Over the weekend, Jacob and I stayed at a friend's lane house in Shanghai's French Concession. It's a live-work space that is occupied by a web company, and all the techies is get their caffeine and sugar fixes from Paul, a French bakery that opened in the city last year. (I'm sure in Paris Paul is considered average, but in Shanghai a Western bakery can't be found on every corner.) Every morning we were in Shanghai one of us would make a Paul run, and come back with croissants, rolls, etc.

On Saturday, just as I was about to step out to meet my cousin for a soup dumpling lunch, J came through the door with two enormous bags. One was from Paul and was filled with Danishes, doughnuts, olive rolls, and a ham sandwich on baguette. The other was from Mr. Donut; it had a selection of large and mini doughnuts, and a little cardboard caddy of macarons.

"I didn't know Mister Donut made macarons," I said.

J shrugged. "They were 7 kuai. It's worth a try."

I just got back from a long weekend in Shanghai, where I fit in as much good eating as I could in 4 days. One place that had been on my must-visit list for a looooong time was Jia Jia Tang Bao, reportedly one of the best places for xiaolongbao (soup dumplings) in Shanghai. And since Shanghai claims xiaolongbao as a native food (others would argue that it orginated from surrounded towns), some afficionados think Jia Jia Tang Bao has some of the best in the world.

The ideal xiaolongbao, for the uninitiated, should have very thin, almost translucent skin, and equal parts soup and filling inside. I dream about these dumplings, and have tried so many poor versions that I want to cry every time. Often the skin is too think, sometimes there's not enough soup. When you are eating a perfect xiaolongbao, you should be worried about your clothes getting soup stains from a squirty dumpling.