We were on the way to the Guggenheim yesterday when it occurred to us that we were hungry. Following which, it very swiftly occurred to us that we needed to abandon ship, where “ship” was the vessel that is the F train, because art is art, but soup dumplings at Joe’s Shanghai are something else altogether. We headed down Grand Street with its Vietnamese restaurants and its tantalizing roast-duck aroma in the air, hanging a right on Bowery with the scent of char siew baos hot and sweet through icy raindrops. And, my word, xiao long baos at Joe’s Shanghai are never a bad thing, but xiao long baos at Joe’s Shanghai when it’s wet and cold outside, well, that’s just heaven. And heaven sure knows how to set out a feast for girls like us, with a mound of garlicky dou miao, which I’d been craving for weeks now; a couple of unexpected turnip cakes; and a dish of crispy pork chops with pepper salt and a soupbowl of Chinese-restaurant-regulation-style sweet and sour sauce in a shade of red not of this world.