La vita è bella

Taipei never speaks in long sentences. It whispers in aromas, in the swirl of steam rising from a pot on a sidewalk, in the clatter of chopsticks echoing between narrow alleys. Every corner I turn, I’m reminded that this is a city where food is not a separate chapter , it is the narrative. You taste Taipei before you understand it, and often the understanding (if any) comes later, while walking with my Leica in hand, letting the streets write their own story.

My first stop is almost always dictated by instinct: the deep, comforting smell of beef noodle soup drifting from a small shop with fogged-up windows. Inside, time slows. The broth has been simmering since morning, dark and fragrant, the spices blending into something that feels almost like memory. The meat breaks apart at the touch of the chopsticks. I sit near the entrance, watching the cooks move with that calm precision you only learn after decades, and I try to photograph the way the steam wraps itself around the bowls, like a silent blessing. Memories of similar dishes I had in the rural Japan, or in the northern Viet Nam are emerging, and I find myself softly smiling.

From there, the city leads me south toward the domain of the xiaolongbao, those delicate soup dumplings that seem to hold an entire world inside a thin skin. In Dongmen, the old shops still prepare them by hand. Dough, filling, fold, twist, repeat. The rhythm is hypnotic. When the bamboo baskets open, a wave of warm, fragrant air escapes, carrying ginger, broth, anticipation. I always try to capture that moment, when the kitchen becomes a small cloud and the dumplings reveal themselves like tiny miracles.

But Taipei truly awakens after sunset.

The night markets are where the city reveals its heartbeat. Under neon lights, the streets become a river of people, scents, and colours. At Raohe Night Market, I enter through the gate beside Ciyou Temple, where the air feels heavy with incense and street smoke. The first thing that hits me is the smell of pepper buns baking inside tandoor-like ovens built into the stalls. Vendors slap the dough onto the hot walls, and minutes later pull out golden, blistered buns filled with juicy pork and pepper. You eat one standing up, leaning slightly forward, because the juices always try to escape, and your shirt keeps tangible, wet memories of the food.

At Ningxia Night Market, everything feels more compact, more intimate, like a neighbourhood gathering that never ends. Here the oyster omelette reigns — a dish that confuses, surprises, divides. Soft oysters, sticky batter, crisp edges, a sweet-savory sauce that ties it all together. Beside it, a humble bowl of lu rou fan, braised pork over rice, waits with the quiet confidence of a dish that doesn’t need to shout to be remembered.

And then there is stinky tofu, the true test of surrender. Its smell arrives before the stall does — sharp, unapologetic, almost aggressive. Yet once you taste it fried and topped with pickled cabbage, it becomes something else entirely: bold, deep, strangely addictive. A perfect metaphor for Taipei itself.

In this city, food is not sustenance; it is orientation. A compass, a diary, a way of belonging. Every bowl, every skewer, every crowded table inside a night market stall becomes a fragment of a larger story — one that I keep discovering, one bite and one photograph at a time.

I began my Taipei food journey thanks to Garen from Withlocals, whose guidance led me through some of the island’s most remarkable culinary experiences. I’m also making my way through the city’s iconic night markets—an intense pilgrimage where every corner distracts you with something to see, smell, or taste. It’s an incredible kaleidoscope of sensations, and my Leica Q3 43 sensor is getting almost drunk!

These photos are from my recent walks through the city.

PS: This week’s discovery of Taiwan is taking over my regular “publishing calendar”, so you may expect more newsletter in the next few days: regular “routine” will be back once I’m leaving the Island.