Taiwan Today

Local and international diners are just beginning to discover the traditional delicacies of 's indigenous population.

In the five years since she graduated from university, Yolanda Cheng has been to seven countries. She tried the local food in all of them, including fried grasshoppers and cockroaches in . Between vacations, Cheng often visits international restaurants in and and has sampled Indian, Mexican, German, Turkish and other cuisines. But until February this year, the 28-year-old office worker had never tried Taiwanese aboriginal cooking.

One Sunday lunchtime, Cheng and two friends sat down at Hud , an aboriginal-run coffeeshop in . They ordered portions of dulkuk (mountain chicken, in the language of the Bunun tribe) and sakud (the meat of the Reeve's Muntjac, a small deer), plus vegetables and drinks.

An hour later, all but one of the dishes had been finished. "The balangbalang was a little strange," says Cheng, referring to a green, leafy vegetable by its name in Bunun. "It isn't bad tasting, and the boss told me it's very healthy because it grows wild, so there are no chemicals in it. But the consistency is hard to get used to--a bit like jelly."

"The dishes we sell taste different from mainstream Taiwanese cuisine because the ingredients are special," says Hud owner-chef, Alas Istandah. "But the cooking methods aren't so different."

Indigenous Encounters

For one of Cheng's friends, Hu Shao-han, it was not the first encounter with the food of 's indigenous minority. Hu says that, some years ago during a trip to Wulai in , she tried one of that destination's signature dishes: sticky rice cooked in a section of bamboo.

That dish, known in Mandarin as zhutongfan, left her unimpressed. "I guess I don't much like the smell of bamboo," she says. "Today's food was much better."

Hu's hometown in is just 15 kilometers as the crow flies from Sandimen, an aboriginal settlement now very much on the tourist map. According to Maolin National Scenic Area's official website, Sandimen (population: December 2007) has at least nine eateries that serve or claim to serve aboriginal food.

In the lowlands of western , where Hu grew up and where four-fifths of the country's population lives, indigenous restaurants are much harder to find. Aboriginal cooking is slowly making its way from the mountains to Taiwan's bigger cities, but it has yet to achieve much prominence in a dining scene already crowded with Western, Japanese and regional Chinese cuisines.

Of the 100 establishments described in the book 2007 's Top Restaurants, not one is aboriginal. Hotels in often promote their restaurants by organizing themed food festivals. Some of these focus on particular countries, such as or , but often they revolve around seasonal dishes or regional fare from different parts of or . Indigenous cuisine is conspicuously absent, however.

"I've never heard of a four or five-star hotel in holding an aboriginal food event in my nine years in the hospitality industry," says Bair Wan, executive office secretary of the Evergreen Plaza Hotel in .

The Formosan Naruwan Hotel and Resort in Taitung seems to prove her point. From its name (Naruwan is a greeting in the Ami aboriginal language) to its decor, it exploits indigenous motifs and traditions. There is a theater where aboriginal songs and dances are performed nightly for guests. When callers are put on hold, they get to hear aboriginal music. But, according to staff, indigenous fare is not served in the hotel.

However, does have a number of aboriginal restaurants, which is more than can be said for . Despite having tens of thousands of indigenous residents, 's second-biggest metropolis does not have a single aboriginal eatery, according to the city government's Commission of Indigenous Affairs.

A decade ago, the same was true of , which was without an authentic aboriginal eatery. Now there are two such establishments: Hud and a bar called Hud latter is managed by Alas Istandah's twin sister, Abas.

One of 's most successful urban aboriginal restaurants can be found in . Gulu Gulu is located on a tree-lined parkway a block from the National Museum of Fine Arts. The area is popular with both locals and tourists, and restaurants in the area serve everything from Shanghainese delicacies to Southeast Asian curries. For many of the people who pass this neighborhood, however, Gulu Gulu's food is the most exotic, even though it is not from far away.

Gulu Gulu was opened in September 2004 by Paiwan singer Jang Kn Jang, more commonly known by his Chinese name Chiu Jin-ming. Chiu explains how he chose the name of his restaurant: "Since leaving my village in Taitung more than a dozen years ago, I've heard non-aborigines use the term 'gulu gulu' from time to time when they hear indigenous peoples speaking in their native languages. This is how the idea for this name came about."

"Also, many among the Han population say that gulu gulu is the sound your stomach makes when it's empty, meaning you're hungry," he says, "'Gulu' also sounds like degulu, which in the Paiwan language means 'to drink.' So the name seemed to make good sense."

"In a village, it is difficult for an indigenous cuisine restaurant to stand out. In a city, it is much easier to bring out the characteristics of indigenous village culture," Chiu says. "But it takes much more capital to open a restaurant in a city."

The restaurant's indigenous theme is obvious even before visitors step inside. Intertwining driftwood sculptures mark the entryway. Beyond it, there is a small garden with a stage for live music, a grill and carved wood benches. Bunches of dried millet and animal jawbones hang from the walls. Among the decorations are Paiwan double drinking cups, traditionally used during weddings and other celebrations.

Chiu says he tries to keep the food at Gulu Gulu as authentic as possible. However, like many restaurateurs that sell non-mainstream foods, he has had to make compromises in order to attract and satisfy customers. An example of this is Gulu Gulu's version of ah vai, a Paiwan delicacy that dates from the era when millet was a staple for many aborigines. Nowadays, millet-based dishes are seldom seen.

Toning Things Down

Traditionally, ah vai is made by fermenting millet in water for up to a month, then drying and grinding it into a powder before adding pork and vegetables. The mixture, which is wrapped in large leaves, is soft in texture, almost mushy. It also has a piquant "fermented" smell, which, Chiu notes, is quite unappealing for many non-aborigines.

Chiu has altered the process to improve the texture and eliminate the odor and serves the dish with a spicy sauce, which the Paiwan do not use.

Before dining at Hud in February, visitor Yolanda Cheng says she had a notion that aborigines eat large quantities of meat and unfamiliar vegetables such as the balangbalang that she and her friends found so odd.

These ideas are not too wide of the mark, says Chen Yao-zong, an award-winning aboriginal restaurateur, but one should speak of "indigenous cuisines" in the plural rather than in the singular, he says.

"Different tribes have different cooking styles," Chen says. He explains that within his own tribe, the Ami of eastern , there are two distinct culinary traditions.

One draws on the plants and animals of the mountains. The other is based on seafood and seaweed, and it is this Chen exploits at his restaurant, which is located near the mouth of the in . The name of the establishment--translated as Qinglianlao Aboriginal Competition Champion--celebrates Chen's success in a major national cooking contest in 2007.

Much of the food Chen serves is boiled in a broth and resembles Taiwanese hot pot. In the mountains, by contrast, barbecuing and roasting are common cooking methods.

Spirit of Adventure

Explaining what certain dishes are made of and how they are cooked is an important part of the job, say employees at Da Lu An Restaurant, which overlooks the mouth of the in .

The restaurant is run by a team of Ami aborigines, but it is not in an area with many aboriginal residents. However, it does get thousands of day-trippers each weekend, some of whom are drawn to Da Lu An by the decor, the waterside location, or the live music, staff say. But there are adventurous gourmets among them who go out of their way to try delicacies like crickets and ants, and who take photos of the food before digging in.

Gulu Gulu's Chiu says a sense of adventure is important. "It's only the adventurous who are willing to try something new, such as indigenous cuisine," he says. "We could say our market is focused on the adventurous. For customers, especially new customers, presentation is very important. If something looks strange, people may not want to try it and might not know how good it really tastes. So, we place special emphasis on making the food look good, as well as taste good."

Still, Chiu can remember when food preparation styles were decided by conditions rather than preferences. "When I was growing up in Taimali [in ], there was a similar smell in each home," he says. "When hunters brought back game it had to be preserved, sometimes by using salt or millet liquor. Alternatively, the hunters might have smoked it to preserve it before bringing it to the village."

"To me, the odor from the meat was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It was something we were all used to," Chiu says.

Chiu is not the only aboriginal restaurateur to stress the simplicity of indigenous cooking. Even Hsieh, a native of , describes the traditional fare of the island's Tao people as "based on taro, sweet potato, and fish; usually boiled, and with nothing added but a little bit of salt."

"The taste of food is very light, so few people find it very interesting," says Hsieh, who manages a Western-style restaurant in called Kasa.

Nonetheless, she laments the fact that currently no restaurant on the island serves authentic Tao food, and that tourists who go there "eat the same as they would in other places." Hsieh aims to fill this gap: She is planning to move back to to open a restaurant with her brother. They intend to serve Tao cuisine and target both locals and visitors.

The Right Stuff

Sourcing certain items is often an issue for aboriginal restaurants operating in cities. Hsieh says she occasionally cooks Tao food at her current restaurant, but that obtaining the right ingredients is problematic.

It is a point echoed by Gulu Gulu's owner Chiu. "When I first opened, the ah vai and other dishes were made by my mother in Taimali and shipped daily. Now, we make everything here and my mother just sends some of the materials such as leaves for wrapping," Chiu says.

Hud buys sakud and mountain rat from specialist farmers. She gets some of her vegetables from relatives who forage for them in (formerly known as ), the mountainous district in where she grew up.

"There's a really good thing that we used to eat," says Gulu Gulu's Chiu. "Wild greens cooked with millet in a type of skillet until the whole mixture sticks to the bottom of the pan. It's our version of a casserole. I still like this dish, but it's hard to find now."

Aboriginal food culture also includes dishes unlikely ever to reach city restaurant tables--not only because of scarcity, but because they might offend urban sensibilities.

There are certain Bunun delicacies that Hud has eaten during tribal festivals, but which she does not expect ever to put on a menu. One is raw pickled flying squirrel intestines; another is called simply "stinky meat"--maggoty game that has begun to rot after being left in the trap a little too long. It's barbecued, fried with garlic and ginger, then served with a spicy sauce.

Istandah says she learned most of her cooking skills from a brother who is a chef, but it was her late mother who taught her how to prepare traditional dishes such as flying squirrel, mountain boar and fox. However, these meats are seldom eaten nowadays: The first creature is now protected by conservation laws; purebred farm-raised specimens of the second are very expensive; and the third is hard to find in the wild.

Encouraging chefs like Istandah, Chiu and Qinglianlao's Chen Yao-zong to devise recipes that will entice health-conscious folk is one of the goals of 's most important annual aboriginal cooking contest.

Competitive Cooking

The Indigenous Peoples Healthy Cuisine and Innovative Beverage Competition, which was first held in 2006, is co-sponsored by the Council of Indigenous Peoples--the central government agency responsible for the welfare of 's aboriginal population--and the Tourism Bureau, and organized by the Indigenous Village Tourism Association of the ROC.

The contest attracted 60 teams in 2007 vying for first place and prize money of NT$100,000 (US$3,250). Entrants were urged to use traditional indigenous ingredients (such as taro root, rather than the taro corm preferred by "lowlanders") in healthy, innovative ways. At the finals in November 2007, Chen Yao-zong and his team took home the top prize.

Local governments have also been doing their bit to promote indigenous cuisine. In November 2007, Kaohsiung City Government's Commission of Indigenous Affairs and National Kaohsiung Hospitality College held their own aboriginal cuisine competition.

Tainan City has set aside 5,200 square meters for the Cha Ha Mu Aboriginal Park, where indigenous food vendors can sell to tourists visiting National Anping Harbor Historic Park.

In 2006, the Council of Indigenous Peoples also published a Chinese-language cookbook titled Creative Aboriginal Flavors and Delicacies.

Nevertheless, indigenous cuisine remains something of a poor cousin to better-known aboriginal endeavors, such as pop music and art. "The government seems more interested in promoting traditions like sewing and woodcarving [than helping aboriginal restaurants]," Hud says.

Restaurant diner Yolanda Cheng is supportive, however: "I'm glad there's a place like this in the city, where we can eat this kind of food. Everyone should try aboriginal cooking."

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Steven Crook is a contributing writer based in Tainan County.

Copyright (c) 2008 by Steven Crook