“Taiwanese food history is as murky as Taiwanese politics,” says Katy Hui-wen Hung, author of 2018’s A Culinary History of Taipei. Indeed, it’s hard to talk food without getting political around here. Many of the dishes we love today wouldn’t exist without successive eras of global trade, colonialism, and hegemony. And nowadays, much of the international community has ghosted Taiwan, an oft-overlooked island of in-between-ness, which has no official representation in the United Nations, and is subject to the dueling whims of the American and Chinese governments. How can you claim a national dish when most of the world doesn’t even acknowledge you as a country? (Taiwan forges ahead anyway, hailing beef noodle soup as its official cure-all.) Taiwan is at a political crossroads, one that makes for a unique cuisine that’s rich and complex, steeped in historical lore and brimming with political landmines.

In short: Talking about food here is complicated. But enjoying Taiwanese food is quite the opposite. Sugary, aggressively herbal, and deeply umami flavors permeate the local cuisine in a visceral way, a sensation that’s only amplified in Taipei by its setting — often a bustling street corner, a jam-packed night market, or a steamy hot pot palace. This is the essence of re nao-ness (熱鬧), the “hot and noisy” spirit that makes the island breathe. It’s the in-your-face flashing lights, powerful smells of stinky tofu, and jittery, larger-than-life feeling that comes with being elbow-to-elbow inside a large, pulsating mass in one of Asia’s densest urban centers.

So, while Taiwanese food pokes at both the proud and prickly parts of national identity and patriotism, it is very much worth exploring. And Eater is here with a comprehensive guide to help navigate all the ins and outs of eating in Taiwan’s capital city.

UNDERSTANDING THE INFLUENCES

The food we think of as distinctly Taiwanese is in fact a hodgepodge. Local indigenous flavors and waves of outside culinary influences have all coalesced into the “salty-sweet” trademark of modern Taiwanese cuisine in which handfuls of basil, garlic, and green onion supercharge nearly every dish.

For thousands of years, indigenous Austronesians lived exclusively off Taiwan’s generous land and sea — a lush smorgasbord of gurgling streams, mineral hot springs, shamrock-green mountains, and craggy coastlines. This way of life is, for the most part, a thing of the past, but half a million Taiwanese aborigines still populate the country, and their culinary influence endures via local ingredients like millet and mountain peppercorn known as maqaw; flavorful dishes like leaf-wrapped abai millet dumplings and salty maqaw-spiced sausages; and cooking techniques like salting and slow smoking.

Taiwanese cuisine also bears the marks of the Hakka people — an ethnic Han Chinese subgroup with ancestral roots in the Hakka-speaking provincial areas of Southern China that began settling on the island around the 17th century. Today, 4.5 million Hakka call Taiwan home, and their rustic cooking informs many of the flavors we associate with Taiwan: thick, basil-heavy soups; lei cha tea mixed with peanuts, mint leaves, sesame seeds, and mung beans; and pan-fried mi fen rice noodles.

We can thank Chinese people from Fujian for the sweet, heady flavors that permeate dishes like minced pork on rice and gua bao, or pork belly buns — they came here first during the Qing Dynasty, and later, along with the mass arrival of mainlanders fleeing the Communists at the end of China’s civil war in the 1940s. In between came five decades of Japanese colonization starting in the late 1800s, which brought bright, umami pickled vegetables, sweet-steamed mochi covered in sesame, and seafood dishes with an emphasis on seasonal ingredients. To this day, bento boxes and sushi bars can still be found on most every street corner in Taipei.

And not surprisingly, America too has left its indelible mark. While wheat products were already prevalent throughout Taiwan, the postwar USAID era — in which Americans brought tons and tons of wheat to the island — was when foods like wheat noodles, wheat flour-based buns, sweet breads, and dumplings became a national obsession, and the Taiwanese diet was forever changed.

THE DISHES YOU HAVE TO KNOW

Beef Noodle Soup (牛肉麵)

The combination of slowly braised beef with a tangle of slurpable noodles seems so fundamental, it’s hard to believe any one culture can lay claim to it. It is, however, considered the national dish of Taiwan (though its origins are Chinese), and given a distinctly Taiwanese spin with the addition of pickled mustard greens and the signature five-spice powder of star anise, cloves, Chinese cinnamon, Sichuan pepper, and fennel seeds. Taiwan hosts the Taipei International Beef Noodle Festival every year, where the soup — in which wheat noodles swim along with tender beef shanks, beef tendons, and greens in a hearty stock that’s been slowly simmering with beef bones for days — is consumed by the gallon. Lay’s even sells a Red Braised Beef Noodle Soup potato chip flavor inside 7-Elevens across the island.

Every restaurant has its own closely guarded secret recipe, with variations in broth, noodle size, and meat quality. (One shop in Taipei charges a whopping $10,000 TWD, or about $325 USD, for a bowl with well-marbled cuts from the U.S. and Australia.) But most Taiwanese have their neighborhood go-to, where a bowl normally costs no more than $185 TWD ($6 USD).

Hot Pot (火鍋)

Every season is hot pot season in Taiwan. So central is hot pot to the dining culture here that most home kitchens are equipped with their own dedicated hot pot burners that get pulled out for company. There are nearly 5,000 hot pot restaurants countrywide, doling out one of a variety of styles — from shabu-shabu to Sichuan numbing mala to Taiwanese stinky tofu — with vibes that range from fast-food efficiency to all-you-can-eat fancy. Here is where the Taiwanese people gather, dipping any number of things — seafood, thinly sliced meat, leafy vegetables, dumplings, wontons, mushrooms, and all kinds of tofu — into table-sized pots of stock simmering with pork bones, jujube, or pickled cabbage. Retrieve your desired bite from the broth with chopsticks or tongs, and dip it into a savory sauce you customize yourself with sesame oil, sha cha sauce, soy sauce, garlic, freshly chopped scallions, black vinegar, sugar, or chile sauce. (For more on hot pot, see our full guide to Taiwan’s ultimate communal food.)

Gua bao, or the Taiwanese Hamburger (刈包)

Taiwanese-American chef and TV personality Eddie Huang created a cult following around the pork belly buns he serves at New York’s Baohaus, but he’s not dishing out anything his Taiwanese ancestors haven’t known about for centuries. Gua bao, often translated as “Taiwanese hamburger,” is a northern Taiwanese specialty, and features puffy mantou steamed buns that are generously stuffed with slabs of sweet, fatty pork belly that’s been braised in a mixture of a rice wine, soy sauce, and Chinese five-spice powder, and topped with crushed peanuts, pickled mustard greens, and cilantro.

Zong Zi: Sticky Rice Dumpling (粽子)

Zong zi refers to any leaf-wrapped bundle of sticky rice, and variations can be found throughout Asia. In Taiwan, it’s usually pyramid-shaped, with fillings like dried shrimp, mushrooms, peanuts, or chestnuts in addition to pork. Sometimes there’s pickled radish, along with salted egg yolk, plus other bits of crunch to counter the sticky chew of the rice.

Taiwanese Fried Chicken (鹹酥雞)

Served in fried chicken chains and night markets across the country, Taiwanese fried chicken is deep fried not just once, but twice, allowing for a crumbly, crunchy shell that’s as thin and delicate as tempura. Korean fried chicken is fried twice, too, but the Taiwanese version is typically tossed with salt, pepper, and basil leaves, and is dusted with five-spice powder, for a crunchy, salty combination that rivals any fried chicken variation across the globe. You’ll find popcorn-style chicken as well as full schnitzel-like cutlets and chicken parts sold by the piece.

Braised Pork Rice (滷肉飯)

Braised pork rice is how Taiwan soothes itself. Like most of the world’s comfort foods, it’s neither fancy nor complicated: just fatty, soy-braised pork belly served over freshly steamed white rice. It can be relished on its own as a complete dish, or as the base of a meal that includes a number of different sides.

Oyster Vermicelli Noodles (蚵仔麵線)

This soup is made from a stock that’s perfectly geng, meaning thickened, usually with starch, giving it a smooth and slimy texture that’s rounded out by fleshy oyster chunks and chewy bits of pig intestine. It’s garnished with cilantro, but a spoonful of vinegar can be added, too. Near the coast, you’ll also find an oyster omelet that’s a similar celebration of slime.

Scallion Pancake (蔥油餅)

The scallion pancake — sometimes known as a green onion pancake — is a savory, flaky, croissant-like flatbread that mixes scallions into an oil-enriched batter that’s ladled onto a hot griddle and seared until crisp. Taipei’s best street stall artisans can be seen deftly spinning, fluffing, and flipping the pancakes until puffed and layered. Eat one on its own, or wrapped around eggs, basil leaves, cheese, seared beef, ham, corn, and more.

Century Egg (皮蛋)

Age an egg anywhere from weeks to months in salt, lime, and ash and you get pi dan, a greyish-black delicacy that’s a bit like a hardboiled egg surrounded by a jelly-like casing. The yolk tastes faintly sweet, with an indulgent creaminess similar to really good cheese. Try it with congee for breakfast, topped with a spicy chile sauce, or on top of fresh tofu.

Three-Cup Chicken (三杯雞)

San bei ji is also known as “three-cup chicken,” for the three equal parts of rice wine, soy sauce, and sesame oil that make up the chicken’s braising liquid. It’s popular in both China and Taiwan, but the Taiwanese have a much sweeter take on the recipe. The whole thing is cooked and served in an earthenware pot, and arrives at your table still crackling with a generous final touch of basil.

Xiao Long Bao, or Soup Dumplings (小籠包)

Taiwanese chain Din Tai Fung has become internationally synonymous with soup dumplings, and the original branch in central Taipei consistently draws lines from open to close for its broth-filled Shanghainese steamed pork dumplings. It isn’t the only game in town, however, and locals love to debate the merits of the mom-and-pop rivals. How to soup-dumpling like a daredevil? Grab one straight out of the steamer, pop it in your mouth, scald your tongue, and grimace as you continue to scarf the remaining contents of the bamboo steamer while wishing you’d had more patience. Truly, it’s the only real way to eat xiao long bao.

Fan Tuan (飯糰)

Taiwan’s handheld portable breakfast of choice is the fan tuan, a burrito-like roll of sticky rice encasing fillings that range from pickled radish, pickled mustard greens, braised egg, and pork floss (the traditional) to egg, bacon, and even sugar. Modern versions flirt with different colored rice — purple is especially popular — and, wrapped in plastic, they’re the ideal on-the-go breakfast.

Stinky Tofu (臭豆腐)

Plenty of the world’s finest foods are stinky. Cheese, for one. And durian. And preserved seafood. Even eggs. So the level of trepidation with which many foreigners approach Taiwan’s fermented tofu is overblown. Stinky tofu is fermented in a brine that usually includes Chinese herbs, dried fish or shrimp, bamboo, mustard, and amaranth greens. The result is moist, tender tofu that’s most often served fried. Most Taiwanese believe the smellier, the better, but fear not — the odor registers more in the nose than on the palate.

Aiyu Jelly (愛玉)

Made from seeds of a creeping fig variety native to Taiwan’s mountainous regions, this squishy, sweet jelly is usually poured atop tart lemon juice and crushed ice, then sucked out of a plastic ribbed cup with an extra-wide straw. Along with pearl milk tea, it’s the refreshment of choice for surviving Taiwan’s sweltering summers.

ALLLLL THE DESSERTS

The southern city of Tainan is considered the “sweet tooth capital” of Taiwan — legend has it the former capital’s wealthy residents used to put a spoonful of sugar in every dish — but the whole of the country has developed a reputation as a land rich in desserts. Whether it’s boba dens or shaved ice shops, there are endless ways to indulge pretty much any time of day. Here are just a few of the essentials:

Shaved Ice ( 礤冰)

In shops across the country, big blocks of flavored ice are shaved by machine into ribbony sheets or a fine snow-like powder and heaped with fresh fruit, red beans, mung beans, taro, tapioca balls, and grass jelly, all soaked with a heavy dose of sweetened condensed milk or sugary ginger syrup.

Pineapple Cake (鳳梨酥)

A remnant of the island’s pineapple-growing history, these palm-sized shortbread tarts stuffed with tangy pineapple or sweet winter melon paste are the country’s prized pastry and a well sought-after souvenir. The gifting of pineapple cakes is serious business in Taiwan — the Taiwanese Hokkien word for pineapple is ong lai, which is homonymous to “coming luck,” and symbolizes wealth, fortune, and prosperity. Here, aficionados can wax lyrical about the subtle differences between bakeries, and parents have been known to judge potential sons- and daughters-in-law based on the brand they gift.

Ice Cream Burritos and More

On busy street corners and in night markets throughout Taipei, you’ll find carts selling takeaway treats like chewy handmade taro and sweet potato mochi balls; spongy egg-shaped waffle cakes; and what can only be best translated as ice cream burritos: tortilla-like flour crepes rolled around scoops of fruit ice cream, shaved peanut brittle, and fresh cilantro for a masterpiece in textural and temperature contrasts.

WHAT TO DRINK

Taiwan has a robust gan bei (乾杯), or bottoms-up, culture. The unofficial drink here is gao liang (高粱), a sorghum-based jet fuel favored by Taiwanese tipplers that was born in northeastern China before finding its way to Taiwan. Gao liang manufacturing on the island was a relatively small industry until the 1950s, when the Taiwanese islands of Kinmen became a war-torn home to thousands of Nationalist troops fighting the Communists across the straits. The soldiers on Kinmen, like soldiers everywhere, needed booze to keep them warm during chilly, windy nights while fending off relentless shelling from neighboring China — and the rest is history. Now a fixture in international competitions, gao liang is served cold or at room temperature and sipped or tossed back by the thimble-full. Some of the strongest bottles have around 63 percent ABV, with a kerosene finish not for the faint of liver.

These days though, most Taiwanese prefer whisky, beer — maybe from one of the local craft breweries on the rise, like SUNMAI or Taihu — or Western-style craft cocktails, which are dispensed with flair at underground speakeasies across Taipei, like Ounce, R&D Cocktail Lab, and Staff Only Club. (The latter is members-only, complete with a clandestine car that escorts you to the bar and swipe cards for the entrance.)

For a more sobering sip, high mountain oolong and black teas are still central to Taiwanese life, both in their cultivation and their consumption. While recent generations have been moving away from traditional tea drinking in favor of coffee and sugary, shaken tea beverages, a nascent renaissance is brewing among politically minded youth looking to embrace tea as an important aspect of Taiwanese culture.

But no drink rivals the giant that is boba. Known by different names around the world — boba tea, pearl tea, tapioca milk tea — the simplest version is made with milk, black tea, and springy, caramelized tapioca pearls shaken together like a martini and served with the now-signature super-wide straw. From there, the variations are endless, but all prize the presence of “Q” — that bouncy, gummy, rubbery, chewy texture that is locally beloved. (For more on Taiwan’s boba obsession, see our detailed primer, here.)

GETTING A HANDLE ON MEALTIMES

Meals are tricky in Taiwan, where eating is often seen as an all-day grazing affair with few rules to its chronology. Breakfast is a sure bet — a motley of morning traditions brought over from China, including flaky flatbreads, buns, dumplings, and other starchy things. Bowls of sweet or salty soy milk are classic Taiwanese breakfast fodder, accompanied by a feast of spongy, focaccia-like shao bing (sesame sandwiches); crispy dan bing (egg crepes); and long, golden-fried you tiao (crullers).

There’s usually a midday and evening meal, too — something swooped up from a street cart, a casual buffet restaurant, or one of the bustling sidewalk operations that serve steaming soups, rice dishes, and other Taiwanese favorites to diners perched at communal tables on rickety plastic stools. But Taiwan doesn’t stop there: Before and between these meals, there’s the concept of xiao chi, which means “little eats” in Mandarin, and applies to the barrage of street foods that are available for snacking on throughout the day.

Taiwan then adds in an official fourth meal: xiao ye, or the midnight snack, with night markets, street carts, and 24-hour shops selling anything from breakfast dou jiang (soy milk) to fried chicken skin. So really, there are no hard and fast rules for when to eat in Taipei. The only guiding principle: Man man chi (慢慢吃), “savor your food slowly” in Mandarin.

WHERE ALL THIS EATING HAPPENS

Short answer: Everywhere. Just follow your nose. As described above, nearly every inch of sidewalk in Taipei doubles as a dining room. Taipei loves lining up, and if there’s a line out the door of a restaurant, chances are it’s worth the wait. Aside from one-off street stalls and full-blown restaurants, there are a few other unexpected spots for a great meal.

Street Markets

Much of the best eating in Taiwan happens on the street — at an informal sidewalk restaurant, a morning wet market (like a farmers market), or one of Taipei’s famed night markets like Raohe, Ningxia, or Tonghua. (See here for more on street vendor culture and a detailed breakdown of the best at Raohe.) Stools and tables beat out pedestrians for prized sidewalk space, and there’s someone flipping scallion pancakes, steaming sweet potatoes, or searing sweet corn on the cob on every corner.

Convenience Stores

Much like the hypercolor shops throughout Japan, Taiwan’s convenience stores supply much more than snacks. Across the island’s 7-Elevens, OK Marts, and FamilyMarts, hard-boiled eggs stew in pots of tea, mini oden hot pots abound, instant ramen noodles twirl around hunks of real beef, and plumped rice onigiri rolls sit at the ready. Chips? How about Lay’s in Classic Ham, English Earl Grey, and Japanese Cherry Blossom. Then, of course, there’s boba, pretty great coffee dispensed from a spout behind the cash register, and in some stores, a beer tap. Fill up on any and all of this, while also paying your utility bills, buying movie tickets, using the ATM, getting your blood pressure checked, buying train tickets, receiving packages, and printing documents — all in a single stop.

Re chao (熱炒)

Re chao, which means “hot” and “stir-fry” in Mandarin, is something like the Taiwanese equivalent of a British pub, or a Japanese izakaya — all casual, noisy places where nightlife and mealtimes converge. These boisterous bars got their start as refuges for blue-collar workers after a long day of work. Today, people still knock back cheap bottles of Taiwan Beer while picking at a parade of small stir-fry dishes like three-cup chicken, fried tofu, and grilled squid, among hundreds of other small plates, representing all aspects of Taiwanese cuisine, perfect for soaking up the night.

Karaoke Bars

Karaoke is as big in Taiwan as it is anywhere else in Asia, and the city’s 24-hour KTV karaoke bars come with a tasty bonus: late-night food of all kinds, from crispy chicken to hearty beef noodle soup. Most bars are all-you-can-eat and all-you-can-sing; during typhoon season, people flock here to take shelter and pass the time, with hot kettles of throat-soothing herbal tea flowing all night.

Urban Shrimping Bars

Let loose after a long work week with a round of DIY shrimping in one of Taipei’s indoor 24-hour catch-your-own-prawn bars, where smoke from the seafood grill mingles with the wafts of cigarettes. Step inside one of these gymnasium-sized complexes and you’ll be provided with a fishing rod, bait, a net, and a small basket to catch the giant prawns lurking in the above-ground pools. The fresh catch is thrown on the grates until just cooked through, then promptly devoured.

WHAT’S HAPPENING NEXT

It seems that recently chefs across the world, from Copenhagen to Colombia, have been on a simultaneous quest to uncover, reclaim, and redefine their region’s culinary identity, and Taiwan is no different. Over the last five years or so, a handful of Taipei chefs have been toying with the influences and ingredients that make up Taiwanese cuisine, emphasizing local produce and hyper seasonality, and pushing forward a new style of modern Taiwanese cooking.

At the Michelin-starred Raw, Taipei-born, French-trained André Chiang serves a dramatic tasting menu that includes riffs on Taiwanese street foods, like mini tea eggs with a bird’s nest made of fried potato strings, as well as tofu made in-house from rare white soybeans from southern Kaohsiung. At Mume, another Michelin darling, chefs Richie Lin, Kai Ward, and Long Xiong put out tweezer-plated, edible flower-speckled small plates built around products native to Taiwan like oysters, duck, and bamboo. The trend is happening outside the realm of Michelin, too: There’s the more casual but equally ambitious Gēn Creative, with inventive Taiwanese-Western fusion dishes, including octopus with squash blossoms, radish cake with okra and chorizo, and for dessert, fig aiyu jelly ice. Meowvelous is a wild trip of a restaurant that presents Taiwanese fried chicken, pig’s ear, and a myriad of stir-fried bits in a clubby atmosphere complete with inventive Tiki-style cocktails.

At the same time, Taiwanese food is gaining traction across the globe. Boba became a U.S. strip mall staple decades ago, but now chains like Din Tai Fung, Hot-Star Large Fried Chicken, and 85°C Bakery Cafe are opening branches internationally, and Taiwanese restaurants in LA, New York, and elsewhere have tapped into a newly eager mainstream audience.

Of course, like everything else in Taiwan, the force behind these recent movements is partly political. In a growing effort to distance themselves from Big Brother next door, many Taiwanese people are trying to put a thumb on what’s uniquely Taiwanese in all facets of society — including the food. As diners around the world begin to fall in love with the flavors of Taiwan, the hope is they might fall in love with the whole idea of the place — as a culture, a travel destination, and its own independent nation — too.

Leslie Nguyen-Okwu is a bilingual journalist based in Taipei, Taiwan, and covers emerging Asia.