The Dumpling Lady

A food truck owner finds a connection to her new home by sharing her childhood recipes.

- Cat Carter

I SHOULD HAVE WORN SHORTS, I realize as I walk into Qian Zhang and John Nisbet’s house for Chinese hot pot. Outside, the August air hangs heavy, and grumbling thunder mocks us as we wait for relief in the form of an evening rain. It does not come.

Inside, we sit around the table and talk. The air conditioner is broken, but Zhang is cooking for me anyway. Plates of pink shrimp, sliced rib eye and ham, mushrooms, broccoli, potatoes, and herbs surround a large bowl of simmering broth resting on a portable cooktop. Zhang dunks some of the meat and vegetables into the deep red broth. I wipe my forehead after just a few bites from the hot pot and a plate of noodles Zhang has also set before me.

She sells these noodles—aptly called burning noodles—from her food truck, The Dumpling Lady. “People call it burning noodles because the noodles themselves are coated with sesame oil, and it feels like you can almost light the noodles on fire because they are so shiny,” she explains.

Sichuan peppercorns bring a special kind of heat to these noodles and to the hot pot broth, one that makes your tongue tingle. I marvel at the sensation, so unmistakable that I can tell which side of my mouth (the left) had bitten down on the spice. Zhang puts a fan on the table. I blot my forehead again, take a long sip of beer, and pull a piece of shrimp from the bowl.

Qian Zhang came to America from China just a little over a year ago. She was born in Neijiang, a place called the “city of sweetness” for its for sugar cane. It is also known for its eponymous beef noodles, which Zhang says are “the best kind of noodles you will find in my province.” These noodles—which come in a rich broth made from beef bones, short ribs, and bamboo—are also on her menu.