I’VE BEEN EATING at Taiwanese rechao restaurants for as long as I can remember. My earliest memories of Taipei are of sitting outdoors at a short table with my parents as they ordered platters of wok-fried eggplant and poached calamari with sweet and sour chili sauce. Certain details stand out: the bright vermilion hue of the tables contrasting with pastel-pink plastic chairs, the flicker of a broken streetlamp on the corner, the sweat of my dad’s beer bottle, the incessant buzz of motorcycles whizzing by. As a young child visiting Taiwan from my home in the United States, I found rechao chaotic. But when I eventually moved to Taipei when I was 29, rechao restaurants became a sanctuary—places where I could meet up with friends and sit in the familiar, comforting noises of the island.
In Mandarin Chinese, rechao translates to “hot stir-fry” and refers to
