All recipes

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Di gua yeStir-fried sweet potato leaves

Stir-fried sweet potato leaves are on the table at almost every Taiwanese home dinner and at every rechao stir-fry stall from Taipei to Kaohsiung, a cheap, dark-green side that once fed the island in lean years and is now loved for its silky texture. The tender leaves and tips are thrown into a smoking wok with plenty of garlic and a splash of water and cooked in about two minutes. It is vegan and light, with about 3 g of protein per portion. The common mistake is overloading the wok: the leaves stew and turn black-green and slimy, so cook in two batches if your pan is small. If you can't find sweet potato leaves, use water spinach or pea shoots. Chef's tip: add a tablespoon of water with the leaves; the burst of steam wilts them evenly without extra oil.

9 min

Taiwanese Sides

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Papaya milk

Kaohsiung claims papaya milk as its own: the southern port city's fruit stalls, and the famous old shop on Liuhe night market's doorstep, have been blending it since the 1960s, when sweet red-fleshed papayas from Pingtung became cheap and plentiful. It is now sold all over Taiwan, a thick orange-pink shake in a tall cup, drunk on sticky evenings while walking between food stalls or in the morning with a scallion pancake. It tastes of ripe papaya and cold milk, sweet and mellow, with a smooth, slightly airy body. The classic mistake is making it in advance: papaya contains the enzyme papain, which starts working on milk proteins within about 20 minutes and leaves the drink bitter and curdled-looking. Blend it just before drinking. Your papaya is ripe when the skin is mostly yellow-orange and gives slightly to a thumb, and it smells sweet at the stalk end; it is ready to serve when it is fully smooth, foamy on top and evenly coloured. Children love it, and with little added sugar it is a fine after-school snack. Chef's tip: chill the papaya well beforehand so you need less ice and the shake stays thick.

5 min

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Taiwan railway bentoPork chop rice box

Since the 1940s, the Taiwan Railway has sold a famous biandang on its trains and platforms: a box of rice topped with a soy-braised pork chop, a dark lu dan egg, a few strands of suan cai pickled mustard greens and slices of braised dried tofu. Taipei commuters still buy thousands a day, and families make it at home for packed lunches. The common mistake is frying the pork chop straight from thick; beat it thin first or it curls and toughens. Chef's tip: braise the eggs and tofu in the same pot after the pork, so they soak up its flavour.

65 min

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Pineapple soybean paste

Hakka households in Miaoli, Hsinchu and Pingtung are frugal and patient, and pineapple soybean paste (ong lai dau jiong) shows both. In early summer, when Taiwan's pineapples are plentiful, the fruit is cut into wedges and layered in jars with salted soybean koji and sugar, then left in a cool corner for months. The pineapple softens and goes golden-brown, the beans melt into a thick sauce, and the whole jar turns sweet, salty and tangy with a soft funk like miso. Spooned over steamed fish with ginger and scallion, stirred into braised bitter melon or tossed through stir-fried greens and wood ear, it is a back-pocket seasoning for everyday Hakka meals and bento. Common mistake: using very ripe, juicy pineapple; the fruit breaks into mush and the extra water dilutes the salt. Choose firm, just-ripe fruit and dry it after cutting. It is ready when the pineapple has turned amber and translucent and the beans are soft, after 1–3 months. Chef's tip: read the koji label — many brands are dusted with wheat flour, so it is not reliably gluten free.

45 min

Taiwanese Basics

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Winter melon tea

All over Taiwan, from Tainan's old markets to Taipei's night-market stalls, winter melon tea is sold in plastic cups packed with ice through the steaming summer. Despite the name there is no tea in it: chunks of winter melon are cooked down for hours with brown and white sugar until the melon disappears into a thick, dark, toffee-scented paste, which is set into blocks and later dissolved in hot water and chilled. The drink tastes of caramel and light molasses with a gentle, grassy melon note, and it is often mixed half and half with lemon juice or fresh milk. The common mistake is stopping too early, when the mixture is still runny: it will not set and it tastes boiled rather than caramelised. Keep stirring until a drop on a cold plate sets firm and the paste pulls away from the pan. Ready blocks keep 2 months in the fridge, or 6 months frozen; make the drink whenever you want it. If you cannot find winter melon (ash gourd, available frozen in Asian shops), there is no good substitute. Chef's tip: a final 10 minutes on low heat with constant stirring gives the deep, smoky colour that market versions have.

120 min

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Jiang mu yaGinger duck hot pot

Jiang mu ya is Taiwan's winter warmer, sold from steaming restaurants and night-market stalls from the first cold snap until spring, where diners add cabbage, mushrooms and noodles to the pot at the table. Thick slices of old ginger are fried slowly in black sesame oil until shrivelled and golden, then duck is browned in the same oil and simmered for over an hour in rice wine and water with jujubes and goji. The broth is rich, warming and gingery. It cooks with a lot of rice wine; for an alcohol-free version use chicken stock with an extra 50 g ginger. The usual mistake is frying the ginger over a high heat: sesame oil turns bitter, so keep it low and patient. Chef's tip: use old, fibrous ginger with thick skin, not young ginger, for the proper heat.

120 min

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Taiwanese peanut rice milkWarm rice and peanut drink

Beside the steel urns of soy milk at a Taiwanese breakfast shop stands a second urn of something beige, thicker and nuttier, and regulars know exactly what goes with it: a fat sticky-rice roll, fan tuan, eaten on the way to the MRT. Rice is toasted, blended with roasted peanuts and water, then simmered into a smooth, lightly sweet drink with a nutty, almost popcorn aroma, served hot in winter and chilled in summer. It's naturally dairy-free and very filling. Walking away from the pot is the usual mistake, because the starch settles and scorches in a minute, giving the whole batch a burnt taste. Chef's tip: toast the raw rice in a dry pan until it's golden; that step gives the drink its unmistakable breakfast-shop flavour.

40 min

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Aiyu jelly with lemonAiyu fig jelly with lemon

Squeezing a little cloth bag of seeds in a bowl of water until it turns into jelly sounds like a magic trick, yet that's how aiyu has been made for well over a century in Chiayi, at the foot of the Alishan hills where the climbing fig grows wild. The pectin in the dried seeds sets the water into a soft, glassy, pale-gold jelly with almost no taste of its own, so it's cut into cubes and served icy cold with tart lemon juice and honey syrup, the most refreshing thing on a sticky Taipei summer afternoon. The classic failure is a bowl that won't set, usually because the bowl was oily or the water was distilled or very soft; it needs ordinary tap or mineral water. Chef's tip: rub the bag steadily for 8–10 minutes and stop as soon as it feels slippery and nothing more comes out, or the jelly turns cloudy and bitter.

30 min

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Hakka pickled mustard greens with pork bellySteamed pork belly with mustard greens

At Hakka weddings, Lunar New Year and other big family meals across Taiwan, this domed bowl of glossy pork belly is turned out onto a plate to applause. Slices of skin-on pork belly are boiled, browned and packed into a bowl over mei gan cai, the dried, fermented mustard greens Hakka families make each winter, then steamed for hours until the fat turns to jelly and the greens soak up the pork juices. It is rich, sweet and salty, and comes with plenty of plain rice and a green vegetable. The most frequent slip is skipping the rinse: dried mustard greens hold sand and a lot of salt, so soak and wash them several times. Chef's tip: slice the browned belly when it is cold; warm pork belly tears, but chilled it cuts into clean 1 cm slices.

180 min

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Hakka stir-fryPork, squid and tofu stir-fry

Every Hakka restaurant in Miaoli and Hsinchu puts this on the table at banquets and family dinners, a savoury, chewy, salty plate built to be eaten with plenty of plain rice. Strips of pork belly are fried until they give up their fat, then dried squid, pressed tofu, Chinese celery, spring onion and chilli are tossed through with soy until everything is glossy and smoky. The dried squid needs an overnight soak, so plan ahead, or use fresh squid for a softer bite. Many cooks rush the first stage and leave the pork belly pale and fatty: fry it until it is golden and the fat is clear. Chef's tip: cut everything to the same matchstick length, so each mouthful picks up a bit of pork, squid, tofu and celery together.

35 min

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Lukang ox tongue cakesSesame maltose flat pastries

Their name comes from the shape, long and flat like a tongue, not from any meat: in the old port town of Lukang, Changhua, these pastries are pressed on hot griddles along the lanes near Tianhou Temple and handed out warm in paper bags. Lukang's style is thicker and chewier than the cracker-crisp Yilan version, with a crisp, blistered shell and a sticky brown-sugar centre that pulls like soft toffee. Bakeries there use lard, so this vegetarian recipe uses vegetable shortening in the pastry and a little butter in the filling. A frequent mishap is rolling the filled dough with heavy hands, which bursts the skin and lets the syrup scorch in the pan. Chef's tip: cook them over a low heat and be patient; slow griddling lets the centre turn molten before the outside darkens.

80 min

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Taichung sun cakesFlaky maltose pastries

Walk down Ziyou Road in Taichung and almost every second shopfront sells boxes of these round, pale pastries, the gift every visitor is expected to bring home. Paper-thin layers shatter at the first bite onto a soft, chewy, honey-like centre of maltose and butter; they're eaten with oolong tea, and older locals break them into a bowl of hot water to make a sweet, milky porridge. Traditional bakeries use lard in the pastry, so this vegetarian version swaps in vegetable shortening, with butter in the filling. Overbaking is the classic error: sun cakes should stay creamy white with only a faint gold tinge, not brown. Chef's tip: keep the dough covered at every stage, because the thin skin dries quickly and then cracks instead of flaking.

90 min

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Taiwanese braised bamboo shootsBraised bamboo shoot shreds

Spoon a heap of these amber shreds beside a bowl of rice at almost any Taipei braised-pork-rice counter and you have the side dish locals reach for without thinking; it also turns up on Lunar New Year tables and in railway bento boxes. Fermented bamboo shoots are tangy and faintly funky straight from the packet, but a long, gentle braise in soy sauce, sugar and plenty of oil turns them silky, sweet-savoury and slightly chewy. Restaurants often cook them in pork fat; this version uses vegetable oil and dried shiitake for the same rich depth. The usual mistake is skipping the blanching: unrinsed shoots keep a sharp, sour smell that no amount of sauce can hide. Chef's tip: make it a day ahead, because the shreds drink up the braising liquid overnight and taste even better reheated.

60 min

Taiwanese Sides

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Taiwanese pineapple cakes

Feng li su are the gift-box sweet of Taiwan: little golden squares of crumbly, milky shortbread wrapped round a chewy pineapple jam. Bakeries in Taichung and Taipei pack them in tins for Lunar New Year, weddings and visiting relatives, and the name sounds like 'prosperity arriving' in Taiwanese Hokkien. Older bakeries bulk the filling with winter melon for a softer, sweeter jam; this home version uses fresh pineapple only, cooked down until thick and tangy. Chef's tip: chill the dough and the jam balls before wrapping; cold, firm pieces are far easier to seal without the jam breaking through.

90 min