Hong Kong/Beijing
The making of dim sum — the bite-sized delicacies hailing from southern China — is all about craftsmanship.
Take har gow, or shrimp dumplings, for example: finely chopped ingredients placed on translucent wheat starch wrappers, sealed with just the right amount of finger pressure to ensure they can hold up in the steamer but also don’t feel too starchy when eaten.
There’s also siu mai (pork dumplings topped with crab roe) and cheung fun (steamed rice rolls dipped in sweet soy sauce), which are served delicately in small bamboo steamer baskets and shared among diners like Spanish tapas.
Many dim sum fans would argue that the best are made by chefs with the steadiest hands, nimblest fingers and the best attention to detail — not machinery.
So when many teahouses in China have turned increasingly to automated production lines in recent years to save costs, the southern city believed to be the birthplace of dim sum is pushing back.
Authorities in Guangzhou have introduced a new regulation requiring restaurants in the metropolis of 19 million to keep patrons informed about how they make their dim sum.
Starting May 1, teahouses have to disclose whether their dim sum is handmade in-house or produced via “non-traditional means,” referring to centralized manufacturing.
The regulation is aimed at “passing on and protecting the intangible cultural heritage of Guangzhou,” it says.
Eateries complying with the requirements will be presented with a plaque that declares them a “traditional store.” Officials also encourage businesses to give customers a glimpse of how dim sum is made through live-streaming.
“I support it a lot,” dim sum lover Amber Li told CNN.
“People in Guangzhou are very particular about their food being fresh. Sometimes, restaurants advertise themselves as being fresh, and then you find out it’s actually pre-made food after you have eaten it. That’s very upsetting,” said the 25-year-old, who moved to Guangzhou at a young age and has since embraced the local culinary tradition.
Guangzhou native Chen Huiyi, 32, runs an English-language channel on Chinese social media platform Xiaohongshu, recommending the best places for tourists to visit in her hometown.
She said dim sum has always been high on her list because it represents the “essence of Guangzhou’s finest food culture,” and it’s important that patrons can make an informed decision.
“Handmade dim sum can be slightly more expensive, but at least customers can make their own choices rather than being flooded with pre-made dim sum that sometimes presents itself as freshly made,” she told CNN.
Over the past month, many people have taken to Chinese social media to share their own dim sum reviews and praise authorities for helping preserve the handmade tradition.
For residents in this part of the world, it’s not just a matter of taste; it’s something that reflects the social fabric of their lives.
Colloquially, local people don’t say “let’s have dim sum.” They invite each other to go “yum cha” — meaning “drink tea” in Cantonese, which is widely spoken in southern China. That’s because at teahouses, food is served with a selection of Chinese teas, from Iron Buddha, an oolong known for its floral tinge, to Pu’erh, a roasted dark tea believed to be good for digestion.
But it’s not just about the food and tea.
Teahouses were venues for people to catch up with one another, said chef-turned-lecturer Siu Yan-ho, who specializes in Chinese language and culture at the Baptist University in Hong Kong.
“In the past, there weren’t other places to hang … Cafés weren’t a thing back in the days,” he told CNN.
Teahouses became a communal space where families and friends gathered, and strangers bonded over common interests, Siu said.
“Teahouses give no time limits. People used to go there to read newspapers and show one another their pet birds. It’s a place to bond,” he said.
Locals still often say “let’s go yum cha sometime” when they run into an old friend, meaning let’s catch up. It’s the equivalent of “let’s grab a coffee” in Europe or the US.
Yum cha culture is strong in other Cantonese-speaking cities in the region, like Hong Kong and Macau.
The need for delicate handling is in the name, Siu explained, saying that old Chinese literature suggests that when putting “dim,” meaning “spot,” and “sum,” which means “heart,” together, it translates roughly to “a little something from the heart.” Separately, both words convey a sense of meticulousness, he added.
If technique and craftsmanship are so key to dim sum, then why turn to machines?
Ken Zhang, the operator of a teahouse in Guangzhou, said his competitors saved a lot of money and time by pivoting to centralized production.
He and his staff start their day at 6:30 a.m. to put in two hours of preparation for their handmade delicacies before they open for customers. For rivals who rely on machines, “there is no need to prepare,” he said.
Even the deftest dim sum chefs can only make 120 dumplings per hour, Zhang said. But a machine can produce up to 3,000 in the same time, according to websites selling them.
Currently, Zhang’s shop employs about 20 dim sum chefs. He said that using machine-made dim sum could save him 14 staff members, and labor costs have been “a real struggle at times.”
Not everyone insists on handmade. Some customers say they’re now used to pre-made dim sum and are happy to compromise for the price.
“I can accept pre-made dim sum, but I can’t deal with an expensive bill,” another Guangzhou resident, Wu Xia, 36, told CNN.
That’s why Zhang believes it’s more important now than ever that his and his colleagues’ dedication gets recognized.
“For us, this is definitely very good news. We’ve stuck with this for so long,” he said. “If a tourist comes all the way to Guangzhou and ends up eating pre-made dim sum, that’s a real blow to the city’s reputation as a food destination.”
