Peeling Off the Wrapper of ‘Dumpling & Associates’ (The NoPro Review)

“‘As Dumpling As Possible’?” I ask the woman next to me. “What does that even mean?”

The woman glances up briefly, only to return to filling out the questions on her dumpling personality test.

She shrugs.

“Whatever you want it to mean, I guess,” I muse.

I glance down at the questionnaire in my hand, befuddled, as another patron wanders in and takes a photo of the neon sign in front of us.

Welcome to Dumpling & Associates, an immersive pop-up in LA by Chinese company ZJZM, the latest in the string of food-themed Instagram “museums.” Move over ice cream, candy, pizza, eggs, tea, and rosé, because here comes the 5,500 square foot house of dumplings.

Tim Zheng, founder and CEO of ZJZM, says, “With Dumpling & Associates, we wanted to create a space where people could connect with the art and connect with each other at the same time.” This exhibition bills itself as a series of “multi-sensory dumpling-themed installations that merge tradition, culture, design, optimism, and inclusivity.” But in my estimation, only about half the words in the previous sentence ring true.

The Dumpling & Associates experience even has a flimsy layer of narrative built around a character named “Mr. Dum-Bling” and this being your first day on the job at your new office. While the title of “associate” may evoke a vision of minimum wage employees at a big box retailer, here, it’s meant as a stand-in for all the things that come with dumplings: garlic, vinegar, etc. The office theme only really makes sense twice within Dumpling & Associates’ 12 rooms: once in this aforementioned personality quiz interview area and again in a photo op-ready room called “When Meetings Go Wrong.” The latter consists of overturned tables, a large garlic head suspended from the ceiling, oversized faux broken shards of plates and bowls, and giant chili peppers and garlic cloves strewn on the floor. These items are all crowded into a precariously small room with a sloped floor. Oddly enough, it’s difficult to get a good picture because of how cramped it is. I move on.

The other parts of the Dumpling & Associates exhibit feel temporary and a bit haphazard. A corner full of colorful clay, molds, and steamers yields a strange assortment of sad misshapen dumplings created by passersby. A giant bedazzled dumpling has a large segment cut out of its back meant for selfies, but having a chunk missing makes the statue look more like a glittery deep sea creature than food. I can also see the dusty footprints visitors have left upon its base as they take photos. A tunnel made of pool noodles is meant to evoke the metaphorical meat grinder of life. It doesn’t look like it’ll survive three weeks, let alone three months. There’s a wall with bunch of steamers and cooking implements by the ball pit, but they appear to have all been attached to the walls using tape.

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The “anti gravity” kitchen turns out to be a truly fun room with optical illusions printed on all four walls and a host of appliances strung from the ceiling. Unfortunately, as I exit from this kitchen, I nearly knock another attendee over as the layout has created a blind spot. To me, it’s clear the majority of the resources have gone into creating the centerpiece: a ball pit filled with colorful foam dumplings. You take your shoes off, you climb those marble steps, you take your selfie, and then you move on. I didn’t realize that ball pits could be lonely endeavors until I saw this one: a ball pit optimized for one.

A good friend once complained to me that people always seem eager to explore different heritages through food, but then stop there; as if every culture could be collapsed down to only its gustatory history and that to understand a place fully one need only eat and drink their way through it. Perhaps swimming through a hot tub made of squishy foam dumplings and posing with a giant head of garlic suspended from the ceiling a la “Wrecking Ball” is the next best thing, but I doubt it. As I pass through the different rooms of the exhibit, numerous staff offer to help me with taking my perfect selfie; I decline.

Then I reach the gift shop at the end of the experience. I suddenly realize I’d been seeing Dumpling & Associates all wrong. The past half hour had been less about Instagramming everything in sight and more about priming me to want to purchase a number of carefully curated dumpling-related items, tantalizingly laid out for my perusal. Perhaps a pair of expensive chopsticks in a nice gift box, having just passed through multiple rooms where giant red chopsticks provided a social media-ready background? Or a pair of fun slippers with the phrase “JIAO ZI” cheekily emblazoned next to the outline of a potsticker? A beanie with the silhouette of a cheery yellow guo tie sewn upon it? Or perhaps a smartphone case with a quite realistic-looking boiled dumpling glued to the back? Ah, I thought, I get it now. But I’m not sure if I feel seen or attacked.

It’s difficult as an Asian-American person to start unpacking whatever Dumpling & Associates is trying to be. It’s run by Chinese entrepreneurs bringing their dumpling-themed “museum” from East Asia to the United States. I suppose it’s an attempt to guess what the American public wants in an immersive food-themed experience, but without any of the cultural context of having grown up Chinese-American in the United States.

There is something quite impressive about shamelessly ransacking your own culture to find the most exportable thing and then getting people to buy into that thing at $32 a piece, while selling them adorable merch on top of that. While ZJZM’s intentions are clear, I’m torn between applauding their bravado and wanting some acknowledgement of the fraught history of Chinese food in America, be it the war against MSG; or the enduring stereotype of Chinese food being greasy and fatty; or its status as a low end, low prestige cuisine; or the lack of Asian chefs in the upper echelons of fine dining; or consumers on Yelp complaining a Chinese restaurant was “too expensive” or wasn’t “authentic enough.” You get my drift. Dumpling & Associates presents an easy to swallow version of all this instead.

I should also mention that much of what we hold to be sacred as “Chinese food” here in the United States would be unrecognizable in China. The fortune cookie was invented by a Japanese immigrant in San Francisco. The ubiquitous takeout Chinese box is rarely used outside the United States. The General Tso’s Chicken that we enjoy now was first popularized by Chinese chefs in New York City in the 1970s. Chop suey even has its own apocryphal origins: that the dish began as a joke played by a Chinese chef whose boss wanted him to concoct something that “would pass as Chinese.” (If you’re interested in the subject matter, The Fortune Cookie Chronicles by Jenny 8. Lee is a great place to start.) No wonder the humble dumpling is what has been latched onto as a symbol for Chinese food here, as if an uncomplicated, dough-wrapped pocket of meat might be easier to grasp, might come with less political and historical baggage, and might be held up as a beacon for peace and togetherness.

All this is running through my head as I take in the scene around me at the end of the installation. I peer at two fashionable young women (influencers, probably) eating potstickers in the corner next to a bottle of champagne while others pose for selfies in front of two luxury cars parked outside (which were there for who knows whatever reason). I notice that the staff at the media reception — who I believe to be the management — all appear to be Asian, in stark contrast to the employees working the other rooms. Someone thrusts a gift bag for Dumpling & Associates in my direction. I find myself holding a cleverly designed tote whose exterior mimics the appearance of a 50 lb. bag of white rice; it’s the kind of bag you get for free but end up keeping because it seems a little bit too nice to throw away.

And what did I find inside this tote bag? A single, individually wrapped, bright blue polyurethane dumpling, sized for the palm of my hand. Just like the kind from the dumpling jacuzzi. Perfectly formed, sterilized, homogenized, commodified, and, most importantly, eminently sellable. The perfect souvenir for your time in the palace of dumplings, as if all the selfies and Boomerangs weren’t enough.

Despite its origins, Dumpling & Associates turns out to be made of the most quintessentially American thing after all: capitalism.

Dumpling & Associates runs at ROW DTLA through March 5, 2020. Tickets are $32.

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