I caught Polly Frost and Ray Sawhill’s latest one-act play, “The Last Artist in New York,” at PS 122 this evening, as part of one of that augustly downmarket institution’s variety nights. You may remember Polly and Ray as the perpetrators of the pioneering web video miniseries The Fold, which might best be summed up as autistic boy meets girl who happens to be Joan of Arc via time machine in midst of universal orgasm. I met several of The Fold’s players. This was weird for me. Each time, Polly would say, “this is so-and-so, whom you remember from The Fold.” Were it better known, or did it count for something beoynd my own embarrasment, the poverty of my memory for actors would be notorious. As it was, I had to wonder to myself whether or not I’d seen this young actress bare her Ivy League titties, that actor rub one off into a time machine or… no, that was definitely the maxiumum lover from the New Jersey hot tub scene. His handshake was limp, and he was much less hairy in person. Speaking of hairy, Jennifer Miller of Circus Amok was in attendance, and got up on stage for a 40-second dance bit, which made this a genuine celebrity evening in my minor estimation.

After the show, Ray bought me a beer, while I struggled to make conversation with the actress whose secondary genitalia I may or may not have seen on the web. I felt very much like the autistic genius from The Fold, only without the genius or the time machine. Maybe it was this interaction put the idea of dumplings in my head. I stayed a little too long, got on my bike, wove a little too fast through Friday night East Village party-time traffic, making for Chinatown, the Manhattan Bridge, and the safety of Brooklyn. But I wanted dumplings first. I was thinking New Green Bo, but was distracted at the crucial moment by a police cordon around a Friday night party-time accident, and found myself on the bridge ramp, engaged in one of those commuter races you can’t avoid with a couple of those guys on fixed gears against whom I can’t win. (Not going downhill, anyway. On the way up the bridge, I wiped the tarmac with them. I know that doesn’t make sense, but that’s the way it was.) I made a few of those turns I’ve learned to make without knowing precisely where they are — the streets probably are named after actors — headed south on the Henry St. bike lane until there was bike lane no more, made a right on Sackett, and braked hard. Dumplings. Right there. Still open, too.

Eton is Eton’s place. Eton is a solid Brooklyn Asian guy, maybe late 20s, who in my mind wore a white baseball cap, even if he didn’t actually. His storefront is clean and bright, and serves hand-pulled noodles, Hawaiian shave ice, and dumpings. The shave ice was the start of it. On their honeymoon in Hawaii, Eton and his wife encountered shave ice: “I said, I got to bring this back to Brooklyn,” he said. Surprisingly, it’s harder to get a mobile food vendor’s license in the City than it is to get a restaurant license, so the shave-ice cart idea went by the wayside. Eton had been working in French and Asian restaurants in Manhattan. He started making dumplings as snacks, then for catering. He did his research, and concocted some fillings and sauces that were a bit more solid and spicy, respectively, than the norm. The wrappers got special attention. They’re made in-house, and they’re very fine, an ideal blend of layeredness and elasticity, closer to pastry than to your average pot-sticker. Pan-frying — and all Eton’s dumplings are pan-fried — shows them off to great advantage. Eton’s minions were a gangly white guy and a Mexican dude. No old Chinese ladies, singing songs as they rolled the dough. The dumplings did not suffer for their absence.

I had a dumpling plate: half a dozen beef-pork-and-cabbage dumplings, the cabbage fully assimilated, with a pronounced beef flavor to the large, firm meatballs within;
ginger-vinegar sauce and, at Eton’s prompting, a spicy plum sauce for dipping; a nondescript mesclun salad, with an unusual strawberry viniagrette; a big slab of hot white rice; a styrofoam plate. $6. The sauces are well-homogenized, but appear to be homemade.

I didn’t try the shave ice. It was a little cool out for me, for that, but a trio of barhoppers did, in humongous servings, topped with something white (whipped cream?). Come summer, I’ll be all over that. It’s where I turn the corner. Eton’ll be there: he lives across the street.

Eton’s dumplings and shave ice. Corner of Henry and Sackett, Cobble Hill, BK. Open late, but not too late. Good dumplings, as good as anywhere.

“The Last Artist in New York” runs through Saturday, 5/16, 7:30pm, at PS122, corner of 1st Ave and 9th St, Manhattan.