"Oh, you mean this pot, " Hung Chen-ming exclaims, looking up in the darkness, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool weather. "We've used this pot for 43 years," he says with a glance down at the bubbling caldron. "Before that? There was only one other, and it lasted us for 50 years."
But the clouds of steam are not rising from a concoction for immortality prepared by a mad Chinese alchemist. Instead, it is another pot of meat sauce for one of the best known hsiao chih delicacies not only in Tainan, but in all of Taiwan: Tu Hsiao Yueh's tan tzu noodles.
After being started by Hung's grandfather during the late years of the Ching Dynasty, three generations and two cooking pots later the name Tu Hsiao Yueh has become an established Taiwan culinary tradition. Yet success has not gone to Hung's head; he has learned the importance of consistency, and carefully prepares each bowl of noodles in the same manner as his father and grandfather before him.
Visitors to Hung's shop are first struck by its small size. Everything about it is Lilliputian compared to most restaurants, or even noodle shops for that matter. Not more than eight feet wide and twenty feet deep, the facilities are designed to make the customers adjust to it, not the other way around. The small preparation area in the very front of the shop, behind which Hung sits, is surrounded by a half dozen miniature bamboo stools. And inside are a few low tables with more of the same stools, which require one to assume a posture halfway between sitting and squatting.
While the posture of squatting while talking or waiting for a bus is fairly common for the older generation, younger Chinese and their foreign friends find it somewhat of a challenge to be comfortable while passing food from bowl to mouth by a route around bent knees raised to chin level. Of course, the noodles themselves are served in a bowl that complements the furniture—it is about the size of a scholar's fist.
Even the two shrimp served atop the noodles are tiny. The only big thing in the shop is the price: one bowl of Hung's tan tzu noodles, which is hardly filling, costs NT$20 (US$l is approximately NT$28). A slightly larger bowl costs NT$30. This is expensive by local standards, with most noodle shops on Taiwan offering generous meal-sized bowls of noodles for the same price. But the customers who fill the shop from the time it opens at 4:00 every afternoon until closing at 2:00 in the morning do not seem to have any complaints; many eat several bowls at one sitting.
The unusual proportions of Hung's noodle shop are actually a carryover from tradition rather than the result of a housing shortage in modern Tainan. Hung's grandfather, Hung Yu-tou, originally was a fisherman who operated out of Anping Harbor in Tainan. He started the family noodle business in 1895, the 21st year of the Ching Dynasty Emperor Kuanghsu, which was the same year that Taiwan was ceded to Japan. How did a fisherman end up selling noodles?
Hung's face becomes animated as he starts to talk of a subject clearly dear to his heart: "It was like this, you see. During the months between the Tomb Sweeping Festival and the Moon Festival (April to early September) there were frequent typhoons along the coast of Taiwan, which made it too dangerous for the fishing boats to go out. In order to meet expenses during those months, my grandfather decided to sell noodles made according to a traditional Fukien recipe. Putting a bamboo carrying pole across his shoulders, he brought his stove, pots, stools, and ingredients with him to the market area in front of the Hsui Hsien Buddhist Temple, and began preparing his noodles on the spot. Everything had to be small for convenience in carrying. My father and I, out of respect to the tradition started by my grandfather, have kept everything the same size as in those days."
The name of the business is also in accord with tradition. "That also started with my grandfather," Hung says. "Those months when the fishermen were able to fish were called ta yueh (prosperous months), and those when they couldn't go to sea to fish were called hsiao yueh (lean months) because of the financial hardship they brought. Since my grandfather was selling noodles to get by during difficult times, he wrote the characters tu hsiao yueh (getting by the lean months) on the yellow oil paper lantern that he set up in front of his noodle stand. The name stuck, and since then the family business has been known as 'Tu Hsiao Yueh's Tan Tzu Noodles.'"
The noodle business prospered more than anyone expected, and Hung says neither he nor his father have ever spent a day at sea. Furthermore, when the business passed down to Hung's father, Hung Tsai-lai, the days of mobile noodles came to an end. The shop was set up on Tainan's Chungcheng Road where it has remained to this day. The only change has been a slight shift further down the road three years ago when the landlord redesigned the building.
When he was 29, Hung took over from his father, and has been carrying on the family tradition for close to 30 years. The "petite" style which was a necessity of convenience for his grandfather has now become a trademark. Even the same sort of oil paper lantern with the words "tu hsiao yueh" hangs right in front of the shop over the preparation area. In fact, Hung had long used the same lantern passed down from his father, until a few years ago when a Japanese customer insisted on having a new one made for him.
Watching the preparation of the tan tzu noodles is almost as much of a treat as eating them. Hung first takes a long-handled bamboo scoop full of Chinese style wheat or rice noodles, according to customer preference, and submerges them, scoop and all, in a partially covered pot of boiling broth. Once the noodles are cooked, they are put into a bowl which has first been scalded with clear soup stock from yet another pot boiling on the preparation stand in front of him. Then from small dishes below the stand, a fraction of a teaspoon of garlic paste, some chopped parsley, a pinch of assorted spices, and a half spoon of black vinegar is added. Afterwards Hung scoops on some meat sauce from his "antique" pot, then arranges a couple of cooked and shelled baby shrimp to adorn the top. Finally, a bit of the clear soup stock is poured over it all. The performance is a blur of motion, and suddenly the customer has a steaming bowl of tan tzu noodles on the table at his side.
As one picks up the bowl in one hand and chopsticks in the other, nostrils are already assailed with delightfully combined fragrances even before the noodles reach chest level. The meat sauce, soup broth (a seafood stock made from boiled and strained shrimp shells), and the subtle spices are as much a joy to old timers as those trying their first bowl. A first glance at the tiny shrimp gracing the top of the mini mountain of noodles, surrounded with little flecks of green parsley, makes the customer feel a bit reluctant to disturb the symmetry of it all. But aesthetic sentiment quickly gives way to impatient taste buds, and conversation ceases as chopsticks shift into high gear. Once in the mouth, the noodles, sauce, spices, and soup all melt into a delicious harmony of taste. This is truly a special Chinese delicacy.
But after three, no more than four, mouthfuls, the bowl is empty. The next step is familiar to all customers: a second and even a third bowl. "Once I had a customer who polished off 16 large size bowls in one sitting," Hung recalls with a tone mixing satisfaction, pride, and awe.
No matter how busy he gets, Hung still prepares the bowls of noodles one at a time, just like his father and grandfather before him. And he has a sharp memory when it comes to remembering the particular preferences of his regular customers. "Some want extra vinegar, others don't like garlic"—it is a Chinese version of "hold the pickles, hold the lettuce.... "
Hung's smooth, graceful movements during preparation are the result of years of daily practice. It is not as simple as he makes it look. When Hung adds the meat sauce, for example, he uses a flat piece of bamboo which looks like a short version of a doctor's tongue depressor to scoop the meat sauce. A couple of super-quick flicks of the wrist, and the meat sauce is on top of the noodles.
"There's more to scooping the meat sauce than meets the eye," Hung says. "The top layer in the pot is the fragrant cooking oils of the meat, while the actual meat sauce is below that. A light and shallow flick of the wrist scoops a little of that top layer on the noodles, while a heavier stroke brings up the meat sauce. Without the top layer, the noodles would not be as flavorful; too much, and they become oily. It takes some practice." A familiar "trade secret" littany: "it's all in the wrists."
Hung is pleased to explain more about his meat sauce, and the unusual pot in which it is cooked: "The meat sauce is an important part of the flavor of our noodles, and a family secret. Anyone could tell by looking that the basic ingredients are fresh choice pork meat, scallions, and soy sauce. However, the method of cooking and the other ingredients are what make the difference." No more details are forthcoming.
And the cooking pot? "Oh, yeah. When my grandpa started the business, he had an earthenware one which finally gave out after 50 years. My dad had this one made out of cast iron; we've already used it for 43 years and it should last longer than the last one. Some people laugh and say that the pot looks like I never wash it; that's true, I seldom do. Between the time I finish in the wee hours of the morning, and when I have to put it back on the fire the next day (Hung uses a slow heating coal fire) it has hardly cooled off."
There is a joke in Tainan that says Hung should change the name of his shop from Tu Hsiao Yueh to Tu Ta Yueh (Passing the Prosperous Months), since he has not seen a lean month in as long as anyone can remember. But Hung is not anxious to discuss how many bowls of noodles he sells each day. His wife, not wanting it to seem like her husband is being rude, answers for him. "You wouldn't really want us to say; the tax bureau would come around making trouble," she says with a laugh.
The hand is quicker than the eye-a bowl of Tan Tzu noodles takes only a moment to prepare.
Later, in a different context, Hung admits to using an average of 30 pounds of noodles per day. (Each bowl uses about three ounces of noodles.) He also sells about seventy tea eggs daily, plus dozens of slices of roasted fish egg cake at NT$30 each, and an equal amount of kung wan, a Chinese style pork meatball. Some simple mathematics is all that is needed to figure out an approximate figure for Hung's daily gross. Considering his minimal overhead, it is no wonder his wife is laughing, no doubt with visions of stuffed bank accounts mingling with thoughts of satiated customers.
"It's not all a bed of roses," Hung is quick to add, somewhat taken aback by the business mathematics his foreign customer has just displayed. "The shop closes at 2:00 in the morning, and it is well after 3:00 before I'm in bed. The next day before noon it is time to start preparation for opening time at 4:00."
Hung of course has the help of other family members, but the pre-opening preparation is more time-consuming than one would imagine, mostly because he still refuses the help of outside preparation services. He and his family make the meat sauce, soup stocks, and even the soy sauce in which the meat sauce is cooked. The work environment itself has its drawbacks as well. Besides long days, the three coal fires in the shop keep Hung in a steady sweat. He wears only a tee-shirt during the Tainan winter, not to mention the summer when the mercury soars well into the 90's for days on end. But sometimes he gets just plain tired, pulls down the shop's steel door, and takes his wife on a vacation. But they do not take extended trips.
His wife adds, smiling: "Our customers are really important to us, and since our noodles are more expensive than anyone else's, we wouldn't feel right going away for too long."
Success has had its price, but also its rewards. The name Tu Hsiao Yueh has became a household word in Taiwan. And visitors to the city make it a point to join local patrons in attacking bowls full of the delicious noodles. Hung's shop has been patronized by the likes of the late master painter, Chang Ta-chien, famous Taiwan author Chen Juo-hsi, and even the late president of the ROC, Chiang Ching-kuo. Numerous newspapers and magazines in both Taiwan and Japan have interviewed him and written up his shop.
The attention has brought a host of imitators, and the name Tu Hsiao Yueh hangs on several shops in Tainan, some of which even claim to be the original. Hung is resigned to it all: "Even in my grandfather's day people were copying the name Tu Hsiao Yueh. But he was quite a philanthropic man. He used to say, 'if there are lean months, let everybody get through them together.' Therefore, he never hassled people who used the name he created. My father and I have kept his tradition, even though we own the registered trademark."
If there is any doubt, one taste should be enough to convince any skeptics. And, if that is not enough, a look at Hung's meat sauce pot should close the argument. In 1995, when Tu Hsiao Yueh is celebrating its 100th anniversary, their second pot will be celebrating its 50th. That's about as much "iron proof" as anyone could ask for.