Paradise Dynasty is coming to L.A. Is it ready for prime time?
EXPANSION NORTH WILL PUT IT NEAR DIN TAI FUNG. THERE’LL BE NO LOSERS IN THIS SOUP DUMPLING SHOWDOWN FOR THE AGES, JUST WINNERS — US.
THERE aren’t a ton of truly great soup dumpling places in this country, as it’s a dish generally best left to a handful of specialists. Soup dumplings are one of those particular foods, like bagels, that you don’t just wake up one day and decide to put on the menu. Sure, they’re a simple concept, in theory, but then again, so is operating a table saw. If you don’t know what you’re doing, it can turn into a real disaster.
Din Tai Fung is currently this country’s foremost xiao long bao restaurant (I will use “soup dumpling” interchangeably with “xiao long bao” and “XLB” in this review), but now there’s a relative newcomer, Paradise Dynasty, ready to challenge for the title.
The Singaporean chain will expand in 2024 from Orange County to the Americana at Brand in Glendale, setting up a soup dumpling showdown for the ages with the newly opened Din Tai Fung location across the way at the Glendale Galleria.
And I, for one, welcome our new dumpling overlords. The more options, the merrier. The fact that we will be treated to a heavyweight-title bout — a xiao long bout, if you will — between two of the world’s premier dumpling specialists is just icing on the mooncake.
But can Paradise Dynasty, which has numerous locations in Asia but lacks the name recognition of Din Tai Fung in the U.S., take on the undisputed XLB king? Will Rudy get a chance to suit up for the big game? Can Ali beat Foreman?
South Coast Plaza in Costa Mesa is the current home of Paradise
Dynasty (there’s also a Din Tai Fung branch there). Wind your way south through the upscale mall (“It’s not a mall, it’s a plaza ,” a colleague joked) traversing the Bloomingdale’s and you’ll find yourself greeted by the restaurant’s name in enormous letters, subtitled with the cinematic-sounding “Legend of Xiao Long Bao.” After a slightly bewildering process of getting a table that may involve two separate check-in lines, you’re led into a spacious, modern dining room.
If it’s not clear what to order, the xiao long bao are front and center. There’s a big graphic explaining the weight (25 grams per dumpling), characteristics (thin dumpling skin) and architecture (each one has 18 folds) of the XLB, and while it’s mostly showmanship, it’s fun to read, like you’re looking at features of a new car. In addition to its regular xiao long bao, Paradise Dynasty also features colored soup dumplings that come in various flavors — red is Sichuan spicy, green is kimchi, gray is garlic, etc. — and this is where I’d like to begin.
I’ll admit coming in with a natural aversion to the idea of a multicolored, multiflavored basket of soup dumplings. Gray dumplings — as in, truly gray, the color of a dolphin or a rock — usually aren’t on my to-eat list. The whole thing can seem like a bad gimmick, like butter boards or bacon-flavored everything.
I am now convinced it’s quite a good gimmick, like Doritos Locos tacos or Cronuts. The flavored dumplings, of which there are eight, including regular pork flavor, not only taste distinct from one another but are also occasionally delightful to eat in their own right. The kimchi XLB was my favorite of the bunch, with a distinctive, pleasing sourness. The aforementioned gray garlicflavored dumpling lived up to its billing, providing a strong allium kick. Cheese, the flavor I was maybe most skeptical of, was creamy and indulgent.
Any discussion of the regular pork xiao long bao will necessitate a comparison to Din Tai Fung. The dumplings at Paradise Dynasty, when firing on all cylinders, can hold their own against the Taiwanese chain. Bigger doesn’t mean better, but at 25 grams, they’re a bit heftier than the 21-gram dumplings at Din Tai Fung. Both have similar ingredients and light, bright broths — so ultimately, it comes down to construction.
That’s where Din Tai Fung has the edge. The dumplings at Paradise Dynasty, while good, were a bit inconsistent — a kink that I imagine will work itself out over time. In one batch I received, the top of one dumpling wasn’t sealed, and a couple other dumplings were touching — big no-nos when you’re trying to keep structural integrity so soup doesn’t spill out. The exterior dough was also a bit dry on some of the Paradise Dynasty XLB: That could have to do with refrigeration or steaming technique or perhaps just putting a bit too much flour on the board when rolling out the dough.
But it’s other items on Paradise Dynasty’s menu that really excel and can ultimately, I think, determine its success in its expansion.
Having arrived too late one afternoon to order the radish pastries or pan-fried Shanghai kurobuta pork buns (you may know them as sheng jian bao), I made a point to arrive extra early on a follow-up visit. I was very happy that I did. Radish pastries look like fat caterpillars, finely segmented and impossibly flaky. The delicate layers of dough almost disappear upon meeting the tongue, and the remaining blank slate of soft, savory radish pairs perfectly with the fruity, deeply brown-hued table vinegar.
The sheng jian bao are fried brown and crispy on their lower halves and left soft, white and pliant on top, with a delineation of color as sharp as an end-of-summer tan line. The dumpling exterior has a wonderful contrast of texture, and the insides are brimming with meat and juice. I’m hard pressed to think of a better sheng jian bao I’ve had recently.
Cold dishes like a cucumber salad and sliced tofu with crispy onion are also good bets at Paradise Dynasty. I may even like its cucumber salad, pieces that are covered in what tastes like a thin, garlicky paste, better than the version at Din Tai Fung, where girthy slices of cucumber are stacked into a pyramid.
Noodle dishes are generally stronger at Din Tai Fung — I had a somewhat mushy bowl of noodle soup at Paradise Dynasty and an underseasoned stir-fried vermicelli. But other chef ’s specials at Paradise yielded great finds. The stir-fried rice cake with lobster in Singaporestyle chile crab sauce was an exemplary mess of sensory overload — spicy, chewy, sweet, savory and meaty. Auspiciously