taiwan knows coffee
I drank my way through Taipei, in a different way than expected.
My trip to Taiwan wasn’t an easy one. A few hours before departure I received a notification that Russian military activity had caused my 17-hour direct flight to reroute through Japan, forcing a layover on the tarmac to refuel. Meaning the longest flight of my life had gotten five hours longer. I wasn’t sure if I could handle 22 hours sitting upright in economy, but as Annabel and I were boarding, Rachel sent us a video straight from a gay club. It was of two very muscular men, in their underwear, grinding up on each other, under a shower, in the middle of the dance floor. Suddenly, I couldn’t get on the plane fast enough.
I assumed that the video would set the tone for our girls’ trip, thinking we’d stay out late exploring Taipei’s vibrant bar culture and nightlife, and maybe get a glimpse of what Rachel saw IRL. When in reality, our time in the city looked different: coffee shops took the place of bars and afternoons spent chatting in cafes replaced nights out dancing. From my hours of research and hundreds of bookmarked spots on Google Maps, I knew there were lots of cute cafes throughout the city, but I didn’t anticipate just how deep its coffee culture ran.
We were staying in the vibrant Zhongshan District along the linear park that runs through the neighborhood. First, a quick post-plane shower. Then, coffee. We walked across the park to Coffee Dumbo, a place I had saved while watching my favorite Youtubers, Ralph and Sam.
The space was inviting with its warm hues and archival mid century pieces. There was a Uten Silo wall organizer, Knoll tulip chairs, and a Danish walnut cabinet among knick knacks like a Godzilla tissue holder and retro light-up sign. The servers complemented the space with their effortlessly cool outfits and baggy shirts, as if they were plucked right out of Dimes Square.
We both ordered iced orange Americanos to shake us awake. I caught a glimpse of the barista making our drinks. She was taking her time, carefully mixing the components together and tasting to adjust the ratios. Then they arrived at the table. Massive, goblet-shaped glasses filled with the frothy mixture of fresh orange juice and espresso. The espresso was creamy, rich, and bright, pairing well with the refreshing orange juice. We sucked them down in less than a minute, reviving us from the flight.
Over the course of my stay in Taipei, every cafe I visited approached coffee with the same craft. It was unlike the culture here in the states, where coffee is seen as a means to an end; a way to fuel up ahead of the day. It also was unlike the culture in Italy, where people stop at the bar, place a Euro on the table, and sip their espresso before continuing on with their morning. In Taipei, coffee isn’t rushed, it’s a slow culture. Cafes don’t open until noon, baristas take their time with brewing, carefully swirling the water over the grounds. Many shops roast their own beans on site — even the smaller, one-person-run shops have a tiny commercial roaster nestled anywhere there’s space for it.
The next day, we headed to Yongkang Park to grab breakfast at a street food stall, stopping at Buzi Cafe along the way. We were among the first customers to arrive and claimed our seats at the indoor-outdoor bar. Blue skies and 80-degree weather called for a round of iced Americanos, Rachel’s with milk, mine and Annabel’s without. Now normally, I’d go for an iced cortado with a splash of simple syrup in this kind of heat, but after months of watching Ralph and Sam vlogs, where they went from one cafe to another in Taiwan, ordering plain, light roast iced Americanos, I was inspired to follow suit. From here on out, I stopped adding milk to my coffee.
Each cafe seemed to have its own identity, too. On our way to go shopping along the historic Dihua street, we popped into a small cafe. The owner looked up from his iPad and asked us to take off our shoes before entering. Stepping inside, we were greeted by hundreds of Pikachu figurines scattered throughout the tiny space. After carefully making our drinks, the owner chatted with us about our vacation, giving us recommendations and reassuring us that if anything goes wrong, call 911 — thanks.
That afternoon, another coffee. This time at Dixielane, a cafe that doubles as a jazz bar at night. It felt like a mix between a library and a listening room with records displayed on the walls and a small bookstore in the back. Each bean variety was listed on filter paper, clipped together with a binder ring. The barista approached the iced pour overs with precision. He spent what felt like five minutes on each drink: grinding the beans, bringing the water up to temp, gently placing a spherical ice cube in the rocks glass. The attention to detail was evident. Arriving on a tray with a carafe on the side, the coffee was floral and citrusy, mellowing out as I sipped it — an involved process that was worth the wait.
Now that I’m back home in New York, I consume coffee differently. No more cappuccinos or iced cortados, no brown sugar iced lattes on the weekend. I just want the clean taste of espresso; bright, floral, slightly bitter, and rejuvenating. I’ve spent $8 on a simple iced Americano at Blue Bottle, waited in line at trendy cafes in Greenpoint, and sourced single origin beans in an attempt to recreate the drinks I tasted in Taiwan.
Maybe the slow, thoughtful ethos behind Taiwan’s coffee culture isn’t possible in a place like New York City, where TikTok-induced lines force small businesses to move fast in order to keep up with demand. The only coffee that’s come close is the one I make at home, with the beans I bought at a quaint cafe outside Alishan, and the bag is almost empty.
— Rayna