The Taiwanese word bando (辦桌, pronounced ban-DOE) literally means “to set tables.” But the verb has become a collective noun, one that refers to a traditional Taiwan-style catered banquet at wedding ceremonies, birthday parties, funerals, and other social gatherings. The location for bando is special: they aren’t held in restaurants. In the countryside, they are often set up in the courtyard of an extended family’s home, with the red brick wings of the house surrounding the diners on three or all four sides. Or the site might be a primary school playground. Actually, just about any open space large enough to seat the guests is acceptable.
In the city, bando can be held in the hall of a local-level government office building, or the hosts might erect a large tent in front of their residence, temporarily taking over a sidewalk and half the street. The size of such affairs can vary from two or three tables to one with more than a hundred tables, each seating eight to twelve people. The savings from what the food and overhead costs would be at a restaurant makes this a much cheaper way to entertain.
When people in the Ilan area of eastern Taiwan think about holding a bando, Master Ah-chao (阿朝) invariably comes to mind. He is considered an expert in preparing these feasts. Although time has left its traces on his face, the well-known chef is still animated and energetic when the topic focuses on his specialty form of cooking. “Ilan’s style of bando has the best reputation in Taiwan, and I’m not bragging about our style—I’m serious,” says the master chef, aka Pan Chao-chuan (潘朝全).
Ah-Chao says that ten years ago, bando chefs in Ilan had to have more than good cooking skills. They also had to be strong, otherwise they wouldn’t be qualified to handle the heavy work. In Ilan, a lot of formalities were required at a marriage ceremony, and the banquet after the ceremony—the climax of the event—was especially complicated. Elsewhere in Taiwan, twelve or up to sixteen main dishes were usually served at wedding banquets. But in Ilan, a host had to prepare thirty-six dishes for his guests, an incredible challenge for the head chef. “Once we didn’t have enough people to help out, so I asked for help from Taipei,” Ah-chao says. “But when my friends heard that the wedding ceremony was in Ilan, they refused immediately and wouldn’t give it a second thought.”
Ilan residents have a reputation for unreserved hospitality toward their relatives and friends. When they invite guests to a banquet, they also expect them to bring their family. There are no pro forma invitations. The thirty-six dish banquets of the past were served in three rounds with the guests divided by traditional rules. The first round was served to the head of each nuclear family, the second round was for the young men, and the third was for the women and children.
At the end of the banquet, the host provided containers so the guests could carry home leftovers. In the old days, most families could not afford to have meat regularly at home. People were therefore especially pleased to attend wedding banquets, not only to have a nice meal, see family, and congratulate the newlyweds, but also to bring home bags of leftover food, much of it meat-based. When such bando were over, it was usually late in the evening, so the host gave his guests torches to light their way back home. Ah-chao says he fondly remembers those times when people with torches and bags of food lined country roads on the way home.
Today, bando in Ilan are not much different from those in other parts of the island. The thirty-six-dish spread exists only in memory. The cuisine has also changed greatly over the decades. In the past, it was primarily Taiwan-style foods, with many soups and sweet-flavored dishes. Later, in the late 1940s, when a million or so mainland Chinese moved to the island with the retreat of the Nationalist government, bando food combined the flavors of various mainland provinces with those of Taiwan. One long-time chef says: “Taiwanese and mainlanders may have their troubles getting along, but we’ve had no problem adopting their regional dishes.”
The upgraded living standards over the last two decades has also had an impact on the cuisine. Some of the traditional Taiwanese dishes are now considered too simple for banquets. As the same experienced chef points out, “The improved dishes have borrowed from Hakka, mainland, and Japanese cuisine, so they now have a much better taste.”
Huang Wen-chi (黃文祈), a bando chef for ten years in Hsinkang, central Taiwan, says he often includes Japanese ingredients in his Taiwanese dishes. He says he also learned some cooking techniques from Tautau Garden, a Taipei restaurant known for its excellent Shanghai cuisine. “As long as people like our food, it’s good food,” Huang says. “I don’t think we have to emphasize the origin of the dishes.” Most of Huang’s current business is wedding banquets. His personal record is preparing dishes for eighty tables. Although his friends occasionally persuade him to cook for only two or three tables of guests, Huang is used to supervising countryside wedding banquets with fifty to sixty tables of guests. “The major difference between a restaurant chef and a bando chef is efficiency,” he says. “We must have quick hands and legs.”
Actually, many bando chefs begin in restaurants, where they pick up their cooking and organizational skills. The standard joke in the profession is that “a good chef has no hair on his hands,” because it has all been burned off. Huang started learning basic cooking techniques after graduating from junior high. Now he is famous in the Hsinkang area. “These days, it’s easier for an apprentice to learn bando cooking techniques,” he says. “As long as a guy is willing to learn, a master will teach him. In the past, master chefs wouldn’t tell you everything.”
Huang says that he and his fellow apprentices even had to wash their master’s clothes. “When I was a little slow in learning, my master would hit me over the head with a serving spoon,” he says. It was believed that a good apprentice was always taught by a strict master. And in those days, there were exacting rules for preparing different kinds of dishes from Taiwanese, Cantonese, Shanghainese, and Sichuanese. “But now we combine all the flavors together,” Huang says.
Because of market demand, quite a few restaurants have added bando catering arms to their operations. Taiwan’s frequent elections for neighborhood and district representatives, mayors, and legislators have been a boon for business. The candidates always treat their supporters to banquets before and after the elections to express their thanks. In the countryside, a candidate is expected to invite local chefs to prepare the bando. “This shows respect to the local people,” says Ah-chao. “The taste of the dishes also counts. If the guests really enjoy the meal the candidate will give a big red envelope [with a cash tip inside] to the master chef and his helpers.”
Such banquets once served as a test balloon for candidates. “In the past, the number of people attending a bando indicated whether the candidate could win an election,” Ah-chao says. “Today, people’s attitudes have changed. They may come to your banquet, but in the election they vote for someone else.”
The cost for throwing catered banquets varies based on several factors. Locale for one. In the northern part of the island, including Taipei county, the food for each table of twelve people costs roughly US$230 to $300. In central and southern Taiwan, as well as the offshore islands, the cost averages somewhat less. The kind of food ordered and the experience of the chef also make a difference. “But whatever is served, people think the more, the better,” Huang says.
Today, it is hard for a chef to get job satisfaction from bando. “In the past, life was hard and people could not afford to have meat at every meal,” says Ah-szu (阿賜), who has more than ten years experience in preparing these banquets. “Bando was an occasion for them to have something special. They finished all the dishes served, and that’s really an encouragement for a chef. But our society has become rich and people tend to waste things. It’s common to find that the guests haven’t even touched some of the dishes.”
Ah-szu learned how to cook from his father, but he developed his own ideal sequence for serving dishes. “Sometimes, when the guests don’t eat certain dishes, it’s not because the food isn’t delicious, but because the serving time is wrong,” he says. “My principle is that seafood, meat, soup, and fried foods must be served in turn. If you serve three soups in a row, that’s too much.”
Ah-szu has also discovered another practical technique for serving food. After seeing that most guests were full by the time the last few dishes were served, he started serving dishes at the end of the banquet that were easier to carry home, like fried chicken legs with hot pepper sauce. “Empty plates mean that people like the food, and this saves face for the hosts,” he says.
Ah-szu’s family has owned a restaurant for decades and catering banquets was once only a side operation. But Ah szu’s cooking and serving techniques have made him exceptionally popular, and the family bando business has surpassed the restaurant’s revenues. “We have to take the host’s demands into consideration at all times,” Ah-szu says. “It’s good that bando can save them some money, but the most important consideration is having the right atmosphere. A lively and happy atmosphere brings the newly-weds good luck. We chefs have to adapt to new food trends, but one thing never changes—the satisfaction of the host is always the most important thing.”