Mending Meat Pie

The pie is named for the men-ding, the rounded bronze studs that march in rows across palace gates — gilded gold against red, the highest grade being the "nine rows of nine," eighty-one studs that stand for imperial power (only the East Flowery Gate breaks the pattern at seventy-two). That naming is solid. The popular origin tale — that a Qing palace cook made them for the Empress Dowager Cixi, who asked their name and was told they looked like the gate studs — is legend, repeated everywhere but undocumented, of a piece with old Beijing's habit of crediting Cixi for everything. It is most often a Muslim beef snack, sold by shops such as Mending Li, though some Han-run old houses make a version too.

A plump golden cylinder, crisp and blistered on top and bottom, soft round the sides. Break it with care and a mouthful of hot, savory broth runs out — beef and scallion, rich and clean. The skin gives a thin crackle, the filling is tender and juicy, the beef sweet with scallion. Eat it hot: let the juice cool and the beef fat turns heavy, so a splash of black vinegar helps cut it — and mind the first bite, for the broth inside scalds.

Juiciness comes from beating the filling: cold scallion-and-ginger water is worked into the beef in stages, stirred one way until it pulls together and holds the liquid like a loose soup. The modern trick is to freeze the filling firm before wrapping, so it melts into broth as the pie cooks through — the same logic as soup dumplings and sheng jian. The dough is pinched up around the filling and not flattened, which gives the tall round drum. It is griddled in a little oil to color both faces, then a splash of water and a lid let the steam cook the thick pie through; once the water dries off, the pie is stood on its side to crisp the rim — crisp skin, juicy heart.