In the pantheon of comfort foods, dumplings rank right near the top, be they Ukrainian vareniki, Japanese gyoza, Polish pierogi, or Tibetan jhol momos. German dumplings vary by region, from Swabian Maultaschen—essentially oversized, meat-stuffed ravioli served in a clear consommé—to Bavarian Semmelknödel—day-old bread wadded up into softball-sized lumps that taste better than they sound. Regardless of what form they take or what language their makers speak, nuggets of starchy dough and meat, cheese, or some other source of fat satisfy some sort of deep, primal urge. So whenever I’ve been in need of a hug in edible form (which seems like an awful lot these days), I tend to seek them out no matter where I happen to be living at the time.
In New York, I was lucky enough to live around the corner from Fried Dumpling, which will sell you five hand-pleated jiaozi for the absurdly low price of $1.25, Green Deluxe Bo, which helped sate my xiao long bao cravings in the absence of Din Tai Fung, and Lan Zhou 88, which is currently clinging to life by selling frozen bags of their exemplary dumplings (if you’re in the neighborhood, please buy some). I also had a weak spot for the Siberian pelmeni at Spa 88, the cavernous Russian sauna in the bowels of the Financial District, where New Yorkers sweat in steam rooms, plunge into icy pools, down shots of vodka, consume mountains of meat, and pay large men to flog them with tree branches in an effort to shock the seasonal affective disorder right out of their systems.
Here in Berlin, my favorite kind of dumpling is not German at all, but Turkish. While the former tend to be behemoths (see: the mighty Germknödel, a yeasted blob lolling about in a puddle of butter or crème anglaise), manti are the daintiest dumplings you ever did see. No larger than a thimble, they’re usually stuffed with lamb or beef, then smothered in yogurt, melted paprika butter, and garlic. Stir it together and the mixture emulsifies into a creamy sauce with a pungent kick.
Of all the places selling manti in the Hauptstadt, the general consensus is that Gözleme (Karl-Marx-Straße 35, +49 30 6134134) is the best. It helps that the dumplings are rolled and filled right there in the open kitchen, as are the flaky, spinach-stuffed gözleme. The Turkish tea is strong and pleasantly bitter, the owners are friendly, and the manti have just the right degree of chew. A word of warning: you should absolutely order yours with extra garlic and you should absolutely not make any social plans after eating them.
Less atmospheric, but equally delicious is Mantika Manti, which opened last year over by Kottbusser Tor. The owners may have made a few concessions to prevailing Berlin trends, including a vegan manti “bowl” topped with avocado, but the classic manti are very much the move here. Order a pile topped with pastirma, slivers of air-dried, cured beef, and inhale the whole thing.
What I’m Writing
Like much of the rest of the world, I became mildly obsessed with Oumi Janta’s deliriously joyful roller-skating videos over the summer. I caught up with the Berlinerin this week for a conversation about the strangeness of viral fame and dancing through the darkest days of a pandemic. You can read all about it in Oumi Janta Is Leading a Skating Revolution in Berlin (Condé Nast Traveler).
What I’m Reading
Speaking of Condé Nast Traveler, the editorial team has put together a phenomenal package highlighting diaspora cuisines around the U.S. 50 States, 50 Cuisines: The Food Worth Traveling For in Every State will make you want to road trip.
“Authenticity” is a hotly contested concept in the world of food media, one I’ll probably weigh on more at a later date. Janice Leung Hayes does a terrific job of breaking down why the term deserved to be banished in her newsletter.
Take a break from rampaging wildfires and plague and go read In Pursuit of the Perfect Bowl of Porridge (Eater), Clarissa Wei’s wonderfully weird deep-dive into the Golden Spurtle, Scotland’s fiercely competitive oatmeal-making contest.