Bawan techniques are part of history
For Taiwanese, the making of bawan is not just a skill—these dumplings are part of our history.
At 6 a.m. in the kitchen of Bawan Rui in Beidou, two chefs and the woman owner are skillfully pressing fried bamboo shoots and marinated pork into tin molds, finally covering them with a layer of dough, then deftly removing the complete bawan. One of the chefs says, “In the past this kind of mold had to be made to order, and chefs would use the same ones their entire lives.”
The kitchen is pervaded by the fragrance of five-spice powder and rice milk, while off to one side a machine is mixing and stirring dough in a pot that is being heated on a stove. This is the way to make skins with the right chewy texture. The third-generation owner, Fan Shih-hsien, learned from childhood how to make bawan from his father. He feels the key point is to get the right proportion of skin to filling, and to pick up the right amount of filling. After being wrapped, his bawan are steamed for 15 minutes and then cooled with an electric fan before being put in the freezer.
Each year when the Dajia Mazu Pilgrimage passes through Beidou, before entering the temple the procession passes along Gongqian Street. Bawan Rui used to be located right nearby, so starting from the first-generation owner they would host a group of bicycle-riding worshipers known as the Iron Horse Team with bawan, and over these many years this has become a tradition.
Another venerable bawan shop in Beidou, Bawan Bin, is located next to Provincial Highway 1, so it gets visited by a lot of famous people who take commemorative photos with the owner. One of the photos shows owner Chang Kai-wei providing bawan for a state banquet at the Presidential Office Building.
In the kitchen, Chang’s wife is wrapping bawan. She points to bottles of seasonings on a table and says, “We don’t use five-spice powder—we use licorice, which we grind ourselves.” Because her family runs a traditional Chinese medicine shop, she chose to use licorice to prepare the shop’s sauce. Its sweetness offsets the astringency of the black beans in their sauce and leaves a sweet aftertaste. “A lot of people think it’s easy to wrap bawan, but knowing how to keep your hands relaxed when grabbing the dough is a skill in itself.”
Chang Kai-wei used to be a weightlifter when he was young, and though he is no longer in training he puts the same effort into trying to make perfect deep-fried bawan. He places a bowl of batter next to his fryer, because there are often cracks in the skin of frozen bawan, so before putting them in the fryer he uses a little batter to fill in the cracks to ensure the bawan do not go out of shape while frying. For Chang, the sense of achievement he gets when customers say his bawan are delicious is just as meaningful as his former sporting triumphs.
Chen Shu-hua’s initial motivation for writing Changhua Snacks was to seek out the connection between her birthplace and her life experiences by looking at the everyday cuisine of local families and the snacks served in her hometown. From the bawan of each place, one can get a glimpse of local history and residents’ tastes.
Each bawan is heir to the relationships among our forebears and their interactions with the environment, and is a testament to the skill involved in making contemporary Taiwanese snacks. Starting with a few simple ingredients, even a slight change will produce new textures and flavors. Making bawan is both a skill and a window on history.
At Ah Cai’s Changhua Bawan in Taipei, the owner adjusts the proportions of the dough ingredients so that the skin is not too crispy.
Bawan are often paired with four-herb soup.
Steamed bawan being made at Jiantan Bawan King in Taipei.