Most the world has its own nationally or regionally distilled rotgut, Italy has grappa, Portugal has aguardente, Mexico has mescal. What these whiskies have in common is they are nearly indigestible to the uninitiated. Each has its local proponents whose love for their local libation is heavily tinged with nationalistic pride. In my opinion most of these drinks prize alcohol content over taste.
The Chinese rotgut genre is dominated by baijiu (白酒), a clear unflavored liquor, or more correctly distilled cereal liquor. There are several types of baijiu common throughout Asia, kaoliang (高粱) is the jet fuel favored by Taiwanese tipplers. Kaoliang means sorghum in Chinese, so unsurprisingly sorghum is the primary ingredient in kaoliang jiu (高粱酒). Kaoliang is made by taking sorghum mash, pouring it over wheat cakes, and fermenting. The mixture is distilled after an appropriate fermentation period. The product of the first distillation is allowed to sit and further ferment, before being distilled a second time.
The result is a clear, strong liquor that—to me—tastes an awful lot like the homebrew of my youth. I guess I would describe the flavor as having a strong core of black pepper, hints of toasted cereal, in a fiery liquid with a kerosene finish. The main characteristic of Kaoliang is the burn. It goes down like lighter fluid, burning its progress from the mouth, through the gullet, to the liver; and if you’re unlucky, retracing the same path on its reverse journey. Kaoliang is available in various strengths, from 38% to 63% alcohol by volume, but the most popular in Taiwan seems to be 58% alcohol, around 120 proof. It’llto give your liver something to think about.
Kaoliang developed in Dazhigu, China, east of Tianjin, during the Ming Dynasty. Today it is popular in mainland China, Korea, and Taiwan. In Taiwan it is so popular that it is fair to call it the national drink. It is currently manufactured on the outlying islands of Kinmen and Matsu. The industry developed in the 1950’s, when these islands were war torn areas that housed thousands of Nationalist troops fighting the Communists across the straits. The troops on Kinmen, like troops everywhere, needed hard liquor. Initially they made their own homemade baijiu,
until a local entrepreneur saw an opportunity and set up Yusan Kaoliang Chiew which began producing Kinmen Kaoliang, still one of Taiwan’s favorite brands. The Matsu Distillery, based on one of Matsu’s islands, similarly developed during the Chinese conflict. The Matsu Distillery produces Tunnel 88, another popular Taiwanese brand.
As you might be able to guess, I’m not really a huge fan of kaoliang. Many of my Taiwanese guy friends seem to really enjoy this potent potable’s flavors, and will discuss the merits of one brand, or bottling, over another with the same passion Western connoisseurs have when discussing fine scotch whisky. For most of my time in Taiwan, kaoliang’s charms have eluded me.
I’m not alone among foreigners in failing to get kaoliang. I think this largely can be attributed to the fact that most foreigners have no idea how to drink kaoliang. My story is probably pretty typical. When I first arrived in Taiwan, I bought a bottle of kaoliang as I wanted to try the local liquor. I took my new purchase home and drank it as I would any other whisky. First I poured some in a tumbler over ice, and tried sipping it, like a fine scotch or bourbon. It had all the charm of a glass of formaldehyde. So, I regrouped and tried again. It’s a clear liquid, like tequila, maybe the answer was to shoot it back. I grabbed a shot glass and poured myself an ounce and a half and shot that down. Rookie mistake. It damn near shot straight back up—like it was on a bungee cord. So then I thought maybe cutting it with a mixer would help me get it down. So I hunted around the house to find some soda to make a kaoliang highball. I mixed about an ounce of kaoliang with a liberal dose of Coca-Cola.
All that accomplished was to ruin a perfectly good can of Coke. In the end that bottle of kaoliang was used as lighter fluid for the barbeque—a task for which it was admirably suited.
It wasn’t until many years later that I learned the proper way to drink kaoliang, while at a banquet on Kinmen Island with a group of students. At first I was hesitant when I realized we were going to be drinking kaoliang with the native Kinmen islanders present at our table. I knew that in the ganbei (乾杯), bottoms-up, culture of such banquets, I would have little ability to demure. I feared the kaoliang’s taste might cause me to launch my meal across the table. I was deeply concerned for my dignity and dinnermate’s clothing. Luckily the kaoliang was served in shot glasses about the size of a thimble. The contents were shot back between mouthfuls of food, the burn being quickly ameliorated by the next mouthful of food. Drank this way, kaoliang proved to be palatable, bordering on enjoyable. Of course the warm congenial feeling it leant to the meal created one of the nicer memories of my time in Taiwan.
Cheers to Kaoliang.
world. When I first arrived in Taipei, twenty years ago, the Taiwanese were definitely reading from a different fashion script than the rest of the world. It was the period in Taiwan typified by what I call Haute Clown Couture. Taiwanese women were dressing like clowns. No joke. It was not odd to see a woman wearing a puffy and frilly wide-collared white blouse with giant primary color polka dots, and a pair of flared bell-bottom flood pants striped in discordant colors of puce, deep purple, and neon green. The overall effect resembled nothing so much as a colorblind clown.
The rapid fire flash stunned the women. They gazed out dumbstruck like deer in the headlights. It was a drive-by paparazziing and the poor women had no idea what the was going on. I did. They were dressed in the ridiculous fashion of the day, and the foreigners, undoubtedly on their way back home, wanted to show their friends what was being worn in Taiwan. Of course, they could have simply tried to describe it—but who would have believed them? I smiled my wry little smile and nonchalantly walked across the crosswalk while the women around me struggled to collect themselves. The fashion really was that ridiculous.
Tall platform heels with the clunky overall shape of moon boots detailed in the gaudiest ways. Even women wearing conservative lace-up flats managed to find shoes that were in some way bizarre. The trend toward shoes with very wide toes that narrowed to normal dimensions at the heels were a particular favorite. Essentially they were clown shoes—but not so long. It gave the women a retarded Orphan Annie look. Though, when worn with Haute Clown Couture it did complete the ensemble appropriately. There were also the extra-long very pointed shoes that overtime rolled up at the toes, since the last 2 or 3 inches of shoe had no foot in it, giving that timeless Aladdin look. I never got bored in Taipei. There was always a lot to marvel at.
Taiwanese women want to look like that special little cousin who has both oars in the water, but on the same side of the boat.
Asia was booming at that time and a natural draw. I had a familiarity with the region, along with an interest in the history and culture. That background gave me enough cultural sense to be relatively comfortable. If I’d randomly chosen to go to Africa—I wouldn’t have had a clue. I understand the appeal of thrusting yourself into the total unknown, but when living abroad, an ability to contextualize your experiences increases the likelihood you won’t bounce back home in a couple months, emotionally exhausted from the weirdness. So it was Asia for me, I just needed to choose a country.
It takes a heavy toll on their emotional equilibrium, and can make them extremely crusty. I wanted to avoid any external factors that would create a cycle of negativity and make me more irascible than my basic nature dictates. I knew that I needed to find a country where the population wouldn’t ostracize me as a matter of principle.
Thankfully there was Taiwan—the perfect fit. It was possible to make enough money to live, plus service my loans. The people are relatively open compared to other North-East Asian countries. I had been to Taiwan before, and liked it. Plus, I had some friends from Saskatoon already living in Taiwan, so there was a bit of a social network already established.
are the company’s Caucasian, paraded out on formal occasions to give the company face as an international player. At the interpersonal level you can find yourself fulfilling virtually the same function for a group of guy friends out for the night. Hey chicks, look at us. We’re so international and sophisticated. See—we got a whitey. Or, when dating, you can become the white eye-candy giving face to some girl. (It took me a long time to figure this one out, somehow the fact that I was functioning as arm-candy didn’t instantly occur to me). Don’t get me wrong, there’s a little of this in Taiwan. However, it is not so prevalent as to preclude genuine interpersonal relationships.
This is why I’ve stayed in Taiwan. Taiwanese society gives foreigners the chance to feel at home, what you do with that chance is your own responsibility. Of course there are other smaller reasons to continue to live here. Taiwan is very comfortable. There is lots of foreign food, Western entertainment, access to English entertainment, it’s relatively unpolluted compared to many other regions of Asia, has good public transport, jobs, etc. But, the real reason I’ve remained is the people—I love the Taiwanese.
, living conditions, cost of living, etc. He received a lot of accurate information within hours. He went on to ask how people had ever managed to move abroad pre-Internet.
But, I did. I had no choice. The job market in Western Canada at that time was a soul-destroying sinkhole. Desperate times make desperate men.
settled in Taiwan and find work. If I couldn’t get it done in that time my food and accommodation would run out, and I had no way to get back home. Those were the stakes. I gave my balls a tug, got on the plane—with one backpack, a mountain of credit card and student loan debt—and flew to Taipei, with very little sense of what awaited me, or how well I’d survive.