That morning, there was no getting away from food.
I was in Kaohsiung’s Yancheng District (鹽埕), trying out some of the neighborhood’s older and more distinctive eateries. Knowing I had to pace myself — to seek respite from repasts, if you will — I went into a temple I’d not noticed on previous trips to this part of the city.
Shaduo Temple (沙多宮) is dedicated to five Wangye (王爺) spirits, or Lords of a Thousand Years (五府千歲). If the baskets of fruit, trays of candy, and packets of cookies on the main offertory table are anything to go by, the deities honored here have a good appetite and a sweet tooth.
Photo: Steven Crook
The alleyways behind the shrine, which is at 49 Fuye Road (富野路), looked invitingly labyrinthine. Within minutes, I’d stumbled across the picturesque ruins of a cottage constructed using coral stone, unhewn rocks, bricks, and tiles. A man locking up part of the wreck told me the building is at least 90 years old.
I could glimpse the roof of, but not get a proper look at, a two-floor mansion that I later discovered was built for Lin Chia (林迦, 1888-1972), an entrepreneur and philanthropist once hailed as “the richest man in Yancheng.” The scale of this abode, which combines Western and Chinese architectural elements, and its garden are obvious if you look at satellite images of the neighborhood.
CONGEE AND CLINIC
Photo: Steven Crook
My gourmand tour had begun an hour earlier, at Old Tsai’s Milkfish Congee (老蔡虱目魚粥) at 201 Lainan Street (瀨南街).
From the street, the only thing likely to catch a person’s eye is what’s stated on a glass door: “Established 1953. Open 6am to 2pm.”
In Taiwan, certain restaurants are like bottles of whiskey. They bear age statements, and the implication is the same: The longer the history, the better the product.
Photo: Steven Crook
Rather than order the signature milkfish congee, I ordered a small bowl of mixed congee (NT$60) with a cruller. The ratio of milkfish, pork, and oysters was about 40:40:20. This concoction was neither particularly salty nor umami, but light and refreshing.
Few people will spend more than NT$100 here, unless they order fish-stomach congee (NT$140) or fish-skin congee (NT$100) with a side dish. The menu also lists several soups, shredded chicken with rice, and braised minced pork with rice.
Taking an indirect route to my second food appointment, I came across a boarded-up building that I guessed had been a place of entertainment. In fact, it was once a clinic.
Photo: Steven Crook
Tomomatsu Hospital (友松醫院) at 162 Sinle Street (新樂街) was founded in 1937 by Lo Jung-chin (駱榮金), a Hsinchu native and graduate of what later became National Taiwan University’s College of Medicine. Lo specialized in dermatology and the treatment of syphilis and gonorrhea.
Thanks to its stylish Art Deco-influenced appearance, the clinic was long regarded as a Kaohsiung landmark. Close to the street corner, between the first and second floors, there are small reliefs of human figures. They look rather like the sculptures of saints you might find in a church in Europe.
This summer, the Kaohsiung City Government announced a tendering process which should eventually lead to the clinic’s restoration.
Photo: Steven Crook
FOOD AND MORE FOOD
A few minutes after snapping photos of Tomomatsu Hospital, I took a seat at No-Sign Zongzi Specialists (無招牌肉粽專賣店), on the edge of a small morning market at 29, Lane 242 Sinle Street.
At NT$35 for a relatively small pyramid of glutinous rice, the zongzi here aren’t Taiwan’s cheapest. However, I opted for a peanut zongzi (over the more popular pork version) and I wasn’t disappointed.
The two men working here are indeed specialists, creating something which is satisfying without being stodgy.
No-Sign, which some sources refer to as A-Bo Zongzi (阿伯肉粽), operates from 6:30am to around midday “almost every day of the year,” according to the younger of the two men.
Tramping southward en route to Yongbo Pig’s Tongue Vermicelli (勇伯冬粉豬舌), I passed half a dozen businesses that specialize in reconditioning and selling secondhand boat gear.
The first two refused me permission to take photos of the items piled in front of their workshops, which made me wonder if some law is being skirted. Anyhow, if you need a pre-owned mooring winch or valve wheel, Gongyuan 2nd Road (公園二路) is a good place to look for one.
Yongbo Pig’s Tongue Vermicelli is at 56-1 Bisin Street (必信街), a quiet residential road near Pier-2 Art Center (駁二藝術特區). I wanted to try their food because I’ve never knowingly eaten pig’s tongue. Then again, I’ve had plenty of supermarket sausages, and I’m told they include every part of a pig’s body.
Unlike many Taiwanese noodle dishes, which are three-quarters carbohydrates, Yongbo’s signature dish (NT$70) is meat-lover’s delight. Pig’s tongues are much bigger than those of humans, and I’d guess that each serving contains the better part of an entire tongue.
I was expecting the meat to be a good deal chewier that it turned out to be. The broth was absolutely delicious; I could easily have drunk a pint of it.
A bit later in the day, after lots more walking, I paid a visit to one of Taiwan’s best known dessert vendors, Kaohsiung Popo Shaved Ice (高雄婆婆冰). I went to the original shop at 135 Cisian 3rd Road (七賢三路). There’s a swanky new flagship store just down the road at number 98-12; go there if you want to eat in air-conditioned comfort. Prices are the same at both branches.
Figuring Eight Treasures Ice (八寶冰) would include a bit of everything, I handed over NT$55 and was soon digging into a plate of ice topped with chunks of grass jelly (仙草, Chinese mesona), steamed peanuts, tapioca balls, canned pineapple, taro paste, and glutinous rice balls (湯圓). If you count the ice and the syrup, that’s eight. A poster at the shop lists the nutritional value of each treat; mine had a stomach-stretching 559 calories.
I’ve no criticisms of Kaohsiung Popo, and ending on a negative note isn’t my style, but shaved ice has never done much for me. Figuratively as well as literally, it leaves me cold.
Steven Crook has been writing about travel, culture and business in Taiwan since 1996. He is the author of Taiwan: The Bradt Travel Guide and co-author of A Culinary History of Taipei: Beyond Pork and Ponlai.
On a harsh winter afternoon last month, 2,000 protesters marched and chanted slogans such as “CCP out” and “Korea for Koreans” in Seoul’s popular Gangnam District. Participants — mostly students — wore caps printed with the Chinese characters for “exterminate communism” (滅共) and held banners reading “Heaven will destroy the Chinese Communist Party” (天滅中共). During the march, Park Jun-young, the leader of the protest organizer “Free University,” a conservative youth movement, who was on a hunger strike, collapsed after delivering a speech in sub-zero temperatures and was later hospitalized. Several protesters shaved their heads at the end of the demonstration. A
In August of 1949 American journalist Darrell Berrigan toured occupied Formosa and on Aug. 13 published “Should We Grab Formosa?” in the Saturday Evening Post. Berrigan, cataloguing the numerous horrors of corruption and looting the occupying Republic of China (ROC) was inflicting on the locals, advocated outright annexation of Taiwan by the US. He contended the islanders would welcome that. Berrigan also observed that the islanders were planning another revolt, and wrote of their “island nationalism.” The US position on Taiwan was well known there, and islanders, he said, had told him of US official statements that Taiwan had not
The term “pirates” as used in Asia was a European term that, as scholar of Asian pirate history Robert J. Antony has observed, became globalized during the European colonial era. Indeed, European colonial administrators often contemptuously dismissed entire Asian peoples or polities as “pirates,” a term that in practice meant raiders not sanctioned by any European state. For example, an image of the American punitive action against the indigenous people in 1867 was styled in Harper’s Weekly as “Attack of United States Marines and Sailors on the pirates of the island of Formosa, East Indies.” The status of such raiders in
As much as I’m a mountain person, I have to admit that the ocean has a singular power to clear my head. The rhythmic push and pull of the waves is profoundly restorative. I’ve found that fixing my gaze on the horizon quickly shifts my mental gearbox into neutral. I’m not alone in savoring this kind of natural therapy, of course. Several locations along Taiwan’s coast — Shalun Beach (沙崙海水浴場) near Tamsui and Cisingtan (七星潭) in Hualien are two of the most famous — regularly draw crowds of sightseers. If you want to contemplate the vastness of the ocean in true
RSS