“Is he selling bao zi?” I asked Brian as I motioned to a new vendor.

“Looks like it.” We both walked toward a shop as small as a closet.

Excitement and apprehension knotted together in my stomach. I like trying new things, so why apprehension? The taste of the food? Not likely, though it’s true not all dumplings are created equally. More likely it was the question of how I would be received. Had the man behind the tower of a dumpling steamer ever seen an outsider? Would he stare with gaping mouth, or contemptuous eyes, or would he look away, embarrassed?

Could he accept me as I am – abnormally tall with skin white as a ghost?

We were close now. He looked up. “You bao zi ma?” I started in, hoping to avoid awkwardness. He lifted the lid and steam whirled up then dissipated to reveal a circle of perfect steamed buns with swirled tops.

“What kind are they?”

“Pork,” he said in Chinese. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I smiled, thankful he was treating me like a fellow human being – I don’t take that for granted. He smiled too as he lifted the top tier revealing another layer of dumplings, and then another. There were large and small, meat-filled, rice-noodle-filled, and even dessert dumplings, which I’d never heard of – a choice of red bean or sesame seed.

Another customer snuck up and ordered. As the shopkeeper dropped three large dumplings into a small bag, Brian and I decided to try a few of each flavour.

The shopkeeper placed them into small plastic bags and we sacrificed a few dollars for a chance to taste these treats.

“Man zou,” he said as we left, which you could interpret as “Take care,” but means, literally, walk slowly. And we did – it gave us time to try dumplings that rivalled the best we’d ever tasted. I had to force myself to save some for the kids.

When I went out the next day, and the next, I waved hello as I passed the dumpling shop. My new friend smiled.

“Should we get bao zi for lunch?” I asked the kids a few weeks later.

“Yeah,” they cheered, so my son and I made the short horseshoe walk – along the front of our building, out the gate, and back the way we came. The shop is in the same building we live in – in a first floor storefront. The memory of those morsels pulled us.

I approached with confidence and was greeted with a familiar smile. The shopkeeper sat on a stool. With a pair of chopsticks, he stirred raw, ground pork. Behind him, his wife, who I had now also met, dumped soybeans into the back of a juicer and pressed a button. Milk poured out the spout. Plastic cups, brimming full, lined the table, testifying of her labour.

“Ni hao,” I greeted her. She smiled. I like this – a simple operation, a couple working together, a relaxed atmosphere. I like finding a place where I am welcome.

Living in China, I am constantly reminded I don’t belong. A positive connection tips the balance and gives me courage to engage, not just at the bao zi shop, but with others, in hopes of finding someone else so accepting. And while I may, I doubt that elsewhere, I will find dumplings as delicious.