Chapter 1
I’m about half of a second into an Asian dumpling before I have to resist jumping up and down.
Not only is there a meat-to-wrapper filling that is killer, but the dipping sauce is damn divine.
“Oh my God, Megan Madonna, you need these!”
My assistant does not object when I pull her into the pile of goodness.
“You have to taste this absolute heaven,” I gush.
It’s one bite before she agrees. Her sigh echoes mine as she nods and keeps filming.
“Isn’t it easier if you just call me Megan?” she suggests between bites. “We didn’t just meet.”
“Nope. Not happening. Not with that idyllic name. Megan Madonna it is.” I sigh blissfully and devour another dumpling. “Why is it so hard to find the perfect dumpling? Gyoza, potsticker, momo? Whatever. But this is it, yes?”
This eating thing is the best job ever.
Again, I tell myself how lucky I am to have fallen into this weird but amazing life. This career. The idea that I’d need an agent for anything? Nonetheless one to help me manage book and TV invitations? And that I’d need such an invaluable assistant? It’s bananas.
I started my restaurant-review accounts and blog on social media in college way, way before it was trendy.
I’m still astounded by the devotion of my followers and how they’ve stuck with me for so long, especially considering how many other similar accounts are out there now.
I’m pushing over a million. But it’s not that kind of number that even shocks me the most. It’s that I’ve somehow managed to curate a group of people who aren’t horrible.
Every day, I melt over how loving and supportive my followers are.
There are invites from really upscale restaurants and hotels now and then, but my heart remains where it began—with the smaller, often-overlooked restaurants. Ones who really need and deserve love and attention.
Like this spot I’m at in Allston tonight.
It’s a new favorite of mine, one I’ve been to a few times now, and I feel a particular need to make this spot blow up like mad.
It might not look like much from the outside, but I’ve found places like this to be the hidden gems. The restaurant name is a little odd—Dumpling Me You and Noodle—but maybe a very cute one? I’m going with cute.
An older Chinese gentleman smiles when he emerges from the kitchen and sees me going over the menu, and he calls out and beckons someone from the front of the place to join us.
Usually, I’d think that someone had alerted him to who I am—that I might be there to do a review—but that’s not what’s happening tonight.
All I know is that I’d just eaten and fallen head over heels for the food, and then after I’d audibly groaned, this man essentially drags me back into his kitchen and points to my phone, then to Megan’s phone.
We struggle to keep up, as it feels like we are chasing him, but his excitement is contagious.
Megan Madonna is laughing as we sprint, but she’s got her phone in hand.
Ah, he’s seen us filming. After starting to showing me all his cooking stations and obviously trying to talk me through each one, it’s beyond clear that we’ve hit a communication snag.
But there are translation apps, I think, and so within minutes we are exuberantly chatting back and forth.
After reading our translated messages, my eyes widen, and I put my hand over my heart. He gets me, and I get him.
We are noodle and dumpling lovers at heart.
He nods enthusiastically when I send him a new translated text about getting more dumplings to go and when I point eagerly at a picture on the menu of rice noodles, laden with sauce, and topped with a hefty amount of cilantro
All of a sudden, a tall, stunning woman appears and steps by Chu. “Choo Choo?”
There’s a flurry of language that I don’t understand, and Chu raises his voice, but then this young woman turns to me and smiles.
“Ah, Diana, right? My grandfather is calling you the Dumpling Girl.” She steps back after Chu yells something.
“Okay, okay. I hear you!” Her stance is very cute. “You’re also Noodle Girl?”
“I guess so? I didn’t mean to be either. Are those bad things?”
“The opposite. Those are high praises and nicknames from my grandfather.” After a few more minutes of dialogue that I am embarrassed not to understand, she turns and smiles at me. “I’m Jia. And you’re apparently now my grandfather’s new best friend.”
“I am? Why is that?”
“He says you appreciate his food in ways most people don’t. And if you ask me, he likes the attention you’re giving him by filming and everything.”
“Did he get annoyed with you just now, though? For a second?”
Jia laughs. “He gets pissed when I call him Choo Choo. But, you know, when I was a little kid and he was my grandfather Chu, I turned it into Choo Choo, like the train sound all kids are taught. Whatever. It makes me laugh to irritate him sometimes.” She winks and gives me her number.
“I think it’s cute how he’s loving you so much.
He doesn’t engage with many people, as he just wants to be back in the kitchen.
I like that you seem to have taken an interest in him. Text if you need anything.”
While I can’t imagine what I could need, I smile and appreciate that she touches me on my shoulder.
Megan Madonna and I leave entranced by these two.
Just a few blocks from home, I glide down the sidewalk, feeling elated.
I divide up food and send Megan Madonna home with several yummy meals and plenty of awesome footage, knowing that she’ll put together great videos that will help promote this amazing and obscure little spot.
Sometimes, I have her follow me and take footage; other times, I use my phone; more recently, I’ve been taping my stuff with these weirdly cool video glasses.
Between the two of us, we compile posts.
It’s probably odd that I don’t love being on camera, given what I do, but when I started, gaining such a following never occurred to me. And now I can’t stop, nor do I want to. I just have to suck up my shyness.
I still have zero clue why I’m killing it on social media when there are countless younger and such stunning influencers with great hooks.
And here I am, having stumbled into this success without the typical glamour of most female influencers.
I’m a fair-skinned redhead, wearing basic clothing, marching around Boston, marginal makeup, and typically with my long curly red hair gone wild.
Mostly it’s messily gathered in a clip against my head.
That or my curls are just flying every which way.
I’m just not interested in fussing over my looks.
Not to mention that I cannot compete with the thousands of thirsties out there who love themselves more than they care about people.
I’m just out here being me, eating all the good foods and having fun.
I don’t get how I started these restaurant-review trends.
Like, at all. But it’s an exciting and fulfilling career, and I’m really grateful for the love, for hearing how I’ve inspired people to start similar accounts.
When I near the convenience store by my house, Mark—the guy who lives on the street and with whom I’ve chatted regularly—waves, and I wave back.
“Need anything tonight?” I ask.
“You’re sweet, love, but I’m okay.” He never asks for a thing unless he’s truly desperate.
Still, inside, I fill my arms with water bottles, Gatorade, premade sandwiches, and granola bars. When I start to check out, I make a comment about how these are for the guy who lives on the corner, stupidly assuming anyone at the register would be a fan of helping someone in need.
The girl who rings me up doesn’t even hide her disdain. “For him? Seems like a waste for that loser.”
It takes but a second for me to fly into a full yet silent rage and dump my armful of apparent shit onto the counter and only another beat for me to grab a basket, soldier through the store, and grab every single thing I can think of that Mark may want or need.
My arms are shaking under the weight before I return to the counter, where I set down a soda, almost causing an explosive mess that would give me shameful satisfaction.
“So, those who are without a home are damn worthless, right? We should ignore them, look the other way? Label them? Shame them? Assume they are somehow getting what they deserve? Do you realize how easily that could happen to you, Miss Cashier Girl? If you suddenly lost your job, couldn’t pay your rent, pay for food or medications?
You would expect someone, somewhere to help you, right? Because YOU deserve help?”
She looks at me with a mixture of shock and fear. Fueled by anger, I grab every gift card from the display, push them toward the cashier, and almost violently slide my credit card against the reader.
As I snatch my bags from the little carousel and prepare to exit this gross establishment, I decide to scream out some words of wisdom. “Karma’s a bitch, sweetie.”
I realize that while I was throwing my epic fit, four glorious souls lined up behind me and proceed to clap wildly. They scatter and rush throughout the small store, returning to the register with their hands full. They are all in.
Our group leaves the store in solidarity and gently delivers supplies to Mark to help get him through several days. Cash. Gift cards. Someone volunteers to walk him to a hotel, to check him in for a week.
Times like this seem tragically rare, but I am in love with humanity right now.
There are a few hugs and subtle fist bumps, but it’s all mostly low-key.
Unspoken. No one even motions to hold up their phone.
And that makes it even more beautiful. There are times to film, times to not.
To let the moment play out. That being said, I would like to see his life change, so I ask him if it’d be okay to share his story online and snag a picture of the two of us.
Mark is touched, so I feel comfortable sending his information to Megan Madonna with our cute photo.
Me: GoFundMe?
Megan: I’m on it!
I reach into my purse and hand Mark some cash and a Visa gift card.
“This should be enough for some fresh clothes and another week at the hotel just up the street. My friend, who is a painter, is looking to hire more people for his crew. They paint houses, mostly during the warm months, but he’s expanding to do interior painting.
Since it’s September in New England, that means it’ll be cool soon.
More projects for you.” I tear off a piece of a footlong receipt and write down my number and my friend’s number.
Mark shuffles his feet. “You think I could be a good painter?”
“No doubt, my friend.”
Megan Madonna has already replied that she’s so all over this. Mark is now in the good hands of my gracious and compassionate followers.