That’s when I decided to take on a bold challenge: open my own Taiwanese restaurant. 

I’m Jackie, and today is day one. I’d love for you to join me on this journey—one bowl at a time. 

My Background and Motivation

I grew up in 竹山 Zhushan, Nantou, a small town in central Taiwan. The name means “Bamboo Mountain”, a reflection of its lush, green hills. It’s a quiet place, far from the hustle of Taipei, where life feels simple and deeply rooted.

But if there’s one thing Zhushan—and all of Taiwan, never lacked, it was food.

Food was everywhere. Around every corner, down every alley, there was always an auntie at a cart or a tiny shop, perfecting her craft for decades. Even if it was your first time visiting, she greeted you like family. “What would you like today?” she’d ask, already flipping a scallion pancake or ladling beef noodle soup—rich broth, tender beef, chewy noodles—into a bowl.

I’d grab a seat on a wobbly plastic stool, the air buzzing with chatter and the clink of chopsticks, and dig in. It was cheap, fast, and so good that I never once felt the need to cook.

Honestly? I never cooked in Taiwan—not once.

Why bother, when a $3 bowl of beef noodle soup or a perfectly grilled squid skewer was always just a step away?

Then, during my high school years, Zhushan got its first McDonald’s. It was a big deal—the fanciest spot in town overnight. On weekends, my friends and I would pile in, pretending to study over trays of food. They loved the Big Macs, but for me, it was the crispy French fries/ Chicken nuggets and a oversized drink, a rare treat at the time. I’d sit there, munching away, feeling like I’d stepped into some glamorous Western world. It was my first taste of “global” food, a novelty against the backdrop of street carts. But even then, those aunties’ noodle bowls stayed my favourite—McDonald’s couldn’t touch that comfort.

Then I moved to Canada, everything changed. Suddenly, the food I had taken for granted was nowhere to be found. I found myself missing not just the flavours, but the experience of walking down a chaos of Taiwan’s street, the way an aunty would know your order by your second visit, the effortless joy of a $3 meal the ease of grabbing a meal that felt like home, and the warmth of vendors who treated you like family. I could get McDonald’s anytime here, sure, but it wasn’t the fries I craved anymore, it was that taste of home.

During the pandemic, my wife and I were stuck at home, surviving on instant noodles. Days blurred together, and meals became mindless fuel rather than something to enjoy.

I had a secret weapon: my uncle’s recipe.

My uncle ran a 小吃店 (small eatery) specializing in traditional Taiwanese comfort food in Singapore. He was the kind of cook who never followed written recipes—everything was done by instinct, perfected over decades. I remember sitting in his shop, watching him work, effortlessly throwing together ingredients without measuring, yet somehow, every bowl of beef noodle soup tasted exactly the same—deep, rich, and full of warmth.

He had an uncanny ability to adjust the flavour on the spot. If the broth needed more depth, he would instinctively add a splash of soy sauce. If it lacked balance, he’d adjust the rock sugar—not with a scale, but by taste alone, knowing exactly how much was needed. To him, cooking wasn’t a science, but an art, refined through years of experience.

I never thought I’d need that recipe. After all, I never cooked in Taiwan. But that night in Canada, standing in my kitchen miles away from home, I realized something—if I wanted to taste home, I would have to recreate it myself.

So I called my uncle.

“How do you make real Taiwanese beef noodle soup?” I asked.

He laughed and said, “It’s easy—just take your time.”

Then, over the phone, he walked me through it step by step:

His instructions were simple, but I could hear the years of experience behind every word. He wasn’t just telling me a recipe—he was passing down a tradition.

As the broth bubbled away for hours, my kitchen filled with the familiar aroma I hadn’t smelled in years. It was the scent of my childhood, of family gatherings, of home.