A Guide to Fun at Wet Markets: The Most Authentic Culinary Travel Experience

 

If life comes in a hundred forms, so do wet markets. Wet markets relocated into cozy eateries, stories unearthed from old times, creative twists in new-style markets. Let’s tag along with chefs from homestyle canteens, trendy food consultants who explore markets with flair, history buffs who’ve collected tales spanning centuries, writers on quests for vintage flavors, and more—venturing through this new paradise of wet markets and sharing our most intimate, off-the-beaten-path culinary routes.

So tell us, besides being the most heartwarming place in Taiwan, what other unique features do wet markets have? Please turn to the next page.

It’s said that Hong Kong people are even more “warm-hearted and enthusiastic” about visiting markets than Taiwanese. A friend’s mother is from Hong Kong, and she mentioned that if relatives there found out you didn’t use fish bought fresh from the market that very morning to make soup, you’d be scolded as a lazy daughter-in-law. They’d always “go east to buy abalone and clams, west to get the freshest catch,” scouring every corner of the city’s markets to find the best, never tiring of the effort. So when I heard there was a Hong Kong native running an Italian wine bar in the hub of Hsinchu Science Park, I knew I had to meet him—that man was Boris Huang Qingde, chef of PICCOLA enoteca in Zhubei, a Hong Konger cooking Italian food with local Taiwanese ingredients.

 

“Italian cuisine is actually a type of regional cuisine,” Boris explained. “The spirit of Italian cooking lies in ‘localism.’ Using local ingredients is the starting point of Italian food, followed by the flavors shaped by history and background.” Being authentic doesn’t necessarily mean importing ingredients from Italy. If Italians cook their cuisine using local produce, then isn’t using local ingredients in Taiwan also a form of authenticity?

 

So seeking out local items in the market isn’t an act of rebellion, but rather a commitment. “I go to the market myself every day to pick things out. That way, I can better control the quality. Plus, chatting with the vendors gives me lots of local knowledge and tips. Which items are in season? Where’s the best place of origin for certain ingredients? Italian cuisine uses simple ingredients, but they have to be good—and just a bit of cooking makes them delicious,” Boris said.

By the time Boris finishes circling the market, the front seat of his scooter is “overflowing.” I wonder if Italian chefs by the seaside also zip around on scooters along azure coastlines to shop for ingredients? But there’s a reason Boris became a scooter-riding chef with Taiwanese flair—it’s quite old-fashioned. “Because my wife is Taiwanese. And she’s from Zhubei.” So after studying in Canada, working seven years in Seattle, and unable to give up on his dream, he attended George Brown Culinary School in Canada. Later, he co-opened an Italian restaurant in Canada with friends before crossing the ocean to Taiwan.

 

“I cook Roman cuisine. Rome is an ancient city, a city that rose because of religion, historically a hub for travelers from all directions. Clergy sent to the Vatican from all over would bring their own chefs, so Roman cuisine incorporates flavors from all regions of Italy. But the foundation remains the same: using the simplest techniques to cook the best ingredients. Simple, yet varied because of the ingredients,” Boris said.

 

But I believe good ingredients don’t mean expensive or rare—they mean high-quality local produce. This is evident in Boris’s dishes: his grilled octopus uses only the sweetest green soybeans, tomatoes, and octopus of the season. He sautés onions and garlic, adds the soybeans, then dices the octopus and tosses it in to draw out the sweetness of the vegetables and the umami of the seafood. He finishes with tomatoes, tops it with charcoal-grilled baby corn, and crowns it with seared octopus tentacles that are first braised then roasted to a crispy finish. A final splash of broth-based sauce ties it all together. Simple ingredients, straightforward cooking, yet with the acidity of tomatoes, the freshness of soybeans, the sea flavors of octopus and baby corn, all balancing land and sea in perfect harmony—with playful plating. His Venetian Grilled Squid uses the squid’s tentacles, chopped with shrimp, mackerel, garlic, chili, and capers, then stuffed into the squid body and grilled. Its mildly tangy, sweet smokiness highlights the rugged sea flavors. Salt-baked red snapper is equally simple: a seafood broth with onions, garlic, capers, and olives is simmered, poured over tender, juicy grilled red snapper, resulting in a soft, fragrant dish. As Zeng said, the sea-caught fish are the “freshest,” and the capers and olives add a refreshing layer. The ingredients are simple, but the flavors are anything but—each shines on its own, yet harmonizes beautifully in the final dish.

 

Piccola means “little” in Italian. Paired with Enoteca (wine bar), it becomes “a little wine bar.” Small, so that every ingredient is meticulously chosen from the market. Small, so that every dish is crafted with delicate thought, layered flavors, and clean execution. Bringing the complex tastes of an entire market into a humble eatery, serving up the beauty of simplicity on the table—this little wine bar in the Windy City, the overseas son’s dining table, is authentically local every single day.

Located at the border between Zhongli and Heping Town in Taoyuan, there’s a place considered the most patriotic spot in all of Taiwan. Strolling through, strings of Taiwanese flags hang high in the sky, connecting low-rise buildings. Against the blue sky and white clouds, the red, blue, and white flags shine brilliantly. This is the now-defunct Zhongzhen New Village. The original military dependents’ village buildings have been demolished, leaving only the bustling Zhongzhen Market that comes alive on weekends.

 

During the Chinese Civil War, the once valiant Nationalist army, exhausted by years of resistance and depleted of resources, saw scattered units flee to the Yunnan-Myanmar region to wage guerrilla warfare. At that time, Chiang Kai-shek withdrew the main force of the Nationalist army to Taiwan, leaving behind these troops from Yunnan and Myanmar. “Like children without parents, with no support from above and no commanding officers,” recalled 72-year-old Chang Laowang. These troops waged guerrilla warfare across regions, fighting from 1949 to 1952, caught between Thailand, Myanmar, and Vietnam. It wasn’t until 1953 that Chiang finally relocated them to Taiwan, along with their families—totaling over 580 households—to establish Zhongzhen New Village.

 

The Nationalist soldiers and their dependents from Yunnan and Myanmar, seeking livelihoods, set up small stalls around their homes, selling familiar hometown flavors: rice noodles, Yunnan beef jerky slices, puff pastry buns, pea flour, Yunnan pickled vegetables... The list goes on. With different family backgrounds and unique flavors, these stalls eventually formed Taiwan’s largest Yunnan-Myanmar food enclave.