Tianjin Baozi: Why Is It Called 'Goubuli'? — Not Because Dogs Ignore It, But Because the Owner Was Too Busy to Talk

From the origin of the name Goubuli, the precision of 18 folds, and Tianjin's dock culture, tell the story of how a Northeastern Chinese understands the 'cra...

One. Marco Asks Me: Why Do Chinese People Give Food Such Strange Names?

"Coach," Marco holds up his phone, showing a photo of a steaming basket of baozi, "why is this called 'Goubuli'?"

"Because even dogs don't pay attention to it."

"What?" His eyes widen. "Even dogs don't pay attention to it? Then who would eat it?"

I laugh. In twenty-five years in Europe, I have been asked this question at least fifty times.

"It's not real dogs. It's a person's nickname."

"What?"

"A man named Gao Guiyou. When he was a child, his parents were afraid he wouldn't survive, so they gave him a nickname: 'Gouzi' — Little Dog."

"And then?"

"Then he grew up and opened a baozi shop. Because his baozi were so delicious, business was booming, and customers queued down the street. He was too busy — too busy to even talk to his customers. So people said: 'Gouzi doesn't pay attention to people anymore.'"

Marco is silent for three seconds.

"So," he says, "this name means: because it was so delicious, the owner was too busy to talk?"

"Yes."

"That's crazy."

"No, that's very Chinese."

Two. I'm Not from Tianjin, But I Understand the Precision of 18 Folds

My name is Liu Jiayong, from Heilongjiang. Northeasterners also eat baozi, but Northeastern baozi are big — fist-sized, filled with cabbage and pork, thick-skinned, and one bite releases a mouthful of oil. The first time I ate Tianjin baozi was in 1995. My father took me to Tianjin on a business trip.

I remember the shop was called "Goubuli." There was a long queue outside. When it was our turn, the server brought a basket of baozi. I counted: eight per basket, each with 18 folds.

18 folds. Not one more, not one less.

I asked my father: "Why 18?"

Father said: "Because 18 is a lucky number."

"Just lucky?"

"No. Because a baozi with 18 folds is the hardest to make. Fewer, and it doesn't look good; more, and the skin breaks easily. 18 is the perfect balance."

That image, I have remembered for thirty years.

Later I went to Europe and opened a restaurant in Florence. Once I asked an Italian pastry chef to make baozi. His baozi had crooked folds — some had 15, some had 22. I asked him: "Why not 18?"

He said: "What does it matter? The taste is the same."

That day I understood: Tianjin baozi is not a dish, it is a craft. The core of this craft is not the filling, but the skin. The skin must be exactly 1 millimeter thick, the 18 folds evenly distributed, and the closing of the baozi like a budding flower.

Europeans also care about bread-making. Italian baguettes must be golden and crispy on the outside with large air holes inside. French croissants must have 108 layers of butter. But European precision is for "perfection." Tianjin baozi precision is for "rules."

Perfection is art. Rules are life.

Three. Tianjin Is a Port City, and Baozi Is the Dock Worker's Survival Wisdom

Tianjin is not an ordinary Northern city. Tianjin is a port. Since the Ming Dynasty, Tianjin has been the maritime gateway to Beijing. Goods, ships, and people from all directions converge at Tianjin's docks.

What characterizes dock culture? Speed. The ship arrives, cargo must be unloaded, workers need to eat. There is no time to sit down in a restaurant and order dishes. They need a food: pick it up and eat, gives strength, cheap, and filling.

Baozi is the answer.

Tianjin baozi are "water-filled." What does that mean? The meat filling is mixed with water (usually chicken broth or skin jelly) so that the filling contains juice. One bite, the juice comes out first, then the meat, then the skin. Three bites per baozi, one minute per meal.

This design is not accidental. It is the result of hundreds of years of "iteration" by Tianjin dock workers. The workers need speed, heat, and oil. Water-filled baozi satisfies everything.

At my restaurant in Florence, a group of Italian construction workers once came. They ordered my Tianjin baozi. One worker finished his first and said:

"This is better than a panino (Italian sandwich). Because it has soup inside."

I said: "Yes. Because Chinese people know that workers need not just solid food, but also liquid."

Four. Why Is Goubuli Baozi Filling Salty? Not Sweet, Not Spicy

Europeans have a misunderstanding about baozi filling. They think Chinese baozi only has one kind: pork filling. But Tianjin baozi has more than a dozen fillings: pork and three delicacies (pork + shrimp + chives), chicken and mushroom, vegetarian assorted (various vegetables).

But the most classic is still pork filling. Why pork?

Because pork is cheap in Tianjin. Tianjin is in North China, and pig farming is the main agriculture. Pork is the meat ordinary people can afford. The filling uses "three parts fat, seven parts lean" pork. The fat provides oil for juice; the lean provides protein for chewiness.

Marco asked me: "Why not beef?"

"Because beef is too expensive."

"Why not chicken?"

"Because chicken is too dry."

"Why not lamb?"

"Because lamb is too gamey."

Pork is not the best choice. Pork is the most balanced choice. This is Tianjin wisdom: not pursuing perfection, but pursuing suitability.

European burgers also use pork. But European burgers are made from a whole piece of meat pressed flat — you bite into the texture of the meat. Tianjin baozi filling is minced, with meat, scallion, ginger, and soy sauce mixed together. You can't see the original shape of the meat, but you can taste its soul.

This is called "hua" — to transform. To blend ingredients together into a new flavor. This is the philosophy of Chinese cuisine.

Five. Goubuli Baozi Was Served at State Banquets, But Tianjin People Prefer to Eat on the Street

Goubuli baozi has a glorious history: Premier Zhou Enlai once brought Goubuli baozi to a state banquet to entertain foreign heads of state. It was a basket of exquisite baozi, each with 18 folds, neatly arranged like works of art.

But Tianjin people don't eat Goubuli at state banquets. Tianjin people eat it at street-side shops.

I once ate the cheapest baozi on a Tianjin street: eight per basket, eight yuan. The baozi were not large, but the filling was generous. One bite, juice splashed onto my hand. Next to me sat a taxi driver, eating while looking at his phone. His speed was: three bites per baozi, two minutes per basket.

I asked him: "Is it good?"

He said: "Bei'r haochi." ("Really delicious.")

"Bei'r" is Tianjin dialect. It means "very." Tianjin people speak with energy — a single sentence can contain three "bei'r."

These baozi are not as refined as those at state banquets. The skin might be a bit thicker, the folds a bit fewer. But they are hot, just out of the steamer, alive.

European Michelin restaurants also care about "hot" and "fresh." But Michelin's "hot" and "fresh" are expensive. Tianjin baozi's "hot" and "fresh" are democratic. Anybody can afford it.

At my restaurant in Florence, I sell Tianjin baozi for 3 euros each. An Italian guest said: "So cheap?"

I said: "In Tianjin, eight baozi cost eight yuan."

His eyes widened: "Eight? Eight yuan?"

"Yes. Because baozi is not a luxury. Baozi is the people's food."

Six. When I Explain Tianjin Baozi to Marco, I Don't Explain Baozi — I Explain Craftsmanship

The third time Marco came to my house, I took him to "Tianjin" — not real Tianjin, but my "Tianjin Corner" in Florence: a table in my restaurant, a basket of baozi, a pot of tea, and a dish of vinegar.

"Coach," he said, "how do I start?"

"Observe first."

"Observe what?"

"Observe the folds. 18. The distance between each fold is equal. This is called 'rules.'"

Then he picked up a baozi and gently bit into it. Juice flowed out.

"Then?"

"Then feel. The skin is less than 1 millimeter thick, but inside is juice, meat, and scallion. Three layers of flavor, inside a sphere less than 5 centimeters in diameter. This is called 'inclusion.'"

"Inclusion?"

"Yes. Baozi is a microcosm of Chinese culture: outside is the skin, inside can be anything. Sweet, salty, vegetarian, meat — anything can be wrapped inside. But no matter what is wrapped, the final shape is round. This is called 'he' — harmony."

Marco put down his chopsticks and looked at me.

"Coach, I'm starting to understand China."

"What?"

"Chinese people don't pursue the best. Chinese people pursue the most balanced."

I said: "Yes. Tianjin baozi is not the most delicious food in the world. But it is the most balanced food in the world. Skin and filling balance, salty and fresh balance, fast and slow balance. A worker finishes one baozi in three bites, then has the strength to unload a ship. This is the power of balance."

Postscript: When I Make Tianjin Baozi in Florence, I Am Trying to Find the Child Who Counted Folds

I have been in Europe for twenty-five years, six in Florence. I have made countless dishes, but every time I make Tianjin baozi, I remember the summer of 1995.

That eight-year-old me, sitting in a Tianjin Goubuli shop, counting the 18 folds on the baozi, asking my father: "Why 18?"

My father said: "Because 18 is the most perfect balance."

Thirty years later, in my kitchen in Florence, I fold the baozi one by one. I count: 1, 2, 3... 18. Then I put the baozi into the steamer and watch the steam rise.

At that moment, I am not in Florence. I am in Tianjin. My father sits across from me, watching me count folds.

Inside the folds of a baozi, there is a child's curiosity, a father's patience, and a city's craftsmanship.

Tianjin baozi is not food. Tianjin baozi is memory.

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> Coach Liu Says

>

> Tianjin baozi is not the most refined dish in the world, but it is the most honest dish in the world. It doesn't need a knife and fork, doesn't need a plate — only a pair of hands and a mouth. The next time you eat Tianjin baozi, don't rush to bite. Count the folds first: are there 18? If not, the shop is not authentic. If yes, it means the shop still follows the old rules. In this world that doesn't follow rules, following rules is itself a form of power.

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