EatingAsia

A Reason to Smile

Taiwan has few reasons to smile this week as it mops up from Typhoon Morakot. One bright note - hundreds of villagers thought to have perished under a mudslide were apparently able to make it to high ground before disaster struck. Our thoughts are with the folks on Taiwan as they continue to dig out.

Meanwhile, we continue to be amazed by our Taiwan trip - the wonderful foods and friendliness that we found on that island nation -- and to sing its praises to whomever will listen. Just the thought of returning makes us smile. The thought of returning to this joint in particular makes us smile biggest.

Laopai Niurou La Mian Da Wang. The shop's name translates to something like 'Old Brand Pulled- Noodles-With-Beef King'. And that pretty much sums it up. They serve Taiwan's beloved niurou mian, or beef noodles, and they pull their pasta by hand every day. They've been around a long time (thirty years, to be precise). And when it comes to the art of cooking beef noodles, they're masters.

The King is sited near Taipei's train station, in a dark alley fragrant with the aromas wafting from the twenty or so food shops that line both its sides. It's a street food goldmine well known to locals, but we stumbled upon it by chance. And as soon as we saw the chief noodle cooker, a jolly on-his-way-to-bald man who hails from Tainan (a mid-west coast town that some consider Taiwan's 'small eats' capital), hoist high those thick ropey strands, we knew we'd found lunch.

Beef noodle preferences, like those for any iconic dish the world over, are personal. Some like their beef noodle soup spicy while others vote for a heavy star anise and cinammon presence. Shaved noodles (dao shao mian) float some boats, others prefer their pasta pulled. We ate our way through quite a few bowls of niuroumian over the course of three weeks, and it's the King's that kept drawing up back.

The hefty noodles are chewy, and the broth tastes mostly of long-cooked meat with enough star anise and cinnamon to flavor, but not overwhelm. There's the tiniest bit of chili bite to this noodle soup, betraying the alleged Sichuan origin of niurou mian. The King cooks its beef until the meat is gelatinously tender, reminiscent of mom's pot roast after several hours in the oven.

They're best eaten with a splodge of every available condiment: soupy chopped ginger and garlic, Sichuan-style la jiao (chili flakes in oil), and chopped preserved mustard greens. We enjoyed classic unadorned niurou mian, and Sichuan niurou mala mian, with plenty of chili and Sichuan peppercorn. If I had it to do over again I'd veer from my usual chili-friendliness to choose the former; in my opinion the Sichuan peppercorn interferes with the intense purity of the beef-flavored broth.

 

The King also does a mighty fine platter of shuijiao (boiled pork dumplings)

and a mean hot and sour soup. The latter is nothing like the gluey overadorned (no shredded cloud ear fungus or lily buds here) versions often served in the States, but close to one I enjoyed in Chengdu back in the day: a thin meat soup packed with strips of firm tofu and soured not only with sharp white vinegar but also tart pickled cabbage, carrots, and bean sprouts. The 'hot' element you add yourself, from the bowl of lajiao on your table.

LaoPai Niurou La Mian Da Wang, Chongqing Nan Lu Yi Duan 46 Gang (No. 46 'Alley' off of Chongqing South Road, Section 1), Taipei.

Getting in Touch with My Inner Bumpkin

In the late nineties Dave and I lived in Shanghai, and for about a year I commuted by train to Nanjing, where I spent Mondays through Fridays sifting through stacks of pre-Communist era archives. I quite liked my research, but I can't say I enjoyed those Monday morning and Friday evening train rides, when I'd be squeezed into a too-small seat and surrounded by folks shouting - to be heard above the din of tinny music and propaganda piped into the car - into their mobile phones. At least there was always conversation to distract me.

Queries from seat-mates would follow a predictable arc. Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married? How many children do you have? (A sharp intake of breath would always follow my answer of "None.") What's your work? What's your husband's work? What's his salary, and yours?

(In China, this is not an invasion of privacy. It's conversation.)

Then, "Can you eat Chinese food?" And "What's your favorite dish?"

"Jiaozi, shuijiao. Or daoshao mian," I'd reply truthfully, referencing the love of boiled dumplings and hand-cut noodles I'd developed when I taught English in Sichuan province in the mid-eighties.

Then the name-calling would begin: "Tulao-er!" (Bumpkin!) And then, "Nei shi nongmin cai!" (That's peasant food!)

Most of my fellow passengers were businesspeople from Shanghai, China's most cosmopolitan city, occupied by millions of urban sophisticates. (Or so Shanghai ren believe - or did then, anyway.) And many were old enough to remember, or had heard about from their parents, the lean years of the pre-Deng Xiaoping era, when meat was a luxury and noodles or rice occupied the center of the table.

In 1997 Shanghai rice was what you ordered at the end of a meal, and only if you were still hungry after feasting on fish, meat, and vegetables. Noodles, buns, or dumplings were everyday food, a snack or quick lunch or breakfast - certainly nothing to be considered on the level of Shanghai's famous cuisine (excepting Shanghai's own xiaolongbao). 

There I was, living in China's greatest city, naming the staples of the rural hinterlands - lumpy dough balls and irregularly shaped noodles shaved from a crude block of dough - as my favorite Chinese foods. Obviously I was crazy. Or a bumpkin.

(I'm proud to say I never backed down - and recall with amusement that after some good-natured back and forth, a few of my fellow passengers admitted that they, too, were huge dough lovers).

I remembered all this last month on Taiwan, where Dave and I ate a lot of dumplings and noodles, the kind of dumplings (thick-skinned, stuffed with pork studded with so many Chinese chives it was often green) and noodles (made with nothing but wheat flour, water, and salt and hand-cut into substantial, ropey strands) that transported us right back to Sichuan.

It was as if a long-dormant craving had been awakened. Here in Malaysia - anywhere in Southeast Asia, really - we're surrounded by noodles. But there is something about the weight and heft, the texture and mouthfeel, and (when they're made with really good flour) the flavor of of mainland-style wheat dough that hits a chord with me. It's a chord a rice flour noodle will never hit.

Away from China for so many years, I'd forgotten.

So, on Taiwan we ate shuijiao and daoshao mian (and other wonderful wheaty treats, like scallion pancakes and shuizhen bao - more on those to come) every chance we got. One day we ate them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And woke up the next day eager for more.

Our day of all-dough piggery ended around 9:30pm, with a bowl of zhajiang mian from a stall on Da'an street run by 'Old Beard' (that's what the sign says). We'd just finished a plate of boiled dumplings at a stall up the street and were plenty full, but when we spied the pile of uncooked noodles as thick as my pinky finger next to Old Beard's boiler we knew we had to stop.

This is the kind of place where, when the noodles are running low, Old Beard or his helper (above) run into the back of the shop and whipup another batch quick as you please, rolling out and cutting the dough by hand.

And those noodles are fantastic, as satisfying a wheat noodle as a wheat noodle lover could wish for. For zhajiang mian, Old Beard crowns a mound of them with slightly sweet, slightly salty chili-bean sauce, sliced pork, and shredded cucumber. Pickled mustard and pickled scallion greens with chili are there on the side, to add as you wish.

On Taiwan, my inner bumpkin surfaced. I embraced it. And I don't care if Shanghai's most cosmopolitan denizens - and the rest of the world - knows it.

I. Am. A. Bumpkin.

Old Beard's Noodle Stall (noodles served a number of ways), Da'an Lu, a short walk from the train line's Da'an Station. Late afternoon till 10-ish or so.

About That Egg & Tomato Dish...

Anyone who's spent time in China has undoubtedly downed a fair bit of fanqie jidan (tomatoes with eggs). I've probably eaten thirty or more versions over the years (including one on Hainan in 1985 - the best fanqie jidan I've ever eaten, made with eggs from the chickens that scratched around in restaurant's front yard), and the dish never fails to amaze me with its basic goodness.

In China - or at least in the provinces in which I've eaten fanqie jidan - the dish is a stir-fry, beaten eggs gently folded into tomatoes softened by the wok's heat. In Taiwan - or at least at Patriot's House Little Eats in Hsinchu - it's more of a luscious, comforting soup-stew that also includes bean curd. It's a wee bit sweet, with a 'broth' so tomato-y it's almost a tomato jus.

I was so taken with Patriot House's fanqie jidan that I asked the owner, Mr. Zheng, to share his technique. He laughed.

"Tomatoes, eggs, tofu, sugar, salt. I put them in a pot and cook."

I found this difficult to digest. To produce a dish so delicious from such pedestrian ingredients surely Mr. Zheng must employ some special technique, some culinary voodoo, I thought. So I queried again the next day. He shook his head at me.

"I told you yesterday. Tomatoes, eggs, tofu, sugar, salt."

What could I say? I took Mr. Zheng at his word and, after we returned to KL, made his fanqie jidan for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, again and again. I was, I admit, a little obsessed. Now, I think I've gotten as close to Mr. Zheng's version (which is still superior) as I'm ever going to. My version's good, but I still think he's is holding out on me.

Mr. Zheng's Fanqie Jidan gen Dofu (Tomatoes and Eggs, With Bean Curd)

This recipe is a little loosey goosey. Amounts will vary depending on the juiciness of your tomatoes and the size of your eggs. Just keep in mind that the final result should be soupy, and the 'broth' bursting with tomato flavor. (Don't even bother with this recipe if you're not in the vicinity of really delicious fresh, height-of-the-season tomatoes.) And it should be a little sweet, so don't leave out the sugar - and add more if your tomatoes are particularly acidic. If you have access to fresh eggs and fresh, artisan bean curd, so much the better.

This dish makes for a nice light (summery) meal, accompanied by steamed rice and liangban huanggua, Chinese cucumber salad (recipe below). I could also see throwing in some cooked rice noodles and calling it a meal in a bowl.

about 2.5 pounds ripe, delicious tomatoes, roughly chopped (if you're in Malaysia, splurge on momotaro tomatoes)

5 eggs, beaten

2 blocks medium firm bean curd, drained and wrapped in a kitchen towel, then weighted for 30 mins - to squeeze out excess water - and cut into cubes

sugar

salt

a few scallions, sliced crosswise

1. Place about 2 pounds of the tomatoes in a saucepan and cook over medium heat until they release their juices and start to break down, about 5-10 minutes depending on the type of tomato. 
2. Turn the heat down to low and slowly pour the eggs in so that they form a cap on top of the tomato 'soup'. Let the eggs cook, without stirring, until firm, and then gently stir them into the tomatoes. You want to leave the eggs in large curds, so don't stir too much.
3. Gently stir in the tofu and remaining tomatoes, along with 1/2 to 1 tsp sugar and salt to taste. 
4. Taste and add more sugar if needed - the 'stew' should have a sweet edge.
5. Remove from the heat, cover the pan, and let the tomatoes and eggs sit for 10 minutes or so, then serve warm (but not steaming hot), sprinkled with scallions.

Liangban Huanggua (Chinese cucumber salad)

Another Chinese standard, cooked and eaten everywhere. It's done a bunch of ways, with chili oil and/or vinegar (white or black), sometimes soy sauce. I prefer it the way I was introduced to it in Sichuan, back in the mid-80s: plain and simple, the cucumbers front and center (I actually didn't know, until I lived in Sichuan, that cucumbers have a flavor!).. Excellent cucumbers (not big, tasteless, watery ones - maybe English or Armenian, or little pickling cucumbers) and good sesame oil make this dish sing. Adjust amounts to suit.

a couple cucumbers

good salt

chopped raw garlic (optional)

sesame oil

chopped cilantro leaves (optional)

1. Do not peel the cucumbers, but wash them well to remove any dirt or wax from their skins. Chop them into rough, uneven, largish-bite-size chunks.
2. Place the cucumber in a colander and sprinkle with salt, then rub the salt into the chunks. Leave aside for about 30 mins.
3.  Squeeze the water from the cucumber chunks and place them in a bowl. Add garlic, if using, and drizzle with a decent amount of sesame oil. Use your hands to mix the salad, lightly rubbing the sesame oil over the cucumber chunks.
4. Serve sprinkled with chopped cilantro, if using. Serve room temperature or straight out of the fridge (you can make this a couple hours ahead of time).

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.

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.

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.

I Came, I Ate, I Conquered

My, how times - or my taste buds - have changed.

When I lived in Shanghai the scent of chou dofu (fermented - some would say 'rotten' - bean curd) frying in oil sent me running for cover. That was more than ten years ago. In the interim I've developed a taste for durian (as long as it's Malaysian or Balinese durian), innards, and Thai bplaa raa.

So I landed in Taipei eager to revisit this stinky Chinese specialty. I didn't have to look far. It's sold everywhere. And you can smell it a mile away.

This version was dished up by a streetside vendor at the mouth of Taipei's historic Dihua Street. Its scent was characteristically foul - I'm willing to go with the usual 'old gym shoes' descriptive, multiplied dozens of times and supplemented with a slightly stomach-churning cheesiness - but the set-up was so pretty I couldn't resist.

Verdict? Chou dofu tastes nothing like it smells. There's an initial rush of funkiness, no stronger than that of roquefort cheese, but it fades quickly. And then you're left with just the bean curd's fabulous texture: crackly from the fryer but almost grease-free outside, spongy-chewy within. The dofu is served in a pool of soy sauce and rice wine vinegar augmented with shredded garlic and ginger and accompanied by a mound of pao cai (sharp, lightly salted pickled cabbage and carrots), sliced cucumbers, and a dab of extremely spicy chili sauce.

A mouthful of dofu, a bite of cabbage, a nibble on a slice of cucumber - as tasty a Chinese snack as you could imagine. The heat balances the ever so slight funk. As I was eating, thanking whatever or whomever for endowing me with the ability to appreciate the dish's merits, I couldn't help but wonder what the best version in the city tastes like.

The only downside: linger at a chou dofu stall and your clothes will smell like it for the rest of the day. And there's no denying it - the stuff smells baaaad. Nothing like it tastes.

Chou dofu stall, corner of Dihau Jie and Nanjing Xi Lu, morning to late afternoon.

First Taste: Taipei Street Eats

There are many things to love about Taipei (the train system, extensive and easy to use; the taxis, plentiful and driven by mostly personable gentleman who not only know where they're going but use the meter as a matter of course; the people, generally friendly and surprisingly laid back - or at least it seems so to this waiguo ren), but the city's most divine attribute is its street food scene.

Taipei's night markets get all the press, but the truth is that you can go just about anywhere in this city and find a stretch of road, a small lane, or an alley hosting at least a few stalls dishing up delectables sweet and savory. Many of these vendors have been in the business for years, making and serving their specialties from the same spot as the city grew outward and upward around them.

Our first encounter with Taipei street food came in the form of these hujiao bing - black pepper 'pancakes' or 'biscuits' - sold by a husband-and-wife team from the corner of a market on Daan Jie in the shopping/business district of East Taipei. In this case 'meat pie' is a more accurate descriptive than 'biscuit',

for once sliced in half these chewy wheat-flour pucks spill chunks of tender pork and silky caramelized scallion, all seasoned with enough black pepper to briefly numb the tip of your tongue.

The pies are baked in a charcoal-fired, tandoor-style oven, where they're slapped onto the stone walls and left to roast for about 15 minutes. Exposure to the fire gives the pies a fantastic smoky flavor and the high, dry heat really crisps up their bottoms. The wrappers boast the texture of a fine yeasty pizza dough.

Mr. Huang and his wife have been peddling their peppery meat pies from this location for over 28 years; he inherited the business from his father, who left Fuzhou, in the Chinese southeastern province of Fujian, for Taiwan in 1949. Their son helps out after school and on weekends and may one day carry on the trade.

Our maiden pie from this stall was dessert to a tasty (camera-free) dinner at Shin Yeh Table; they're so tasty we returned the next day for a few more. And they're just a teeny sliver of this city's street food paradise. Stay tuned for more.

Fuzhou pepper pork pies, Daan Road (east side), a couple blocks north of Zhongxiao East Road (kitty corner to 85 Degrees coffee shop). Afternoon through the evening.