Having spent centuries shrouded in mystery, Taipei has emerged as a global incubator for technology, design and cuisine. Even so, the Taiwanese capital still has plenty of surprises for those willing to explore.
Author Orion Ray-Jones Photography Shane McCauley
DAY TWO | You awake to a shard of sunlight and the after-effects of last night’s fun, so it’s with some effort that you pry yourself from your unfathomably comfortable bed and head out to sample a locally popular curative. “Fu Hang Dou Jiang!” your taxi driver shouts, accelerating westward, when you ask if he knows a good Taiwanese donut spot.
Located on the second floor of the otherwise unremarkable Huashan Market, the canteen your driver has recommended is known to attract lines that snake all the way around the block, filled with people eager to try the shao bing (stuffed roasted flatbread) and crullers before the gates shutter at 10 a.m. The wait is a small price to pay for a foot-long savory cruller, a spring onion omelet and hearty sesame bread, washed down with sweet, warm soy milk, all of which combine to help tame your still-boogieing belly.
On the west side of Taipei, the glitzy gives way to the holy. At the edge of Mengjia Park, near a group of monks collecting alms of rice, you stop to admire the most famous of the city’s temples, the dragon-bedecked 18th-century masterpiece Longshan. You enter the courtyard, its air thick with the smoke of incense-filled cauldrons. Worshipers place offerings of fruit and flowers on long tables and whisper prayers to Bodhisattva Guanyin, or toss wooden blocks to the floor to aid in communication with the Buddha.
From here, it’s a quick cab ride to the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall, where a hushed crowd watches the hourly changing of the guard, with its synchronized spinning of bayonet-tipped rifles, overseen by a massive bronze sculpture of Chiang, the 20th-century Chinese exile who ruled Taiwan for two and a half decades. Surrounded by a gorgeous park, which is also home to the National Theater and National Concert Hall, the blue-tiled roof atop the white marble memorial rises to 250 feet, and you can’t help feeling dwarfed as you descend the 89 steps, one for each year of Chiang’s life.
Moving from culture to commerce, you walk eight blocks east to Yongkang Street. As you jostle through lines of folks waiting for deep-fried squid, beef noodles and cupcakes, you indulge in a spot of shopping. Soon, you’re toting armfuls of gifts: hand-stitched slippers from the Pinmo Pure Store, a jigsaw puzzle from Pintoo, body products made from organic ginger (planted by ex-convicts recovering from drug addiction) at Ginger 800.
Succumbing to the inescapable smell of food, you stop at the southern end of Yongkang for a Taiwanese specialty served in a French brasserie. Bistro Le Pont’s Gallic name and décor are belied by its table settings of wooden chopsticks and a menu dominated by goose. You order smoked goose and goose glass noodles with peanut powder and spring onion. The springy noodles have a chili kick and are topped with a smoked hard-boiled egg, possibly laid by a goose. Appetite sated, you’re waved off by a Taiwanese waitress wishing you “bon voyage.”
Not far away is the Flower and Jade Market, which stretches out within long buildings beneath a highway overpass. With bulging shopping bags, you stop to look at the rows of jewelry, carved animals and uncut gemstones, but are determined not to buy. You buy. Most expensively, you buy a pair of sea-green earrings—made from “real Burma jade.” You drop this, and the rest of your plunder, off at the second hotel of your stay—the Shangri-La Far Eastern Plaza, whose simple sophistication serves as a nice counterpoint to the excess of the W.
For dinner, it’s back to Taipei 101 Mall, where you’ll be sampling modern French cooking at S.T.A.Y. This Asian outpost of three-Michelin-starred Parisian chef Yannick Alléno combines Euro sensibilities with regional flavors in dishes like foie gras with seaweed terrine and yuzu marmalade, and mushroom gnocchi fricassee in Shaoxing wine emulsion with white Alba truffle. But the grand finale is wholly French: an assortment of modern pastries paired with homemade sorbets.
The fusion of East and West takes on a different hue at China Pa, a red-and-black jazz lounge filled with smoke and a hint of salaciousness. You snag one of the plush couches near the stage and watch the couples whispering in the discreet balcony while a wispy chanteuse cycles through standards in English, French and Chinese. The spell is broken only by the attentions of the drippingly friendly staff, eager to ensure that your tray of snacks is never empty.
Your 1920s Shanghai fantasy at an end—not to mention your reserves of energy—you grab a handful of sesame-encrusted chilies and point a cab in the direction of the Shangri-La, where you promptly fall into a deep, contented coma.