On the coldest nights of winter leading up to Lunar New Year, in their modest home in China’s Ningxia Hui Autonomous Region, Fengping Geng’s family would gather around a wooden table, their hands working in unison.
The flour-dusted surface was cluttered with bowls of minced pork, cabbage, and scallions, and stacks of delicate, handmade wrappers. Dumpling-making wasn’t just reserved for holidays. Geng’s parents mandated it to be a monthly tradition, too. While food was never plentiful, her parents always made sure there was enough for this one special meal, and it quickly became the highlight of her childhood.
Now, thousands of miles away from that small home in Ningxia, Geng’s dumplings have found a new audience. At Amazing Dumplings, her restaurant in Squirrel Hill, customers line up for the flavors of her childhood. Geng makes dumplings by hand every morning, alongside her dedicated staff. But now, the laughter comes from strangers who have found comfort in her food, in the taste of something handmade, something familiar.
The masterclass
“Dumpling Day was my happiest time,” Geng tells Pittsburgh City Paper. “It wasn’t just about the food. It was about the process, the togetherness.”
For Geng, the kitchen was a place of movement and memory. Her mother, the architect of the filling, worked without recipes. The scent of freshly chopped pork, pickled cabbage, and leeks filled the air as she seasoned the mixture, relying on instinct rather than measurement. Every ingredient had a role to play. The pork needed just the right amount of fat — never less than 30% — to keep the filling juicy. The cabbage had to be salted and squeezed dry, its moisture carefully controlled to keep the wrappers from breaking. The leeks, sharp and green, cut through the richness — a fragrant counterpoint.
Her father was in charge of the dough, kneading it into smooth elasticity before rolling it into long ropes, cutting them into even pieces. As a child, Geng’s job was to flatten those pieces into disks, trying her best to mimic her father’s swift, effortless movements.
“I was so eager to help. But my dumpling skins were never quite right. Too thick, too thin, too uneven. My mother would smile and reshape them when I wasn’t looking, ” Geng says.
Filling and folding was the final, most delicate step. Her mother’s fingers moved quickly, scooping the fragrant mixture into each wrapper, sealing the edges with firm, sure pleats. Geng, at 7, struggled. Her dumplings refused to hold their shape. More often than not, she abandoned the task altogether, pressing and stretching the dough into abstract, lopsided creations that never made it to the steamer. Her parents would laugh, rolling the scraps back into a neat ball to begin again.
But over time, she learned. Dumpling-making, she realized, was an exercise in restraint. The dough had to be thick enough to hold the filling, but thin enough to be tender once cooked. The folds had to be tight, the seams strong.
The act of making dumplings was a ritual of survival, a way to create abundance even in times of scarcity.
“We didn’t have much. But when we made dumplings, we had each other,” she says. “We had joy. We were OK.”
A childhood of scarcity and strength
Geng was born in 1965 in Heilongjiang, in China’s frigid, industrial northeast, but she wouldn’t stay there long. Before her first birthday, her parents moved west to Ningxia, a sparsely populated region on the edge of the Loess Plateau, part of a national campaign to develop China’s interior.
“Ningxia in the 1960s wasn’t what it is today. It wasn’t like Beijing or Shanghai at the time. It was poor, underdeveloped. We didn’t have much infrastructure. Every meal was something my parents worked for,” says Geng.
The move was part of China’s Third Front Movement, a Cold War-era industrialization effort that redirected labor and resources inland, away from the more vulnerable coastal cities. Families like Geng’s, many from China’s northeast, were sent to rural, resource-scarce provinces to build factories, railways, and agricultural outposts. It was a state-driven attempt at self-reliance, but for those on the ground, it meant starting over in an unfamiliar landscape with little support.
Her father took on grueling physical labor, while her mother managed the home, eking out meals from whatever ingredients were available. Cooking was an act of ingenuity.
“If you had rice, you made congee one day, rice cakes the next, and fried rice the day after,” Geng recalls. “Nothing was wasted. If we had a chicken, every part of it was used: the bones for broth, the meat for dumplings, the skin crisped up and eaten with vinegar.”
Yet Ningxia had a culinary identity distinct from anywhere her family had lived before. With a significant Hui Muslim population, the region’s cuisine blended Islamic and Han Chinese influences. Lamb, not pork, was the dominant protein. Spices like cumin, chili, and Sichuan peppercorn infused dishes with warmth. Hand-pulled noodles and beef noodle soup were everyday fare. Náng bread, similar to a Central Asian naan, was baked in domed clay ovens.
In Ningxia, food was about sustenance, but it was also about survival. “You had to make do with what you had. That’s why I love simple foods, not because they’re basic, but because they carry meaning. They remind me of home,” says Geng.
A new chapter, a new kitchen
But some meals carried a meaning that stretched beyond survival. No food in Geng’s childhood embodied that more than dumplings.
During Lunar New Year, China’s most significant holiday, dumplings were the centerpiece of the feast. The festival, which follows the lunar calendar and marks the first new moon of the year, is a time for family reunions, sweeping away the misfortunes of the past, and welcoming prosperity. A steaming plate of dumplings is brought out at midnight to ring in the new year.
There was a tradition of hiding a single coin inside one dumpling — a small token of luck for the person who found it. Some believed it would bring wealth in the coming year, while others saw it as a promise of good fortune.
“I always wanted to find it,” she says. “Somehow, my father always did.”
Dumplings meant abundance, even when times were hard. A family that could make dumplings had flour, meat, warmth, and people to share them with. The number of dumplings eaten also mattered — some families believed that eating more dumplings on New Year’s Eve would bring greater wealth in the coming year.
The Lunar New Year meal was filled with symbolism: fish for surplus, spring rolls for wealth, and long noodles for longevity. But dumplings, especially in northern China, remained the most important. Their preparation brought families together, and their presence on the table meant that, no matter how difficult the past year had been, the new year would begin with something warm and whole.
But as much as dumplings were a symbol of family, they also became something else for Geng: a connection to home itself.
Years later, when she moved to the United States, it was the dumplings she missed the most.
The evolution of a dumpling dream
In 1995, Geng’s husband, Feng Gao, left Ningxia to scope out life for their family in the United States. At the time, Geng was still in China, raising their 10-year-old son and working a stable job, with no immediate plans to leave. But over time, as Pittsburgh became the anchor for their extended family, the idea of a new home in a new country began to take shape.
After visiting, Geng fell in love with the city’s pace, its quiet charm, its possibilities. Neither she nor Gao spoke English, and their professional experience in China didn’t easily translate in the U.S. But they had a foundation stronger than words: a shared love of food.
Gao, driven by both skill and necessity, was the first to enter the culinary world. Over the years, he traveled back to cooking schools in Xi’an, refining his knowledge, immersing himself in the techniques passed down through generations. In 2007, he opened Sakura in Squirrel Hill, a restaurant that quickly became known for its expansive Chinese and Hibachi offerings — including dumplings that had long defined their family’s table. Gao was the face of the restaurant, moving through the dining room with an easy confidence, chatting with customers, overseeing the kitchen. Behind the scenes, Geng worked quietly, handling the details and logistics that made it all run smoothly.
For 15 years, the restaurant thrived. But by 2022, change was inevitable. Geng saw an opportunity not just to run the business but to reshape it into something more focused, something that reflected both her past and the new role she was stepping into. On the Fourth of July that year, she renamed the restaurant Amazing Dumplings, scaling down the menu to specialize in the food that had always been closest to her heart: dumplings and noodles from her childhood.
Tradition in one hand, experimentation in the other
While working on rebranding the business, Geng discovered that, in Pittsburgh, a dumpling-focused menu might be too niche. Unlike cities like New York or San Francisco, where soup dumplings and handmade dumplings were readily available, Pittsburgh’s food scene was still warming up to the idea.
Rather than seeing this as an obstacle, Geng saw an opportunity.
She studied the thriving dumpling shops of Beijing, paying close attention to how they adapted flavors to suit international tastes. The lesson was clear: variety was key. Some Beijing dumpling houses offered over a hundred different types, ranging from classic pork and cabbage to unexpected seafood fillings.
“That was our ‘aha’ moment. We realized we needed to balance tradition with innovation,” she says.
At Amazing Dumplings, her menu reflects that philosophy. The foundation is strong classic dumplings: pork and cabbage, pork and celery, egg and leeks. But then, things get interesting.
One of her biggest hits is the Kung Pao Chicken Dumpling, a nod to one of Sichuan’s most beloved dishes. Each dumpling is carefully packed with diced chicken, crunchy peanuts, and a slick of chili oil, ensuring every bite delivers that signature sweet-spicy-nutty explosion.
The General Tso’s Chicken Dumpling is another crowd favorite. Unlike the deep-fried version found in American takeout spots, Geng’s take is steamed and hits just right — tangy, slightly sweet, deeply satisfying.
One dish carries a particularly personal touch: “General Gao’s Spicy Beef Dumplings, crafted by my husband Gao Feng, may not be as famous as General Tso’s chicken worldwide, but his relentless pursuit of perfection, despite lacking formal culinary education, has resulted in these unique and spicy beef dumplings,” Geng says. “He is the iron chef in my eyes.” .
For her tiniest diners, the Sunrise Chicken Dumpling is a clear favorite. Dotted with bright orange, purple, and green hues, it’s a dish designed to delight.
“I love seeing kids get excited about dumplings,” Geng says. “They eat with their eyes first, and then they fall in love with the taste.”
These offerings are a reflection of the way Geng approaches food, with lightheartedness, joy, and a willingness to push boundaries.
Dumplings may be the heart of the restaurant, but they are not the only star. The thick, slurpable noodles of northern China are another highlight, offering chewy textures and layered flavors.
Her Biáng Biáng Noodles, named for the unmistakable thwack sound they make as they’re stretched and slapped against the counter, are served with chopped peppers, a slick of hot oil, and, for those who can handle it, the mouth-numbing punch of Sichuan spice.
A surprise ending
Where Gao had once been the composed presence at the helm of Sakura, Geng brings a liveliness, a sprightliness that finds its way into everything she touches. Gao is her biggest cheerleader and content to work behind the scenes in this second season of their business.
But when Geng rebranded the restaurant to make it Amazing Dumplings, she wasn’t sure what to expect.
She had imagined her restaurant as a haven for Chinese customers, people like her, longing for the flavors of home. But as it turns out, she was “thinking too small.”
In the last three years, she’s seen diners of all backgrounds embrace her food — not just out of curiosity, but with real affection. Families have gathered around plates of steaming dumplings, first-timers have carefully maneuvered chopsticks, regulars have debated their favorite fillings, and children have eagerly reached for the brightly colored dumplings.
It was then she realized: dumplings, like memory, are universal.
“I thought dumplings were only Chinese food,” she says. “But really, they belong to everyone.”
Amazing Dumplings is located at 5882 Forbes Ave, Pittsburgh, PA 15217.
(Editor’s note: A reader alerted us to the fact that the address wasn’t present in the original version of this article. CP regrets the oversight and has added it above.)
This article appears in Feb 26 – Mar 4, 2025.
