It was just after four in the afternoon when my phone buzzed. I opened it to find a message from my wife: “I have to work overtime today. Go get dinner by yourself after work, and pick something up for me near Taipei Main Station on your way home.”
For once, the whole day had been calm. My incompetent supervisor did not give me trouble, and no clueless rookie sent my blood pressure soaring. To an old corporate drone, a day when nothing happens is a truly wonderful day. After work, I decided to wander over to Nanyang Street by Taipei Main Station and fill my stomach first.
This cram-school street holds the youthful memories of so many people. Walking into it now, the cheap smell of cooking fumes in the air was still just as familiar.
A-Ren Fuzhou Buns is at Number Five, Nanyang Street. I heard it opened in 1999, nearly 30 years ago, making it an iconic example of affordable everyday food around here. The storefront is tiny as hell. To be blunt, a Fuzhou bun is basically a miniature pan-fried bun.
I looked at the menu and ordered a small box straight away: 13 for only 60 dollars. These days, in central Taipei, 60 dollars buying 13 balls of starch packed with meat and vegetables feels like living in the last century. Remarkably friendly to the wallet.
A cabinet nearby held three sauces: sweet chili sauce, soy sauce, and chili sauce. The clerk asked whether I wanted chili, and I nodded.
Once I had them, I stood right by the cram-school street and started eating. The aroma of buns fresh from the pan rushed up at me. They had been fried just right, with a crisp, browned layer underneath and a delicious crunch when I bit through the skin. The filling combined shredded cabbage and minced pork. The cabbage was chopped incredibly fine, and there were even glass noodles tucked inside, plus a faint touch of pepper for fragrance. The fresh sweetness of the cabbage burst in my mouth with the richness of the minced pork. Dipped in the shop's special chili sauce, the flavors became even more layered and satisfying. I simply could not stop eating one after another. The 13 little buns looked like a lot, but I demolished every one of them by the roadside in less than five minutes.
After finishing the box, I wiped the sauce from my hands and prepared to walk over to Taipei Main Station to pick up my wife's item. Since everything had gone smoothly today and dinner was both cheap and delicious, I would set aside thoughts of lighting charcoal and hanging myself for the day.
The mutterings of a middle-aged corporate drone:
Only at this age did I understand that happiness for a corporate drone is actually very simple. It is no earth-shattering stroke of joy. It is merely getting through work without anyone enraging me, then taking advantage of my wife's overtime to spend 60 dollars on a box of fresh, crisp-bottomed Fuzhou buns and stuff my face alone by the roadside. When life can pass one peaceful, smooth day like this and every bun in my hands is gone, that is the most solidly satisfying kind of day.
