The pastry kitchen at Lung Wah is a small white room above the dining room. Wai-Lin has been there since 4am. She offers tea — the proper kind, not bag — and starts folding har gow.
"My mother taught me three things. One: never trust a wonton skin you didn't fold yourself. Two: nobody in Glasgow knows what they're tasting, so don't take it personally when they ask for sweet-and-sour. Three: if you change the soy sauce, you change the dish. Don't change the soy sauce."
She uses the same Lee Kum Kee dark soy her family has used since the 80s. "It's not nostalgia. It's the only one that gives you that colour without going bitter. People try to substitute. I taste it immediately."
Lung Wah turns 11 next year. The menu is roughly the same as the menu was when they opened. Wai-Lin sees no reason to change it. "Why would I? It works. The good kitchens know this. The new kitchens have to learn it."
She slides a finished basket of har gow across the bench. "Try one. Tell me if I'm right about the soy."