Life in the old imperial capital has started to normalize. So much so there are times when I wake up and forget I’m in Beijing. I’m either good at assimilating my mind or have spent too much time with other expats.

Maybe diving into the local food joints around our neighborhood would help shake things up. Now that my days are wide open with the oldest at daycare for the whole day, it would be easier to do. I can scope out if they’re kid-friendly and take my time sorting through the menu. Maybe we should just call this the research phase.

But I’ve also started to get bored with the English language food ordering app heavy on international cuisine and too light on the local stuff, making life here way too similar to what we had in DC.

There’s a little dumpling spot I’ve scoped out along my walks around the neighborhood. No, it’s not the Michelin-rated place with the binders full of dumplings. We’ve been there. And while it was good, it is always filled with expats charting a path pre-ordained by the French tire maker.

Love Dumpling is a block or so south of there, across the street from Chez Morel, a bakery attached to a cafe with fantastic coffee and a solid tap list for a post-work pint or two. It is an unassuming place among other small businesses in a single-story complex with a brick facade on the southwest corner of Maizidian Street and Nongzhanguan North Road.

You have to walk up a few steps painted gray, but when you enter, you are greeted by a bright, nearly fluorescent space with white flooring, tables, and walls contrasted by the wall along the right side painted dark green with booths and seats with a similar shade.

They were busy, but the server directed me to the one open table remaining. I scanned the patrons and realized it was full of locals–precisely what I wanted. Another server brought over a menu far more approachable than the binders at the other place. Each page except the sections for dumplings and drinks had two to three options, pictures of each option, and a translation (sometimes humorously bad) into English.

Service in China isn’t like it is in the US. I won’t say it’s terrible because you almost always get what you order. Sometimes, you must aggressively flag down staff to order or get your tab. Most are attentive enough to recognize when you need something, so it’s not a massive undertaking.

After perusing the menu filled with delectable pictures of the options, I made my order. Stir-fried cabbage with some translucent noodles and other spices, grandma’s eggs (yes, that’s what it was called), two different types of dumplings, and a bottle of Yanjing beer. The server took my order and said something in Mandarin. I motioned to indicate I didn’t understand. He, as has been the trend here, continued on with the Mandarin.

He returned with the beer I ordered and a clear plastic water jug filled with water hot enough to steep tea. This is another thing here. There is a belief that cold water isn’t suitable for your body; thus folks here drink water at well above room temperature. If it had been the winter, there’s a chance I’d give it a go, but I’m still not sure hot water on a hot summer’s day is all that it's cracked up to be.

The images–and prices–on the menu made it seem as if the servings were small. I was wrong. What came out were two medium-sized bowls, each separately containing the two dishes I ordered. When the dumplings (16 with each order) arrived, it was clear I had ordered too much, and that it was very likely when the server was speaking to me in Mandarin he was trying to explain that ‘this is too much for one person.’

But I didn’t really care. I was planning on taking leftovers home anyway.

As I started to dig in, I realized that this was what I was seeking. Maybe not this exact place or these specific dishes. It was the experience. A nice, quiet meal, the flavors I sought, flavors I’m not quite sure how to describe because I’m still a novice when it comes to Chinese cuisine. The ambiance. Bustling, full of locals, a place where I’m the oddball, a place I’ve discovered on my own.

Glancing around, I took in the space more. In front of me, a group of women, young professionals maybe, deep in conversation over a shared meal. Seemingly helping each other work out whatever problems they may have in their professional or personal lives. To my right, a family with a patriarch who looked like he’d been around a dumpling plate a few more times than most. To my left, a pair of friends catching up.

And behind me was what I have learned can be an entirely typical lunch scene in China. A table of three young men, maybe blue-collar workers judging by their outfits, surrounded by plates of food and, by my count, eight empty 500ml beer bottles. At 3.6% ABV, the beer on offer was basically water anyway.

With my stomach full and the time I allocated for lunch quickly running out, I asked for the check and boxes for the leftovers. There was enough for a few more meals, at least for my wife and me. As I shoveled the extra food into the boxes, the check came, and I realized I’d miscalculated the total cost. By my mental math, I guessed it would run me close to 180 yuan, but it ended up being about 50 less than that–129 yuan. Instead of being $25, my tab was $17.60.

Giving this local restaurant a try was a great idea and an easy way to get out of my comfort zone. Exploring the local food scene is going to be exciting. And yeah, I’m definitely going back and might even bring the wife and kids next time.