Let me just say this loud and proud: if your idea of a good meal with friends is everyone silently staring at their individual plates, fork in hand, pretending they’re not eavesdropping on the couple next to them—you’re doing it wrong.
Dim sum is chaos. Glorious, steamy, chopstick-clashing, tea-spilling chaos. It’s dumpling diplomacy, people. And it’s the most fun you’ll have at a table without taking your clothes off.
You don’t order dim sum like you would a burger or a bowl of pho. No. You hunt it down. You flag down that auntie pushing a cart like she’s Beyoncé on wheels.
You nod, point, pray it’s what you think it is, and boom—you’ve got taro puffs, chicken feet, shrimp siu mai, and mystery jelly that jiggles like it knows secrets.
It’s not some uptight dining experience where you get judged for double dipping or asking for more rice. Dim sum is lawless in the best way. The lazy susan spins like a roulette table. Dishes fly in and out. Someone grabs the last har gow and you side-eye them like they just stole your charger.
But that’s the beauty of it. Dim sum forces you to be present. You’re passing plates, clinking cups, negotiating peace treaties over turnip cake.
You’re laughing so hard you snort tea out your nose and no one bats an eye because your friend just choked on a sesame ball and everyone’s dying.
There’s something about eating tiny portions of many things that makes people loosen up. It’s like tapas, but without the pretense and with more pork. You share. You argue. You learn what your friends love (egg tarts) and what they secretly hate (chicken feet but they’re too polite to say it).
And don’t get me started on dim sum dates. If you wanna know someone’s soul, take them to dim sum. Can they handle the speed? The uncertainty? The chopsticks? Do they hog all the good stuff or do they slide that perfect soup dumpling across the table because they saw you eyeing it like it owed you money? That’s love. That’s real.
It’s not about being perfect. It’s about showing up, rolling up your sleeves, and diving into a bamboo basket of something hot and steamy with people you trust to tell you if there’s cilantro in it.
So yeah, call the squad. Call your situationship. Call your mom. Hell, call your ex if they still owe you a meal. Go sit around that sticky table, drink too much jasmine tea, and let the chaos unfold.
Because in a world full of solo meals and scrolling mid-bite, dim sum reminds us how damn good it feels to break bread (or shrimp toast) together. Loudly. Messily. With mouths full and hearts fuller.
And if someone offers you the last dumpling without blinking? Marry them.
