The Slightly Peculiar but Familiar Habits of Nearby Islands
The Slightly Peculiar but Familiar Habits of Nearby Islands
Ròupái Dànbǐng in Taiwan
“Quit sounding so mainland,” the Chinese man behind the counter jokes, his body shaking with an easy laugh. He motions to his wife and two daughters, the latter two serving tea and stacking sandwiches before school. “Our Mandarin is better. You should spend more time in Taiwan.”
The man behind the counter introduces himself as Jon. “Of course, my name is not really Jon.” As the first rays of a spring sun peak out from behind the apartment buildings, Jon’s wife and kids maneuver around the sandwich counter and grill, both of which push out of the shop onto the sidewalk and into Taipei’s thickening morning air.
Jon takes my order and motions towards a plastic chair outside of his family- run storefront. The first time I came to Jon’s I asked for what everyone else ordered. He gave me 肉排蛋餅, ròupái dànbǐng, egg and hamburger meat wrapped in thin, light pastry with a sauce a touch sweeter than a tangy Japanese ponzu on the side. It doesn’t come with small cup of 奶茶, nǎi chá, milk tea, but Jon kids you’d be dumb not to take it. The milk tea is thicker than on the mainland or even in Hong Kong. “More milk, more tea” as Jon says. The tea is brewed longer, with a healthy, or miserably unhealthy, dose of sweetener.
I take my muddled mainland accent to the indicated seat and tune into the bouncier, more playful Taiwanese accents of the couple across from me.
A Taiwanese breakfast reflects who’s been on the island the last few hundred years. The meal has a Chinese foundation spruced up with Japanese sauces and sometimes breads. There is even the suggestion of an American military kitchen in all of the sandwich styles.
Egg abounds on Jon’s griddle. Eggs over northern Chinese noodles, egg slipped delicately between Japanese style fluffy white buns, hot dogs ensconced in fried egg casings, egg with hamburger meat in flat, flakey, Chinese bǐng pastry all make their way to the pale-yellow foldout tables hugging buildings bordering the small street. The thoroughfare will soon fill with young Taiwanese shoppers, a mélange of sleek Korean and Japanese styles. In the morning, though, the street belongs to Jon, his family, his griddle, and his customers.
The food is all Chinese-ish, a gradient or two away from what would fall under the spectrum of Chinese food. The feel is akin to engaging with the slightly peculiar but still familiar habits of a smaller group of Darwin’s finches that flew to a neighboring island years ago. That isn’t a far cry from what happened, but it isn’t polite to talk politics over breakfast. The difference is subtle but tangible, the tang in a sauce or the bounce of an accent.
“We do not serve bubble tea in the morning,” Jon asserts. “Only little girls drink bubble tea in the morning.” He laughs, pointing to his daughter. She clasps a bubble tea between both hands, sucking gleefully on the rich concoction.
I point out that mainland Chinese also do not drink bubble tea in the morning.
“They must have gotten that from us.”