servant who never strayed from his duties, even in retirement. Upon returning to his home province after years in the Emperor's service, he noticed the common people were suffering so severely from hunger and frostbite that their ears had turned black and withered.

The learned Zhang did not hesitate. He gathered medicinal herbs, mutton, and spices, boiling them together before mincing the mixture. He wrapped the filling in thin sheets of dough folded into the shape of an ear and tossed them into a clear, boiling broth.

This is the legend of the birth of Chinese dumplings. These boiled dough "ears" are still eaten today, nourishing both body and soul.

Dumplings, or Chinese potstickers, have a long history. Millet-based specimens found in thousand-year-old tombs in Xinjiang are among the oldest known examples, dating to an era before the dough was replaced by more refined versions of wheat or rice.

The genius of these dumplings—which offer comfort to any stomach—was clear to anyone who encountered Chinese culture. Merchants and travelers carried the memory of them on camels and under horse saddles all the way west, across the scorching, dusty roads of Central Asia. They sowed the secrets of their preparation at countless waystations until they eventually reached those who dipped their edges in the churning salt waters of the Mediterranean.

In modern Chinese, generic dumplings are called jiaozi. The name mantou—likely their original moniker—has been preserved as the name for a steamed wheat bread, usually plain and fillingless, eaten for breakfast with fresh soy milk and pickled vegetables. Yet the original name traveled and survived in local tongues from the Gobi Desert to the alleys of Istanbul, a testament to the long journey these dumplings made through time and space. From the bountiful cauldron of the old Chinese healer to the hungry bellies of travelers in the market towns of the Tibetan Plateau, Iran, and Anatolia, they are known today in various forms and flavors across Central Asia, the Caucasus, and the former Soviet Union.

If you were to ask which dumplings are my favorites, the competition would be stiff. But if I were presented with only three or four bowls, I would likely choose to fill them with the following.

Shanghai Shengjian (生煎)

These are among the unique delicacies of the Shanghai region—a particularly delicious version of leavened dumplings. Yeast dough is filled with a mixture of meat, vegetables, and gelatin, then baked in wide pans with a thin layer of oil. During cooking, the bottom fries to a brown crisp while the top remains soft and airy. Under the intense heat, the filling turns semi-liquid as the gelatin transforms into a sweetish broth with a deep umami punch. It is best to eat them carefully to avoid being scalded by the soup, accompanied by vinegar and a bit of chili paste to balance the richness.

Uyghur Pumpkin Manta

These are very similar to the versions found in the market towns of the Fergana Valley, Uzbekistan, and northern Tajikistan, but with a slightly more refined dough—a reminder of the close, sometimes too close, proximity between the Uyghurs and their Han neighbors to the east. The best are perhaps those found in the markets of Yarkand and Khotan, sold cheaply on wide trays, properly greased and sprinkled with fried onions that pair beautifully with the glowing orange pumpkin filling.

Fergana Manti with Lamb and Onion

These are usually round and quite large. The delicate casing easily bursts to reveal a filling saturated with translucent onions, glistening cubes of fat, and cumin seeds. Some of us try to avoid meat, but frequent trips to Central Asia make a plant-based diet difficult to maintain. If one is going to break their vegetarianism, it is best done with a bowl of five manti, garnished with yogurt and cilantro, accompanied by strong green tea (choi), a chopped vegetable salad, and warm, fresh naan to wipe up the remains.

Anatolian Manti

Our friends across the river will have to forgive us, but our favorite dumplings remain those of Turkey. Tiny compared to their eastern siblings, they reflect a certain refinement that accompanied their migration into the developed urban culture of the Ottoman Empire. These are very small dough circles, folded into coin-sized squares, containing beef seasoned with black pepper and greens. After boiling, they are served with an abundance of thick yogurt, which coats and softens the intense flavor. They are excellent with diluted raki, a cold Efes beer, or as a prelude to a strong, fruity black Turkish tea.

Asian dumplings serve as a touchstone for the migration of ideas along trade routes, no less than languages, religions, or conquering armies. By uniting the gourmands of the entire continent under one steaming conceptual pot, they serve as a comforting reminder that people are sometimes capable of eating under another's vine, hearing their story in a strange accent, warming their throats with a decent meal, and parting as friends—if only for a moment—each to their own dusty path.

In the photos: Shanghai Shengjian, Uyghur pumpkin manta in the Yarkand bazaar, Fergana manti in northern Tajikistan, Anatolian manti with yogurt.

Samsas, baked dumplings at the Zelyony Bazaar in Dushanbe; "fossilized" dumplings made of millet dough (Tang Dynasty); and the Han Dynasty scholar Zhang Zhongjing (張仲景).