At one corner of the tables inside the shop, a group of women were happily making wontons together

Women making Wonton — Women Making Wontons

As I wandered through the streets of Taipei, I found myself growing inexplicably hungry. The temperature wasn’t particularly high, yet the humidity clung to my skin, draining calories with every step. That was when I spotted a small eatery marked by a red sign. The noren read “温州大餛飩,” suggesting a shop specializing in wonton noodles. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, and only a few customers lingered inside. In the back of the kitchen, the staff were finishing their own midday meal.

Before long, my bowl of wonton noodles arrived. One sip of the broth revealed a rich blend of pork bone and dried shrimp, the flavors clinging to my tongue—dense and heavy, much like the Taipei air itself. As I slurped the noodles and absentmindedly lifted my gaze, I noticed the women working there had finished eating and had moved on to their prep work. On the table sat a red bucket overflowing with minced filling, and the women gathered around it. With bandanas tied around their heads, their hands folded the wonton skins in a steady rhythm—a kind of quiet choreography, the daily dance of craftsmen.

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