Bottles of liquor you can sign your name on and finish the next time you come. A karaoke machine on wheels. A real-lfe Sichuanese boss: Chuanwazi (川娃子) seems to have it all.
Nestled in an alley on the border of the Combat Zone, this small, 35-seat restaurant caters to a late-night clientele who come to shout across the tables at each other, belt out the latest Taiwanese hits and - whether they realize it or not - enjoy some of Taipei's best Sichuanese home-style cooking.
Chongqing-born Cheng Zunlian (程尊蓮) moved to Taipei nine years ago and opened shop in 2000, using cooking techniques she says most local Sichuan places have either forgotten or never knew.
PHOTO: BLAKE CARTER, TAIPEI TIMES
"A lot of Taiwanese restaurants offer Sichuan dishes, but they don't get the proportions right," Cheng says. "And it's not just that they don't use enough chilies. They put in too much of something or too little of something else … . It often comes out tasting too bitter."
Chuanwazi's menu isn't particularly unique: kungpao chicken (宮保雞丁, NT$150), dry-fried green beans (乾煸四季豆, NT$150) and hot pot (麻辣鴛鴦鍋, NT$300 for a set meal) are customer favorites.
But there are also dishes that aren't available at other places, such as shuizhu roupian (水煮肉片, NT$200), or boiled pork slices with vegetables. The name sounds deceptively bland, but this can be one of the most fiery, flavorful dishes invented in the region.
Like most of her cooking, Cheng uses a varying dose of Sichuan peppercorn (花椒) and white pepper to give shuizhu roupian a balanced taste whether it's ordered spicy or not. From top to bottom, a bowl contains a layer each of spices, oil, pork strips and greens that can be plucked so as to give each bite more or less of whatever ingredient is preferred.
Mediocre versions of shuizhu niurou (水煮牛肉) - the same dish but with beef - can be found elsewhere in Taipei but are often nothing more than bland boiled meat and cabbage plopped in a bowl of oil.
"Our Sichuan style is mala," Cheng says, stressing the importance of both ma (麻), or numbing, and la (辣), or spicy qualities. "In Taiwan, it's just la, la, la, la, la."
The ma commonly missing in bastardized Sichuan cuisine comes from the Sichuan peppercorn, which contains a mild anesthetic. Until 2005, the spice was banned in the US because the plant it comes from is known to carry a bacterial disease deemed a threat to the US citrus crop, though not harmful to humans.
In Taiwan, where Sichuan peppercorn is available at your corner supermarket, omitting this distinct anise-lemony flavored spice is like cooking Italian food without garlic.
As for the la half of mala, ordering at Chuanwazi can present one of the same problems encountered at other restaurants. Cheng has adapted her food to local tastes, and diners craving seriously hot dishes should make it clear they want them "Chongqing style."
Despite its small size, reservations aren't usually necessary. Chuanwazi's unpretentious style and sometimes raucous atmosphere have not made it a particularly popular with the kind of people who crowd the city's trendy chain restaurants.
Those who prefer to take their meals without sitting next to a table of karaoke-crooning, Mild Seven-puffing ruffians, need not worry. Business is reliably slow in the early evening. And there's always takeout.- BLAKE CARTER
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