Open Sesame: The Best of Taipei’s Ma Jiang Noodles Eateries

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When it comes to sesame noodles, Taipei proves that no two bowls offer the same bite.

It can take time to get familiar with what’s on offer across Taiwan’s traditional eateries. Taiwanese restaurants aren’t a one-stop shop for all signature dishes, where one restaurant has its own type of specialty from another. A request for a bowl of lurou fan (滷肉飯, braised pork rice) in a beef noodle joint, for instance, may draw bewildered looks from proprietors and patrons. Likewise, no street stall worth its MSG would serve up fried scallion pancakes alongside popcorn chicken. It’s enough to make you wonder whether there is some unwritten rule rendering such combos sacrosanct.

On the other hand, some of the classics almost always appear alongside each other on menus. The alliance of ma jiang mian (麻醬麵, sesame sauce noodles) and zhajiang mian (炸醬麵, fried bean sauce noodles) is a perfect example. One place to find these dishes is at the Lao Hu Jiang (老虎醬溫州大餛飩) chain of Wenzhou wonton restaurants. With 20 outlets all over Taipei, the brand is easily identified by the white background with red characters on its shopfronts and menu boards. In addition to the two saucy “dry” noodle offerings and various wonton dishes, another staple at such establishments is zhacai rousi mian (榨菜肉絲麵) – pickled mustard tubers and shredded pork with soup noodles.

Fans of zhajiang mian will be happy to know that the dish can be found in many corners of the world.

While zhajiang mian is a dish served at many Korean and Chinese restaurants worldwide, ma jiang mian can be more difficult to come by outside China and Taiwan. Still, ma jiang mian has become a cherished part of Taiwan’s culinary landscape.

It’s common to find Taiwanese ma jiang mian served in local noodle shops and night markets, sometimes garnished with sliced cucumber, scallions, or bean sprouts for freshness. Some versions might also include a hint of chili oil or pickled vegetables.

For this article, Taiwan Business TOPICS has steered away from the mainstream chains to hunt down some of Taipei’s finest purveyors of sesame noodles. While other dishes in Taiwan incorporate sesame, including local versions of dan dan mian (擔擔麵, a spicy Sichuanese noodle) and liang mian (涼麵, chilled noodles), we’re sticking to dishes expressly sold as ma jiang here. 

While ma jiang is pretty simple in its essence – with the standard base comprising ground roasted sesame seeds, soya sauce, and sugar – there are marked differences in the taste and texture from place to place. With that in mind, this selection features Taipei’s sesame standouts, with some bonus recommendations thrown in for good measure.

In the thick of it:
Jinhua Noodles 金華麵店
No. 56, Chaozhou St., Da’an District

About 15 years ago, I returned from an extended stay in the UK to find this place shuttered. Despair descended: While working in an office nearby, this had been my go-to ma jiang noodlery for years. Even when I no longer had good reason to be in the vicinity, I’d execute a circuitous diversion just to get my fill. 

A beloved haunt of cabbies for almost half a century, the shop could be identified by the line of taxis parked out front each evening – now there was not a yellow car in sight. Fortunately, all was not lost; a small sign near the entrance announced a change of premises from Jinhua Street to neighboring Chaozhou Street, less than 10 minutes’ walk from the original location.

“Long time no see – how are the kids?” the manager asked when I first entered the new premises. It looked like nothing had changed and, indeed, my usual order – a medium portion of the sesame, with a boiled egg, a bowl of fish ball soup, and a side of cucumbers drizzled in rice vinegar – confirmed this. A member of staff confirmed that the relocation was down to a decision by the Taipei City Government, which owned the land, to redevelop the area.

With a decent selection of lu wei (滷味, braised and stewed in a soy sauced-based stock) side dishes and an oily chili bean sauce that is perfect for drizzling over everything, this is still by far my favorite no-frills ma jiang spot in Taipei. Word of warning, though: the sesame paste is especially thick, so you can either ask them to add a little hot water to make things a little less dry and the mixing process a tad easier or – as is my wont – use some of the broth from your soup.

Paint it black:
Matsu Noodles 四鄉五島
No. 7, Liaoning St., Zhongshan District

Despite its nocturnal nomenclature, Liaoning Street Night Market is a great place for grub at any time of day. Set off from the hubbub of the roadside stalls, Matsu Noodles has been plying its trade here since 1992.

While ma jiang generally ranges from a light toffee hue to an occasionally chocolatey color, one of the options at Matsu Noodles is noticeably darker than most. That’s because, in addition to the regular variety of ma jiang, this restaurant offers black sesame noodles – a relative rarity.

Rather than the stronger, nuttier taste that is suggested by the color, this is one of the sweeter, more delicate choices on this list, though it is notable for its grainier texture. A black sesame version of the standard pork and chive dumplings is also on the menu, adding an unexpectedly satisfying twist to a Taiwan staple.

Matsu Noodles has been serving delicious noodles at the Liaoning Street night market since 1992.

On first trying ma jiang, many diners mistake the nutty flavor for peanuts, leading them to think of it as a kind of satay sauce. (Let’s leave aside the common misconception in the West that satay refers to the sauce itself rather than the meat skewers that are dipped in it.) In fact, unlike many pastes, the ma jiang at Matsu Noodles also contains peanuts.

Confusion might potentially arise from the English menu, which lists satay sauce noodles as another item. However, as experienced gourmands will know, this refers to shacha sauce (沙茶醬), a Fujianese condiment with a distinctly fishy taste, thanks to the inclusion of ground fish and shrimp. The conflation of the two stems from the introduction of the sauce to Fujian and Guangdong provinces by Chinese migrants returning from Southeast Asia, with the roasted peanuts dropped and the seafood added to match local ingredients and palates. From there, it reached Taiwan, where it was further tweaked and is best known under the Bull Head brand, tins of which – as Steven Crook and Katy Hui-wen Hung note in A Culinary History of Taipei – are “nearly as iconic as the Taiwan Beer can.”

Doubling up:
“Dongyin Fast Swordsman” 東引快刀手
No. 54, Guangfu South Rd., Songshan District

Slightly contradicting the opening statement about exclusivity, this restaurant, which has branches in Neihu and on Guangfu Road, close to Songshan Cultural and Creative Park, is probably better known for its beef noodles and braised pork rice. That said, the ma jiang here is not to be sniffed at.

“Most places have more of a salty, peanut flavor,” says Ms. Chen, who has run the Guangfu branch of Dongyin Fast Noodles with her siblings for three years. “Ours is a little more bitter.”

Because of this, the shuang jiang mian (雙醬麵, double sauce noodles) might be a good option for some, as the cubed pieces of tofu and black beans from the zhajiang add a satisfying texture and umami to the mix. Unlike some zhajiang sauces – the one at Matsu Noodles being a good example – this one is light on minced pork.  

While the menu displays two varieties of noodles – thin and “wide” (as opposed to the usual alternative of “thick”), a third unlisted possibility is available: the knife-cut variety, more commonly associated with beef noodle soup. The reason for this mystery menu item? “There was just no space on the menu!” Chen exclaims. For English translations, if needed, ask for the separate bilingual menu behind the counter. 

Plates of assorted lu wei items, including everything from pig hamstrings and tails to duck gizzard and tofu skin, make a fine accompaniment to the main bowl and are ideally washed down with a bottle or two of Gold Medal Taiwan Beer.

Ma jiang mian is best enjoyed with an array of sides.

Like it or lump it:
Kang Yuan Gnocchi 康圓麵疙瘩
No. 1, Alley 167, Lane 30, Yongji Rd., Xinyi District

While not technically serving ma jiang mian, this place deserves a mention.

For 25 years, Ms. Wu served breaded, deep-fried pork ribs in a noodle soup from her restaurant off Yongji Street, close to the Taipei City Hall Station. But three years ago, a confluence of circumstances inspired a surprising change of direction. These included a personal bereavement and creeping gentrification. 

“In the old days, we knew all the neighbors here, and everyone was friendly,” she says. “But things changed, and people started to complain about the smell.” After her husband passed away, her mind was made up. “He did all the deep frying, and I couldn’t stand all that,” she notes. “So, I decided it was time for a change.”

The distinctive blue sign outside Wu’s store reads Kang Yuan Gnocchi (康圓麵疙瘩), and – unlike many translations of Taiwanese food items for which there is no exact equivalent in Western cuisine – the name for the Italian dough dumplings is a remarkably good approximation of what’s on offer here.

Translating rather unappealing as “dough lumps,” mian geda (麵疙瘩) are fairly uncommon menu items in Taiwanese noodle restaurants. And, while she cannot put her finger on why exactly she decided to start serving them, the gap in the market was a factor. “You don’t see them much around here,” she says, “so I thought it would make us stand out.”

These gummy nuggets can be enjoyed “dry” or with soups, including pumpkin, pickled Chinese cabbage and pork, and tomato and beef. The sesame offering is branded as Hubei ma jiang (湖北麻醬), which the boss lady admits is “just a name” and doesn’t denote anything likely to be found in the eponymous Chinese province.

Served with garnishing of julienned cucumber and carrot, pickle, plus fresh and fiery chili, the whole becomes a delectable jumble after the customary mix with the chopsticks. For lovers of the texture known in Taiwan as Q, which is derived from the Hokkien word khiū – akin to chewy or al dente – this is a real treat.