The old woman walked along pushing her trolley, picking at something from her lunchbox

Woman walking dim passage — Old woman walking with a lunchbox

Taipei’s markets always seem dim, whether you visit in the morning or late at night. Perhaps it’s the low ceilings, or the rows of tired fluorescent lights that cast a perpetual dusk over the stalls. As I walked down one of the narrow aisles, an elderly woman approached from the opposite direction. She wore a boldly patterned outfit, the kind that seems to obey its own rules of fashion, and carried a paper lunch box in one hand. Strangely enough, the lid bore the Japanese word “osho-kuji”—“a meal”—printed in neat characters. It certainly didn’t look Taiwanese, yet somehow the unfamiliar lettering made the food inside seem more appetizing.

She pushed a small cart as she walked, picking absentmindedly at whatever was packed in the box. Perhaps it was a staff meal from one of the vendors, or leftovers she had decided to sample. From deeper in the market drifted a mix of grilled-chicken smoke and the sugary scent of douhua, blending into an atmosphere that felt less like air and more like a simmering stew. The woman moved through it in silence, glancing sideways at the surrounding stalls as if mentally comparing their offerings with the contents of her lunch. Judging by her expression, the boxed meal alone wasn’t quite satisfying her curiosity—or her appetite.

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