EatingAsia

We Heart Hsinchu

The blogosphere is a wonderful thing. Especially when it leads you to little gems like Hsinchu.

Hsinchu is about an hour south of Taipei by train. It rates the merest mention in most guidebooks; we wouldn't have even thought to include it in our Taiwan west coast itinerary, had it not been for the urgings of this blogger, who was lucky enough to spend two months there last summer.

So we stopped in for a night. And ended up staying three.

Home to a Science and Technology Park, Hsinchu is ground zero for Taiwan's high-tech industry. Think Silicon Valley and all that it's meant for the San Francisco Bay Area and you'll get an idea of Hsinchu's attractions. The city boasts an energetic vibe probably attributable to its youngish, well-educated (more PhDs per capita in Hsinchu than anywhere else on Taiwan), fairly well-off population. There's an arts scene, and a fair bit of live music - both touched with characteristic Taiwanese wackiness. The city's downtown is exceedingly walkable, a wonderful mix of old (Japanese colonial buildings, old temples, even a moat) and new (cheeky bars, restaurants, coffee houses and boutiques, many hidden away down narrow lanes).

First, the old - and delicious.

Sketched on one of Aiguo Wu Xiao Chi's ('Patriots' House Little Eats') two windows is a cartoonish drawing of a pigs's head. Serious Pork Served Here.

The thirty-year-old restaurant, squeezed into a rear corner of Hsinchu's central Dongmen Market, is run by fifty-something Zheng Fu Wen and his wife (he does most of the cooking). What you see in the photos above and below is pretty much what you get: four tables (two inside, two out), a tiny prep area and,outside and in front of the shop's other window, a case displaying the day's dishes.

Some are already cooked, to be eaten room temperature or gently reheated in one of Mr. Zheng's well-worn hand-hammered sauciers. Others are an assemblage of raw ingredients waiting to be boiled, steamed, sauteed, or fried. 

Our introductory meal here, an assemblage of dishes including stuffed and simmered squid;

silky soy sauce-brushed milkfish (which has nudged aside tuna to assume top position in our ranking of tasty piscene specimens) with housemade chili-bean sauce; vibrantly green-tasting local spinach;

a version of fanquie jidan (tomatoes and eggs) that elevates this basic Chinese classic to new gustatory heights (this dish just knocked our socks off - seriously, it did);

 

and a bowl of rice topped with Serious Pork -- an over-the-top stew of fatty cuts (opening photo) -- and liberally sprinkled with black pepper, left us frankly awed.

It was an utterly unpretentious, homely meal prepared from wonderful ingredients utilizing techniques that highlighted their flavors. And it cost thirty Taiwan dollars (about 95 US cents) a dish.

Wow.

Was there any doubt we'd return the next day?

This time we scored an inside table,

                     

and feasted on more of that Serious Pork, this time splodged over thick, chewy noodles;

batons of tofu skin simmered in soy sauce with red and green peppers - a bit of gluten-ish chew, a bit of crunch; and okra, eggplant, and white bitter melon lightly blanched, drizzled with oyster sauce and sesame oil and sprinkled with chopped scallions and garlic.

 

We would have gone back the next day for more, had Aiguo Wu not been closed.

Before we rolled out the door after our second lunch the chatty Mr. Zheng, who's puffed with pride in his kitchen skills (and justifiably so), hauled out a jar of rufu (fermented bean curd) that he put up himself and offered us each a spoonful. It was smooth as mochi skin, a little sweet, quite rice-winey, barely salty. Fantastic, in a word. I could see spreading on toast.

Patriots' House - just one reason to return to Hsinchu, as soon as we get the chance.

(Thanks Xander. We really owe you one!)

Aiguo Wu Xiaochi, 1001 Dongmen Market. Early morning to 7pm-ish. Days off not fixed. (03) 5249612, (0911) 569-019.

Kwongtuck Sundries

Penang-ites like to chat. It's one of the best things about the place.

Many older residents can be a bit stand-offish at first, but we've found that's usually because they're not confident of their English. In most cases if you're friendly and a little persistent the barrier falls, and this is when you can hear some great stories.

Walking up Campbell Street towards Cintra one morning we passed a big smoked pig's leg hanging in the entry to an 'everything' shop called Kwongtuck Sundries. The place looked, well, storied. The old man sitting at the counter glanced up at us without obvious interest, then back down at his paper. We were on our way to somewhere else and kept walking.

A couple days later we found ourselves lunching next door at Tho Yuen, an old Cantonese restaurant, where we ordered our meal from the stall at the front. The vendor's Hainanese-style poached chicken is fine, his roasted chicken is excellent, and his kiam chai boi superb, sharply sour and spicy with an intensely fowl-flavored broth. After two days of heavy-duty hawker stall chowing we were in need of vegetables, and Tho Yuen's female staff cooks choy sum leaves, lettuce, and broccoli just so, blanching the greens for thirty seconds maximum and then drizzling them with garlic oil and soy and oyster sauces.

We took a table on the sidewalk. Next to us was a collection of regulars seated around a couple teapots, all in various states of caffeine and comradery-induced gaiety. One man offered us some local cashews (perfectly toasted, crisp and tasty), another told us of family in California, still another listed the advantages of living in Penang (relatively little traffic, green space, good food). When the men learned that we were in Penang to work on a food story, they simultaneously turned to the shop behind them.

"You've got to check this place out!" they said. It was Kwongtuck Sundries. We hadn't noticed until then that their table sat directly below the big pig's leg.

"Will the owner talk to us, do you think?" I asked. The old man was once again behind the counter, reading a newspaper, studiously ignoring the activity right outside his shop.

"Definately!" they laughed.

And sure enough, when I approached and told him that we were interested in old foods in Georgetown eighty-year-old Woo Shee Khow lit up like a jack o' lantern, jumping up to grab a copy of a local newspaper featuring a story about his shop.

Kwongtuck has been selling liquor, packaged foods and sauces, dried fish and meats for over 170 years. The leg hanging in the entryway is 'Chinese prosciutto', salted and air-dried ham from Chin Wah district in Zhejiang province, forty-two ringgit a kilo. Kwangtuck used to receive stock directly from China, until Penang lost free port status. Now everything comes via Kuala Lumpur.

The shop also formerly sold a much wider selection of Chinese liquors, but that business fell off when Malaysia increased the duty on imported booze.

"But I won't complain too much about that," said Mr. Woo, referencing an old Chinese saying: Ren pa chu ming, zhu pa fei. (A man is afraid of becoming well-known, a pig is afraid of getting fat.)

Mr. Woo is the fourth generation in his family to run Kwangtuck, whose name is a combination the first character of his great-grandfather's hometown (Kwangtung or Canton) and another character, de in Mandarin and tuck in Cantonese, which means 'virtue' or 'moral character'.

On a wall at the rear of the shop hang two black and white photos. On the left is Mr. Woo's father as a young man, on the right his grandfather, in traditional Chinese dres. "Taken during the Qing Dynasty," Mr. Woo proudly told us.

We've developed a bit of a fetish for old Chinese shop houses. Architecturally speaking Kwongtuck is gorgeous, its high wood-beamed ceiling exposed and original wooden staircase intact. Light streaming through the shop's characteristic interior air well floods its rear reaches. Standing in the front, amidst boxes of dried squid and sea cucumber, you can squint your eyes and almost imagine this little slice of Georgetown a hundred and fifty years ago.

We would have liked to hang out with Mr. Soo a bit longer, but we had another appointment to keep. We'll be back.

Before we left, Dave asked Mr. Woo to pose for a photo. He agreed, but insisted on donning a proper shirt first.

Ayam Goreng Jogja

I'm well behind on posts - we've still lots to show and tell from Taiwan, Penang, and now Langkawi, where we've been parked since Sunday.

Today I haven't even a photo to share (the photographer's off somewhere in the mangroves as I type), but I do have a link - to our story, in today's Wall Street Journal Asia, on Jogjakarta's tasty take on fried bird.

More after we return to the big, bad city (that's Kuala Lumpur). Have a great weekend, folks!

Cafe Society

Everytime we go to Penang we cover Georgetown on foot, north to south and east to west, often walking the same stretch of road five or six times in a single day. Yet - amazingly - we always come away with new finds.

This find isn't our own; a friend who's known Penang much longer than we have can take credit for the perfect kopi with toast and kaya we enjoyed the other morning at Toh Soon Cafe.

To label Toh Soon a 'cafe' may be stretching it a bit. The place is more of a family-owned assembly line occupying a galley kitchen that opens onto an alley crowded with tables.

At 8am on Saturday we grabbed the last two available seats, placed our order and, following the example set by the cafe's regulars, sat back to await delivery.

Malaysian kopi has its detractors, but when it's made well (and it's not always) we quite like it. Like Vietnamese coffee - about which most every tourist seems to rave - it's adulterated. Most beans that go into a classic cup of Malaysian kopi  are roasted with sugar, which caramelizes and even burns during the process, resulting in an exceedingly dark and slightly bitter brew that - like Vietnamese cafe (in Vietnam beans are also often roasted with sugar, among other ingredients) - marries perfectly with sweetened condensed milk. 

Toh Soon's kopi is not the very best in town, we think. But it's right up there.

Another element in Toh Soon's favor:before it sandwiches salted butter and a thin smear of excellent kaya (coconut and egg jam), the cafe's bread is painstakingly grilled over charcoal. It's quite an ingenious contraption they've got going in that galley kitchen, actually - an old oil drum with a charcoal fire in the center. On top, water boils for kopi. Beneath, flames brown the bread.

Sure, a toaster would be more convenient. But the result wouldn't be as delicious, and that's why Toh Soon is heaving. Untill 9am anyway, when traffic police take to the streets to enforce Georgetown's ban on curbside parking, and you're practically guaranteed a seat.

Toh Soon Cafe, alley off Lebuh Campbell just shy of Jalan Penang (across the street from from Lean Wah Silk Merchant), Georgetown, Penang. Mornings, every other Tuesday closed.

We're Taking a Brief Hiatus ...

                One darned friendly mee goreng vendor, King Street, Georgetown

...from our  'I Love Taiwan' series for a few posts on Penang.

We've been here for a couple of days and - yes - we still love it. More to come.

The Fish Ball Redemption

 
I've noted before that a good meal can put a shine on an otherwise unattractive city. And so it was in Taichung.

First strike against Taichung: we arrived from Tainan, a fantastically friendly xiao chi ('small eats') lover's paradise (more on this later). Tainan is a hard act to follow.

Strike number two: Taichung is ugly. Or, at least, the part of town we landed in is. Our guidebook praised the 'charming' Japanese-era architecture in the city's older section. The train station is lovely and there are a few gems within walking distance. But the area is dominated by grimed-up, hulking blue glass and tile-clad monstrosities, the likes of which we haven't seen much of since our days on the mainland.

More discouraging: in this area, anyway, a curious lack of eateries, street food vendors, even the tiny tea stalls we'd come to take for granted in Tainan and Taipei. Walking or cabbing in the latter two cities is like going on an Easter egg hunt. Every city block holds treasures; train your eyes to sift through the clutter and you'll find the most wonderful things. Not so in Taichung; we walked a good twenty minutes before even landing an iced tea.

The final blow - and granted, this has nothing at all to do with the city itself - came when the skies opened up. At about 5 in the evening it started to rain and it didn't stop until we left town16 hours later. That night we ate mediocre rice noodles and roast goose at a stall close to our dump of a hotel. It was heaving with customers; we never did figure out why. We left half-full bowls and plates on our table (a first - and last - on this Taiwan trip). Then we picked up a bottle of Tunnel 88 (Premium) and headed back to our room to plan our escape.

We awoke to gray skies, monsoonal rains, and second thoughts. 'Maybe we should try again,' we said to each other. And so we headed to the nearest 7-11 for umbrellas and then to the market where we found, at 8:30am, all but two of the stalls in an otherwise promising-looking (in size, at least) food court shuttered.

'It's raining,' shrugged an orange juice vendor, when I asked why the place was deserted.

We pulled up stools at a stall selling fried radish and rice cakes. The seller was sullen. I tried to engage her in a little chit-chat about her specialty but she wasn't having any. We were finding Taichung-ites to be another of Taichung's drawbacks.

Then, ready to throw in the towel, we stumbled across what may just be Taichung's 'historic' quarter's single redeeming factor: Fuzhou Yimin Lao Dian (Old Fuzhou Yi Noodles Shop).

'Third-generation' the shop's sign says, but it's a little out of date. This man is the fourth generation - fourth generation!! - to run the business started by his great-grandfather, who immigrated from Fuzhou to Taiwan during the Japanese occupation.

He's not resting on the shop's laurels. Everything is still made by hand (his father helps out now and again). And the food is superb.

We started with a noodles - dry, balls in broth on the side. The wheat flour pasta was flat, silky, supple, with a pleasing toothsomeness, embellished with blanched bean sprouts, truly porky minced pork, and slivered green onions; broth on the side also tasted strongly of the pig. Here black pepper is applied with a heavy hand (as at our favorite Fuzhou meat biscuits stall in Taipei).

There are three kinds of fish balls (see opening photo): shrimp, studded with nubs of water chestnut, sweet and bursting with the briny flavor of the shellfish; ocean fish, really tasting of their main ingredient (fish balls are so often disappointingly devoid of true fish flavor); and a fish-and-meat combo ball, consisting of a thick 'shell' of similarly fishy fish paste enclosing a large marble of chopped pork mixed with minced Chinese celery, more black pepper, and sesame oil.

When Dave took a bite of the latter it spurted meaty juices; my t-shirt has the grease stains to prove it.

Each ball boasted a distinct texture. The shrimp balls, rustically nubby, were only slightly resistant to the teeth, while the fish balls were decidedly 'Q' (that bouncy elasticity that Taiwanese prize). The combo balls were Q outside, all crumbly tenderness within. 

We were so thrilled we went back for more, dipping into the justifiably famous handmade wonton (slippery wrappers, sublimely porcine filling) and ordering another round of balls.

By the time we downed our last shrimp balls and slurped our last drops of soup Taichung was definately looking up. We vowed to give the city another chance on our next swing through Taiwan.

Or at least, stop in long enough for fish balls.

Old Fuzhou Yimin Shop. No. 1-7 in the No. 2 Market (Sanmin Road, Section 2), Taichung. 04-2220-4335.

Not a Night Market

'Don't miss the night markets!'

These words of advice fall upon the ears of every Taiwan-bound traveler. The island's night markets are legendary: big and bright, loud and crowded (in a good way), packed with vendor after vendor selling sweets and savories, to eat sitting down or nosh while shuffling along with hundreds of fellow marketers.

If you're new to Taiwanese street food a visit to a night market offers a convenient, one-stop-shopping sort of introduction to what's out there. And rubbing shoulders with Taiwanese, who are unfailingly welcoming, is always fun.

But frankly the quality of night market food is inconsistent. Most markets include one or several lauded food vendors, but that's among many dozens. In other words, eating at a night market can be a crap shoot. If it's dependable deliciousness that you're after, head to a morning market.

While most night market food is half about flavor and half about entertainment, morning market food is about goodness, period. Morning market diners want to do nothing but eat, and their focus is on what's on the plate (or in the bowl) in front of them. Vendors don't get points for novelty, a flashy stall, or proximity to a seller of inexpensive, terribly hip handbags.

And their food must pass muster with customers ranging from twenty-something newlywed housewives and hunched-over aunties who know their way around a kitchen to macho butchers and ancient fishmongers. If it's not good, they won't be around for long.

We dined at morning markets up and down Taiwan's west coast and never once came away disappointed. On the contrary - often what we ate bordered on revelatory.

In Tainan were lucky enough to lodge - purely by accident - a two-minute walk from the Number Two Market, a small covered affair that early in the morning doubles in size as vendors of fresh and prepared foods spill out into lanes spoking out from the main building. Much of the prepared food there is takeaway only, sold by vendors equipped with nothing more than a wheeled cart.

But tucked away in the market's rear - outside of it really, in an area where small trucks disgorge crates of greens, live chickens, and styrofoam coolers filled with bounty from the sea - are two food stalls and a few tables. The room, if you can call it that, is hot and smoky from the charcoal fires over which the vendors cook, filled with appetite-rousing aromas, and noisy with conversation.

An inviting space, in other words.

Take your seat and  sandal-clad gentleman with a runner's lean physique hustles over to take youe drink order. You have a choice of iced tea, iced tea, or iced tea, ladled from a cart in another corner of the market and priced at seven and a half Taiwan dollars (US$ 0.21) per glass.

Two dishes are on offer. The pork noodle - dished up by a rather burly and initially gruff woman - are served dry or in soup and features hearty wheat noodles, stewed minced pork, meat balls evincing an admirable bit of 'Q', and copious leaves of sturdy lettuce cooked just long enough to wilt.

On each table sits a tub of Sichuan-style la jiao (roasted chili flakes in oil). It's the real thing, fiery, a little charred tasting, and sandy-textured. Every diner adds it by the mounded spoonful to their noodles, and so did we.

Also available, a dish as basic as they come: broccoli florets and sliced squid, boiled and served in a pool of oyster sauce mixed with soy sauce, sesame oil a bit of sugar, and heaps of black pepper.

(Too late, we see customers handing bags of just-purchased rose-hued shrimp to the vendor; she boils and adds them to the broccoli and squid.)

 

The broccoli is a bit crunchy, its cabbage-y bitterness giving way to a sweetness echoed in the cooked-just-right, tender squid. A simple dish made with ingredients that shout their freshness.

And why not? We are, after all, eating at a wet market.

We're Back, and Thinking of Coffee

We're back from Taipei (not willingly), digging out from neglected emails and lots of work. Tomorrow I'll be showing-and-telling one of our most memorable breakfasts on the island.

For the moment though, I want to tell our KL readers that our food feature in this month's Time Out KL focuses on coffee, a topic we researched extensively this Taiwan trip. Strange as it sounds, we left the island with a new appreciation for the beverage. In the article we introduce three KL (and PJ) 'cult' cafes where you can get a cup of joe that matches the best of the best in Taipei. Enjoy.

Surf and Turf, Southern Taiwan Style

The day after the Dragon Boat Festival, we're off to Cijin Island, a tiny splotch of land just five minutes from the city proper. Kaohsiung-ites daytrip to Cijin to stroll the wood-plank walkway on its northwestern tip, climb a small hill up to its old lighthouse and Ching dynasty battery remnants, pay respects at its 300-year-old plus Mazu temple, and eat anything and everything seafood.

We're at the dock early, and a good thing too - this being a public holiday, the island's main street will be wall-to-wall daytrippers by noon. Arriving at 9am we find the thoroughfare quiet, the temple deserted but for a few praying islanders, seafood vendors only just filling their display cabinets with ice.

 

We're not ready for a full-on assault, but rumbling bellies demand a small. The scent of a grill and the sight of a weathered face, white cotton tank top, and hot pink plastic clogs beneath a sign reading '20-year-old old shop' draws us in.

You know a vendor sure of the superiority of his product when you bring out the camera: he pulls back his shoulders, lets his lips turn up at the sides just a little. His eyes meet yours for a second, then he returns his attention to the job at hand. This man is sure in the belief that he turns out the best grilled squid on Cijin Island. We believe him.

 

The cephalopod, big as a man's hand, is grilled both sides, slashed horizontally and then vertically - butterflied, essentially, and finished with a few flips to char both sides. As it chars he brushes its surface with thick soy sauce. After a query ('La jiao?' - 'Hot chili?') - he adds a sprinkle of dried chili flakes.

The man knows what he's doing. The squid - blackened in a few spots (not a negative, in our book), amazingly tender, smoky from the grill - is delicious, so precisely cooked that we order two more. On the side, a couple of juicy sweet-sour tomatoes accompanied by a bowl of soy sauce, grated ginger, and powdered sugar, for dipping.

 

Mix sugar, ginger, and soy, spear tomato - dip and eat. A bit odd at first, but I remember that my father - thanks to the influence of his southern American-born grandmother - has long eaten tomatoes with sugar. And it works beautifully. (This, by the way, is a combo we'll see elsewhere in southern Taiwan.)

Grilled squid and tomatoes, Cijian Island (Kaohsiung) main street, from 8am. It really is the best grilled squid in town.

Southern Comfort

From Taipei we headed straight for Taiwan's southwestern coastal city of Kaohsiung, which makes an interesting counterpoint to the self-consciously busy-busy capital. Laid-back, relatively quiet but not dull, with wide, uncrowded boulevards and plenty of green space, Kaohsiung is an easy place to like.

The city's heart is Love River and the relatively new promenades that line both its banks where residents, who seem to truly relish spending time outdoors (like Taipei Kaohsiung is dotted with bike rental stations), converge with family, friends, and pets.

We arrived just in time for the Dragon Boat Festival. A race official told us that this year's contest was only half the usual size because many local teams are saving it up for World Dragon Boat Races, which Kaohsiung hosts this July. Still, the races were great fun and despite intermittent rains ebullient crowds lined the river's banks to cheer their favorite teams.

As seafood lovers we had a field day in Kaohsiung. The quality of the catch in southern Taiwan is sublime; outside of Japan I don't think I've eaten fresher, more pristine fish. The seafood sections of wet markets smell like sea spray, the fish on display sport gleaming eyes and scales that shimmer like mirrors. When preparing seafood Southern cooks use a light hand and seem to excel at simple, homely preparations that place the flavor of the main ingredient front and center. 

A case in point is our lunch the day of the Dragon Boat finals, prepared at a casual kiosk next door to a small temple in the center of town. We ordered three dishes: a clear seafood broth studded with plump, briny oysters, shredded ginger, and thin slices of pickled mustard;

 

rice fried with bits of smoked pork and cabbage; and a piece of milkfish.

The latter was boned, butterflied, and griddled in a wok until skin and flesh were golden and crispy. Despite its brownish exterior, inside the fish was - miraculously - barely cooked through, translucence just beginning to give way to opaqueness. In the middle of the fillet floated an island of gelatinous,  flavorful fat. On the side, freshly ground black pepper moistened with a bit of lime juice.

The dishes were so delicious we went back for more, choosing a few items from the vendor's display - shrimp, clams, and squid - and letting her do with them as she saw fit. The result was another soup,

this broth richer than the last, from bits of smoked fish. Also - sweet, sweet clams with a bit of chew, firm-textured prawns so luscious we ate them shell and all, rings of squid cooked only till tender, lettuce leaves, and seasoning in the form of chopped scallions and Chinese celery.

That this meal was nothing out of the ordinary  - just everyday fare, taken at an everyday sort of stall - says much about the southern Taiwanese way with seafood. It also tells you why we've extended our stay on the island, to devote a bit more time to its south.

Seafood stall - look for the green and white awning next to the small Sha Duo (in Mandarin) Temple, Dagong Road just west of Yancheng Road, Kaohsiung (if you can read Chinese, she advertises 'Haichan Zhou'). 11am till she runs out.