There’s nothing I like more to eat in Taiwan than fried filth. My new favorite place is stall in a lane off Dunhua South. They serve scallion pancake positively oozing in trans-fats filled oil that has been swilling around in the grimy pan for days. I don’t think they ever clean that thing. It’s great. They also always leave the egg runny. FTNM is drooling over the keyboard as types, thinking about his next coronary-inducing indulgence.
What I love even more than what they served up is the couple who (wo)man the stall. As with most of the stalls and clothing racks on wheels in those alleys and lanes of an evening, they are one hundred percent illegal. The missus is constantly keeping a beady eye out for Old Bill and, on several occasions, I have seen them fleeing their normal spot, part of a back alley Serengeti migration in miniature, when the cops show up to do their routine wildebeest scattering (they never seem to want to catch these langers, rather just make a show of enforcing the law).
So when they handed me their business card the other day I had to guffaw heartily. I think they understood why, despite my poor Chinese skills, and joined me for a chuckle.
Name, address of their little corner and even a phone number, just in case you need to get hold of them for some preorders. Brilliant.