Taiwan – No. 129

I wrote this piece almost exactly a year ago about a trip to Taiwan in September of 2019. I was trying to capture the simultaneous known and unknown I felt while surrounded by people that looked like me, but lived radically different lives.

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We step outside into the calm of the morning. The town hasn’t woken up yet and only the early risers roam. Outside the apartment, a cobbled path cups scatters of small puddles and vines hug the low stone walls. I watch my feet as we walk. The rubber soles of my shoes dutifully keep my feet dry and kick up the smallest of rain droplets onto my calves. Lagging behind, I skip to catch up to the paper-thin blue jacket leading the way.

Our steps fall into rhythm.

The air has a friendly heaviness to it, promising another rainstorm later in the day. We pass a community park and a small band of older women moving in step to practice tai-chi. A stray cat with black fur and a white chest flicks past before disappearing into the lush greenery. As we move further into town, the store fronts stretch ahead – each looking the same as the last to someone from the outside looking in. Most are closed until later in the day, but the grogginess of the morning begins to shake off as the streets welcome growing numbers of people on their way to work. Soon, wheeled carts, visors, and floral print t-shirts envelope us. We begin to blend in, and I almost feel like we belong here. The occasional scooter tuts by, close enough for our elbows to brush. The fat rip of a scooter engine is as heavy as a bumble bee, yet it darts through pedestrians quick as a hummingbird.

As we move through the crowds, it becomes increasingly clear where our final destination lies. No. 129 already has a line outside their storefront with pedestrians and scooters alike waiting for their breakfast. Sesame coated pastries and piping hot steam buns wrapped in wax paper sit for a second before being whisked off and sold. The front is manned by 4 women who exchange Mandarin and cash in a rapid flow with their customers.

We shimmy past the crowd and dance around the women working, as thin sheets of egg and batter sizzle on the grill top. A thick stack of yellow menus continues to grow as orders roll in. Continuing through, we walk to the back of the shop where eight plastic tables are set up for customers. We drop into the four-legged stools and check off our order on one of the menus sitting in a basket at the end of the table. Having struggled with this menu twice before, we come armed with a detailed plan of attack. The server comes round and recognizes us. Unable to communicate with anything but body language, we express our gratitude with a warm smile as she takes our order. The wait for food is short, but we spend it trying to soak in as much as we can.

Eyes wide and head on a swivel, I will myself to notice every small detail and make the moments last as long as possible. A couple sits near us wearing matching flip flops and scroll absentmindedly through their phone. An old man is at a back table eating congee and reading the newspaper. He brings the wide plastic spoon to his lips with slow deliberation like a turtle extending its neck from the shell. A trio of aunties huddle in the corner and gossip loudly. The metal fan on the wall circulates humid air and curls the edge of the paper menus as it oscillates across the room.

With a snap, our server arrives with our food and it does not disappoint. The egg danbing comes rolled and steaming hot off the grill.  Drizzled with a sweet soy sauce, we gobble up the thin layers before it has a chance to cool.  The two dumplings are quick to follow, and I immediately regret not ordering more. Their skins are a perfect chewiness that is just not possible to replicate at home. The rice milk and bean milk have a sweetness that is distinctly non-American and are as nourishing as the food. My favorite is the black pepper steam bun. The flavor is sharp, but the bun is endlessly fluffy and fills your mouth as you chew. I feel like a child in an anime who is holding a steam bun so big that they need two hands to devour it happily.

No. 129 is the first thing I think about when reminiscing about Taiwan. I could make many, many posts (and maybe I will write more in the future) about all of the things we saw there, but this gets to the heart of it. None of the glamor or flashy consumerism for tourists, just a small walk through town for the most perfect breakfast.