A stall with a kiln was set up by the roadside

food stand with kiln — Shot near Longshan Temple in Taipei, Taiwan

Wandering through the streets of Taipei, you often catch a warm, toasty aroma drifting in from nowhere in particular. Follow your nose long enough and you eventually find its source: a modest food cart parked along the curb. But unlike most street stalls, this one isn’t built around a griddle. Instead, a small clay oven sits stubbornly in its center. A portable cart with its own kiln—Taipei’s street food culture has never shied away from heavy equipment. One wrong move with the fire, and the whole enterprise rises or collapses with it.

Behind the counter, an older man works in silence. His hands move without hesitation—pinching off a piece of dough, pressing in a handful of seasoned pork, sealing the edges, and tossing each round into the oven with a practiced flick. From the way he moves, there’s no doubt: he’s making Hujiao bing, pepper buns. A Taiwanese staple—crisp and blistered on the outside, packed with peppery pork inside. They resemble Japanese nikuman only in concept; these rely on heat, smoke, and timing rather than steam. Some say the recipe migrated from Fujian after the war, hitching a ride to Taipei and never leaving.

What’s curious is how empty the street is. No customers hover nearby. No impatient queue forms. Yet the man keeps working, tirelessly, almost indifferently. He pulls out a finished bun, slides in another, and repeats the cycle with the calm of someone who no longer expects surprises. It isn’t quite determination on his face, nor is it resignation—something in between, like a craftsman who has accepted his fate along with his recipe.

Watching the steam from a freshly baked bun drift upward and disappear into the streetlight, I catch myself thinking: perhaps life, too, burns if you leave it in the oven a moment too long.

Longshan Temple on Google Map

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日本語