A Taiwanese chef who used to manage banquet hall restaurants serving thousands a day brings a style of home cooking that is more austere than flexible, and in this day and age we say hipster or fusion. And that’s actually high praise. 

Because it’s not only how the dishes are made and presented, but even the instruments, proteins, and vegetables used. Take, for example, the cleaver. There’s no need for a slicing, pairing, or chef’s knife. Instead, this single blade of steel does it all, and if you have two of them, you can chop and break down food as if you were The Muppet Animal or the late and great Keith Moon. 

When it comes to food, it’s going to be fresh. Killed, plucked, butchered, and cooked every which way hours before it hits the table. The air is freshened with much more garlic, ginger, fry oil, and dried and fermented seafood than in a Cantonese or Shanghainese home kitchen. 

The three-cup chicken served in a clay pot is slightly sweet and impossible to stop eating until each little nub of chicken has been gnawed to the bone. The same could be said for the pork belly, fried, boiled, and then braised for hours. The amount of food served at the table is endless, but know this, it is made with care and finesse. And what that means is it’s the chef’s proper love language. All of his communication is through food. He asks how you’re doing, what’s going on in your life, what ails you, and what professional and personal life changes are happening through his food. 

And though his food is like a truth serum, you still make yourself a well-balanced plate: something greasy and crunchy, something pickled and tart, smoky and cold, and finally, an item or two or three coated in chili oil, which is always a great compliment to the homestyle bean curd of your dreams, the tofu. Note: eating a Taiwanese home-cooked meal is not for people who are phobic about food touching with their hands. This method only adds to the umami of the dish.