The streets of New York would not be the same without the pretzel vendors and hot dog men. In Paris, it's marrons— paper bags filled with the roasted chestnuts.
But in Taipei, It's a continuing delectable smorgasbord from dawn to near midnight. First thing, on the way to work, are the carts selling fried dumplings, steamed bread, and pork buns, typical Chinese breakfast fare. And the touhua, a kind of breakfast soup flavored with peanuts or sweet red beans. —Have a few minutes at a bus stop? Sit down and have a bowl.
The city sidewalks are laden with cartfuls of everything from rice candy to coconut milk, each item with its special following. My roommate, for instance, cannot walk past a stand of dried squid without stopping to buy. The tasty orange-colored sea snacks are spiced and dried flat, then hung on racks like so many abstract fans in the afternoon sun.
Certain vendors sell all day long, roaming the streets in search of customers, while others have their times and territories set.
Chou toufu, fermented toufu, is available from morning to night. This, however, is the one vendor I try to avoid, alerted when still down the block by the pungent odor. Chou toufu fans contend it is the epitome of Chinese toufu preparations, and that it smells no worse than blue cheese. I have yet to be converted.
I love the bread of north China. The man who sells it near my bus stop at the corner of Tunhua Parkway and Chung-hsiao East Road, standing beside his cart in a crisp blue apron every morning, offers a combination bargain: the freshly baked bread, a smile that will make your day, and that thick Peking errr accent greeted by some mainlanders with such nostalgia. He has such an upstanding air, he has somehow become the "all's right" symbol of my Taipei morning. One day he wasn't there, and the cheer of the morning was definitely lost.
"Mai toufu-ah," the gourmet toufu man sings at about 9:30 a.m. And his cart offers orange, red, and even almond flavored toufu-and, of course, plain old ordinary toufu, perhaps the world's best.
Street snack offerings peak again in mid-afternoon when schools let out. Then, all around the city, smiling middle aged ladies nestle under shady trees, selling delicate little cake rounds filled with sweet red bean puree or custard cream.
Their carts have special griddles with little molds which they skillfully layer with batter and filling. They build up small mountains of the pastries ... then a passing bus unloads a small swarm of schoolchildren, and the mountain is gone.
With speed and dexterity, the cake mountain is quickly rebuilt, and the process goes on. At two for NT$5 —(about 12.5 cents), half the price of an ice cream cone, these cakes are a bargain, even for children.
Also popular with the after school crowd are savory, roasted sweet potatoes, which seem to be the prerogative of grumpy men—perhaps because unlike the smiling ladies, they tend to congregate at high-traffic intersections and crowded alleys.
The sweet potato man announces his presence with a metal whizzer, while inside his cart, hanging sweet potatoes send out an irresistible odor as they bake over the hot coals.
Sweet potatoes are a definite Taiwan symbol. They not only grow in abundance here, but resemble the shape of the island. Roasted, they attract customers of all ages.
"Careful, it's hot," grumpily warns the sweet potato man as he hands over a newspaper-wrapped treat.
Vendors at the Taipei train station at dinner hour provide gourmet choices in finger foods-fried green-onion pancakes, spring rolls, and tsung tzu, rice wrapped in bamboo leaves. It took me months to work up my courage and try one-then, how delicious it was!
Tsung tzu, cooked in big bamboo steamers, and originally a special Dragon Boat Festival treat, are now available year round. Unwrapping the bamboo leaves while avoiding sticky fingers is a challenge, but the surprise inside-tasty pork, mushrooms, and chestnut—makes it more than worthwhile. Tsung tzu carts are quickly distinguishable—the bamboo-wrapped tasties hang from their awnings.
In the evenings, carts offering freshly squeezed sugarcane juice help combat the Taipei summer. They're equipped with big squeezer contraptions-whole, juicy cane goes in one end; when it comes out the other, it is like dried yellow sawdust.
The sausage carts, perhaps the noisiest vendors of all, attract quite a crowd of evening spectators. Sweet Taiwanese sausages hang there on a rack to successfully tempt passersby.
The sausage man dares you to try your gaming luck against his: if you win, you get a sausage free; if he wins, you only pay. As the dice tingle excitedly in a blue and white porcelain bowl, young men try to impress their girl friends, and onlooking crowds laugh-all for NT$5.
The man hawking barbecued chicken feet comes by at midnight, especially servicing revellers hungry after an evening of libations. The chicken feet just hit the spot with potent, cold Taiwan Beer, mahjong, and drinking games like jouki-palai-gusan (the rock-paper- scissors finger game).
From late night to early morning, the sweet notes of a bamboo flute filter through the darkness to the apartment dwellers of the almost sleeping city. And for a long time, his purpose left me utterly mystified.
Actually, in keeping with longstanding Taiwan tradition, he is a blind man advertising massage services.
For those who have given in to the temptations of the food vendors all day, and done justice to a Chinese dinner table in the evening, he can be a lifesaver.