Fragrant Forest: Decadent Dumplings Minus the Meat

The rattle and hum of this busy restaurant at lunchtime seeps out the open doors and into the leafy streets that connect Gulou Dajie and Andili Beijie. The universal sound of tinny pop music reverberates around the handful of tables clustered together during this working lunch, as the clamor of chopsticks scraping against porcelain reaches a crescendo.

At first glance, the restaurant’s interior resembles countless other hole-in-the-wall places scattered throughout Beijing: loyal clientele, a modest menu, no-frills decorations, and shared seating. Although you’d never guess if you were just walking by, Fragrant Forest, aka Xianghelin, is 100 percent vegan and specializes in fresh dumplings and handmade noodles.

There are seven varieties of dumplings on offer today, four types of noodles, two kinds of soups, and a singular salad dish. While I’m initially tempted by celery with fragrant mushroom (RMB 32), another member of staff rushes over and urges me to pick a different dumpling: cabbage with toona sinensis (RMB 36).

“Toon is only available during springtime,” she says, beaming. “We are making those dumplings right now.” She points through the glass partition to the kitchen staff who are alternately kneading dough and filling dumpling wrappers from a gargantuan bowl of minced green goodness. Easily persuaded, I comply with her suggestions and order the salad dish too: cold-mixed various vegetables (RMB 15).

The doors are left open and a gentle spring breeze is wafting in, lifting and dropping the vinyl door strips that separate customers from the grit and dust of passing traffic. The murmurings of the elderly, grunts of day laborers and sound effects from the variety of video games being played indoors provide a musical accompaniment to the kitchen staff who work tirelessly behind a glass screen.

The salad is the first to arrive and it is immediately eye-catching and aesthetically sound. This dish is no afterthought and the vibrant colors assembled on the plate compete for supremacy. Shoestring cucumbers, julienned carrots, chopped cabbage, and long ribbons of tofu skin are tossed together in a simple vinaigrette and arranged into a mound on my plate.

I eat ravenously and before long my plate is empty. Killing time, I re-read the menu that sits on my table; it is swarming with swastikas of the Buddhist persuasion. Looking up, I notice a shrine is tucked into a corner of the room and incense has been recently lit. The owner, Wan Li, is a devout Buddhist and has been running this restaurant for the past eight years. His friendly face moves in and out of the kitchen space and he loves to chitchat with customers.

“How do you like the food?” he inquires.

“It’s excellent!”

“Good, good,” he mutters, a wide grin stretching on his face. “Ah, here come your dumplings now.”

While many dumpling houses deal in allotments of six or twelve, Xianghelin prefers instead to settle in stacks. Twin columns of steam follow the waitress from the kitchen to my table where she settles a small mound of dumplings on my table; there could be fifteen to twenty dumplings arranged on this plate, each of them perfectly shaped and sealed.

Using my chopsticks, I whip together a simple dipping sauce of vinegar, chili oil, and vinegar. The plates are vented, allowing excess moisture to escape and preventing soggy jiaozi. While the rising steam should work as a warning to most, I’m too eager to try them and take a big bite immediately. The internal contents are scalding hot, but succulent, and each subsequent bite releases juicy spurts. Suddenly losing the skin from the roof of my mouth seems worthwhile.   

The relatively simple description of toon and cabbage does not do these dumplings justice, as this springtime specialty has a pungent flavor for which it is revered. Colloquially known as the ‘beef-and-onion’ plant, toon has a robust and earthy taste that works best with relatively mild food items such as tofu or potatoes. It also pairs perfectly with cabbage.  

Just as I’m getting ready to leave the restaurant, the owner rushes over in my direction with a bowl of steaming-hot noodles.

“I didn’t order these,” I say.

“Our most popular noodle item,” he beams. “You can try them for free.”

“Thank you!” I say as he scampers back into the kitchen. I’m sufficiently stuffed, almost to the point of feeling bloated, but who am I to turn away free food?

Noodles with diced fragrant mushrooms (22 RMB) are indeed a popular item. Throughout my lunch, I noticed several diners poke their heads into the restaurant and upon seeing a vacant seat, sit down without ordering anything; invariably, they received these noodles.

Even with an engorged stomach, these noodles are delicious; they are springy and each bite has a certain bounce to it, while the flavor seems stronger. The mushrooms are fried until crisp and then tossed together with green and red peppers in a luscious sauce, which is then placed directly on top of these handmade noodles. The sauce is delectable and coats the noodles effortlessly; it needs neither soy sauce nor vinegar, but I opt for a little extra firepower.

After I somehow finish off my second lunch of the day, the owner makes his way over to my table once more. I’m in awe of his generosity but can eat no more and throw up my hands; I’m defeated and could probably roll out the door. He laughs as I clutch my stomach and tells me to come back anytime.

“We make baozi on Saturdays!” he exclaims.

Fragrant Forest 香合林
B4 Andeli Beijie, Xicheng District
西城区安德里北街乙4号
Hours: Daily, 11am-2pm, 5pm-8pm
Phone: 13141499491

READ: From the Ring to the Kitchen: A BJ Brazilian Expat's Culinary Journey

Images: RJ Fry