SOUTHWORDS
Driving for Dumplings
When you’re running on empty
We hit the foodie jackpot one
afternoon almost two years ago. It was a bitter, wet day. Icy rain pelted the already frozen streets of Chapel Hill. We shuffled down unsalted sidewalks, trying not to slip while hastily searching for shelter. “Dim sum! Let’s go there,” I said, pointing to a red neon sign with a bloodless, frostbitten index finger.
My husband, Drew, and I ducked into the dive, sloughed off our coats and plunked down at a four-top beneath a black and white wallpaper of what I assumed was historical Shanghai. After a flip through a laminated menu, Drew ordered the orange chicken, I opted for the sesame, and we picked dumplings to share — a No. 1, the pork soup dumplings. I dove in. One of the dumplings burst in my mouth. “Oh, hot, hot!” My internal temperature wheeled from frigid to blistering. I immediately poked for another. The flavor was so full and delicious the scalding liquid couldn’t stop me. “How do they get the soup in there?” Drew wasn’t listening. “I’d request these for my last meal,” he said. “Pork soup dumplings — so good, it’s impossible not to moan while eating them,” a Yelp review said. Recently Drew attended a going-away party at some watering hole next to a Food Lion in a strip mall. We moped inside, sacrificing our introverted couple’s night for The Electric Slide blaring above a dance floor sardined with people wearing glow-in-the-dark free-drink wristbands — an atmosphere fit for a reboot of The Twilight Zone. There was a stale smorgasbord of plastic baskets with tater tots, limp French fries and soaking-wet wings. We glanced at each other, down at our watches, back at each other. How long do we have to stay? said his eyes. Without being rude? my eyes replied.
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“An hour,” I said. Drew did the mental calculations. “An hour and a half to Chapel Hill gets us there at 8:30.” I raised my eyebrows. “Dumplings?” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll be late, but . . . ” A colleague slipped out the door, breaking the invisible seal. We were in his wake, thanked him for the cover, and dashed to our truck. By 8:40, we plunked down at our four-top, waved away the menu and ordered our usual: pork soup dumplings and a few dishes in a supporting role. “Oh, hot, hot!” I yelped, the dumpling bursting in my mouth as I poked around for another. “How do they get the soup in there?” I asked. “I’d request these for my last meal,” Drew said between slurps. The restaurant was empty except for a family of three socially distanced and catty-corner from us. “We’ll take an order of the pork soup dumplings,” the man said. “Sorry,” the waiter replied. “We’re out.” My dumpling slid sadly down my throat. What does he mean, ‘Out?’ How could that be? The magical little pouches are no different than any other dish. I believed down in my gut that pork soup dumplings materialized by wizardry or a magical snap of the fingers. The man’s shoulders sagged. “Do you normally run out this time of night?” His wife asked. The waiter nodded. “Usually after 8.” I stared at Drew. “We drove an hour-and-a-half to get the last order,” I whispered. He raised his eyebrows and snatched another dumpling between his chopsticks. “Lucky us.” And always worth the gamble. PS Jenna Biter is a writer, entrepreneur and military wife in the Sandhills. She can be reached at jennabiter@protonmail.com. The Art & Soul of the Sandhills
ILLUSTRATION BY MERIDITH MARTENS
By Jenna Biter
