eating turkey rice in chiayi
A single dish transformed a day of dreary weather, tourist traps, and travel fails into a day to remember.
Before any big trip, I like to make a list of all the dishes and restaurants I absolutely have to try. I followed this same routine ahead of my recent girls’ trip to Taiwan. At the top of the list: boba tea from its birthplace, Chun Shui Tang Original Shop in Taichung. Beyond that, I wanted to eat authentic lu rou fan, a popular Taiwanese dish made of minced fatty pork stewed with spices in a sweet soy sauce that’s served over rice. I also couldn’t miss Tian Jin for their famous flaky scallion pancake stuffed with eggs, Thai basil, pork, and cheese. Oh, and I had to stop by a stall inside a Buddhist temple courtyard in Taipei to get pork soup with braised daikon. But I couldn’t leave the country without tasting Chiayi City’s specialty dish, turkey rice.
Chiayi is known as the gateway to the beautiful forests and mountains of the Alishan nature reserve, one of Taiwan’s most popular destinations. After the first leg of our trip in Taipei, we took the high-speed train two hours south to Chiayi, where we stopped overnight before continuing on to Alishan. Though we were only staying for a night, the city is small (you can walk the length of it in 30 minutes), so we figured we could hit all the main sites in a day.
First on the itinerary, Hinoki Village, a historic area built during Japan’s rule over Taiwan. We thought this would be a village frozen in time: a destination with Japanese-style architecture, authentic shops, and a community of people that personified the bridging of the two countries’ cultures. We were dead wrong. Yes, the buildings were beautiful, but inside each one was a typical souvenir shop selling the same goods that we had seen in countless shops in Taipei. The rain didn’t help the vibe either. Apart from a few other tourists, the place was practically empty and there was an eerie children’s tune playing over the speakers that made it feel like we were in an abandoned dystopian village.
We stopped into one of the cafes to regroup and ordered matcha kakigori, a Japanese shaved ice dessert. My standards weren’t particularly high. It arrived at the table and my tired eyes widened at first sight; a tower of shaved ice in a rich, deep green hue topped with fresh sesame mochi balls. I took one bite, and suddenly, my mood began to shift. The matcha was high-quality, the mochi balls tender, the sesame paste rich. I was optimistic — we were going to be OK!
We said our thank yous in Mandarin (shi shi) and made our way back to the city center to explore the night market. As we neared the entrance, the rain started to pick up and we realized the storefronts were shuttered and the food carts were nowhere to be found. “It’s only 5 p.m., maybe it’s not open yet?” Annabel asked. We tried to pass time by exploring the city, but on each block we walked, every store was closed. The rain was coming down hard now and our patience was dwindling. I made a gameplan: go to the hotel, do our laundry, then go back out for dinner. Yup, laundry, that’s where we were at in our trip.
After a quick reset, we headed back into the rain determined to reclaim our night in Chiayi. We opened our umbrellas and marched down the sidewalk-less streets, dodging cars and mopeds, with our eyes set on Ah Hong Shi Turkey Rice as our destination. Ten minutes later we arrived to a familiar, and unfortunate, sight: a closed door and employees cleaning the kitchen. At this point, I began to question our visit to Chiayi. Why did we decide to go here? Why not stay another night in Taipei?? And more importantly, why does everything in this town close when it rains??? But I wasn’t going to give up just yet. I was hungry, and when I’m hungry, I need to eat.
I pulled up Google maps and found another turkey rice place nearby that was allegedly still open. “Let’s try this, and if not, we’ll go to the convenience store for dinner,” I said. Once we reached the restaurant, I saw a line of people, all of them locals — a good sign. It was bustling. At the front, a massive cooked turkey on display, and behind it, a kitchen filled with people moving fast. They were steaming vegetables, swirling large pots of soup, and seamlessly breaking down whole turkeys with a heavy cleaver.
Luckily, the line was for to-go orders, so we were seated immediately. We translated the menu with our phones and I attempted to place our order using the two lines of Mandarin I had learned during a college exchange to China almost eight years ago. “Shi shi,” I said afterward. Our server laughed and replied back, “shi shi.” Within a minute, the food was on the table: three small bowls of turkey rice, two orders of blanched greens, and three complimentary bowls of turkey broth, courtesy of our server.
The turkey rice was simple: poached turkey breast, diced and served over rice with a spoonful of stock or fat, it was hard to tell. But even with just two main components – turkey and rice – this tiny bowl was intensely rich and comforting. The meat was buttery and tender with zero gaminess. It reminded me of a mashup of Hainanese chicken in the style of lu rou fan, without all the spices and aromatics to liven it up. Just the clean taste of turkey accentuated by its own juices — the kind of food I like to devour when I’m sick.
As I ate it, the oily broth from the turkey started to coat each grain of the glutinous rice and it reaffirmed my belief that simple food is the best kind of food. It was so delicious that I brought the bowl up to my lips, using the chopsticks to push every last grain of rice into my mouth. I considered ordering another round but Rachel assured me that this is the way locals eat it. “Apparently you get the small turkey rice, then go out for dessert.”
We paid the $6 bill, said our thanks, and ventured back out in the rain — this time, happy and content. Per Rachel’s recommendation, we closed out the night at a cute, traditional dessert shop down the street. The place was empty and one of the two women working looked up from her homework to take our order. She suggested a few dishes to try. “Shi shi,” I said.
She burst out laughing. “Shi shi means you’re welcome,” she said. “Thank you is xie xie.” I froze. I looked back to all the times I mixed up the most basic saying, questioning the subtle laughs and grins given in response — the server at the Hinoki Village cafe, the man at the turkey rice restaurant, the person working the front desk at our hotel. Even in the end, after we finally got it together and felt like we had a grip on our time in Chiayi, I was humbly brought down to reality of how little I actually know by the student at the dessert shop.
— Rayna
Great read!!