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The Culinary Courtroom: A Tale of Two Zongzi
The Northern Taiwan Zongzi: An Unfolding Aroma
The moment my mom opens the Northern Taiwan Zongzi package, the scent escapes first: Sticky rice, Mushroom, Pepper, Pork fat. Not aggressively. Not loudly. The aroma unfolds slowly, like an old Taiwanese auntie gossiping in layers. And immediately, before I even take a bite, something ancient inside me wakes up. Because smell is terrifying that way. Scientists say smell and taste are directly connected to the brain’s memory centers—the hippocampus and amygdala — which explains why one whiff of bamboo leaf can emotionally clothesline me harder than my exes ever could.
There it is in all its glory, sparkling underneath the kitchen lights, dear God. This zongzi is STUFFED FULL OF SHIT: One ENTIRE chestnut, One ENTIRE chestnut. Not just some pathetic sprinkled remnants of some poor chopped up chestnut. No. One ENTIRE delicious chestnut, then one ENTIRE mushroom, then the salted egg yolk, then the pork belly fat. That pork fat is so damn lustrous; for a second, I kind of understand why ancient emperors would give away their kingdom for some good food.
My mother immediately identifies this dish as different: “No chestnut, no egg yolk…” and explains the differences between the northern and southern versions, prompting us to savor Taiwan’s diversity of cuisines.
The First Bite and Diaspora Memories
My teeth first make contact with the northern zongzi. My nervous system instantly detaches itself from Earth. The rice is tough but sticky, each grain clearly distinct from one another, with a slight sheen created from the oils and soy sauce used in its preparation. Northern-style zongzi involves cooking the glutinous rice through stir-frying before steam-cooking, resulting in a more structured consistency. Each grain feels like it was privately seasonaged.
Then suddenly— boom. I am fourteen again in Canada: Snow outside, Grey skies, Dry air cracking my skin. I am trying desperately to become invisible in a foreign country while pretending I am not homesick. And then my Taiwanese friend‘s sister returns from Taiwan carrying zongzi wrapped in layers upon layers of foil like illegal treasure. I remember that smell exploding out of the wrapping. It was as if my mind nearly shut down on me because I had forgotten all about zongzi. This is what happens when migration occurs; memory doesn’t vanish in one fell swoop. Words, tastes, scents slowly fade away until one day someone places something from your past right in front of you, and your soul breaks wide open like a piñata. There was nothing that I would not do to have ALL of the zongzi returned by his family. In truth, I was eating like a beast from the zoo who was finally able to taste carbohydrates for the very first time in its life – there was no elegance, class, or etiquette involved in what I was doing. Decades after the fact, the northern zongzi from I-Mei takes me back to those days. Onward, the chestnut. It interrupts the savoury richness like sunlight through heavy curtains. And instantly, I remember being a child in Taiwan for the first time. Everything there had tasted bigger than life: Fruit sweeter, Broth richer, rice softer. Even convenience store food tasted emotionally supportive because Taiwan was my first encounter with food that felt alive.
Arab Royalty vs. Taiwanese Intimacy
Growing up in the Arab world, food had been majestic in its own way—fragrant rice mountains, lamb, cardamom, saffron, grilled meats dripping with smoke and fat—but Taiwanese food felt intimate. Taiwanese food whispers. Arab food enters like a king. Taiwanese food sits beside you quietly and fixes your depression without asking questions. And somehow this chestnut inside the northern zongzi carries all of that. Then comes the salted egg yolk. Sweet Jesus. The salted egg yolk crumbles apart slowly inside my mouth like savoury moon dust: Rich, Oily, Salty, Almost gritty in texture in the best possible way. It melts into the rice, and suddenly the entire zongzi transforms into something deeper and more dangerous. This experience is no longer just about food but emotional manipulation. My mom takes another bite and immediately says she prefers the northern zongzi, too. Of course she does. The northern one is showing OFF. The southern one, meanwhile, is sitting quietly in the corner holding peanuts like a modest introvert.
The Southern Taiwan Zongzi: A Quiet Comfort
Next, we open the Southern Taiwan zongzi. Immediately, the texture difference is obvious: The southern zongzi is softer, wetter, gentler. Southern zongzi is usually made by boiling raw glutinous rice directly, resulting in a more cohesive, tender texture. The rice almost melts together instead of staying distinct. The first bite feels comforting: Warm, Squishy, Soft enough that it almost dissolves against my tongue. And honestly? For one second, I completely understand why southern Taiwanese people are loyal to this style. This zongzi feels like comfort food after heartbreak: The peanuts appear first— soft little peanuts hidden among the sticky rice: Nutty, Sweet, Earthy. Suddenly, my brain flashes back to childhood.
Not Taiwan this time, but Saudi Arabia. Me, little, sitting amidst carpet designs and adults breaking nuts in their talks that seemed to have stretched across six geological eras. Peanuts, Pistachios, Tea, Hospitality, Food all around. The zongzi from the South somehow also makes me remember this experience. And then it dawns on me that immigrant children are basically collages of emotions; one flavor is enough to evoke Taiwan, another the Middle East, and yet another Canada!
The Great Filling-to-Rice Ratio Debate
But then… the issue with the filling ratio begins. I keep digging through the southern zongzi, searching for treasure. Where is the egg yolk? No egg yolk. Where is the chestnut? No chestnut. I find peanuts, More peanuts, A little pork, More rice. My mom immediately says what both of us are thinking: “The filling-to-rice ratio isn’t enough.” THANK YOU. Exactly. And here is where the comedy begins because both zongzi cost the same. THE SAME. I nearly levitate out of my chair.
The northern zongzi contains whole chestnuts, whole mushrooms, whole salted egg yolk, fatty pork belly, and detailed seasoning, while the southern zongzi arrives with peanuts and confidence.
At this point, my mother starts roasting the product like a professional food critic trapped inside an Asian mom: “That one even has egg yolk. This one doesn’t!” “How are they the same price?” “I think maybe I-Mei doesn’t know how to make southern zongzi.” I start laughing so hard I almost inhale sticky rice into my lungs. Honestly, though, the southern zongzi is not bad. It is actually comforting in a completely different way. The softness reminds me strangely of returning to Taiwan after my stroke years later: Broken, Exhausted, emotionally destroyed. I had lost everything in Canada: my independence, my health, my old life. And Taiwan—the place I barely remembered from growing up—became the place that caught me when I fell. That is what the southern zongzi tastes like. Not exciting rescue, Quiet rescue, Soft rescue.
I am impressed by the northern zongzi. I am comforted by the southern zongzi. The northern zongzi is like a reconnection with a long-lost self. The southern zongzi is like surviving one’s sadness. And yet, both are very Taiwanese, but in entirely different ways.
A Texture War in Taiwan Night Markets
I take another bite of the northern one. Immediately, the mushroom releases this deep umami flavour into the rice. The mushroom is juicy without being soggy, absorbing soy sauce and pork fat like a delicious sponge designed by emotionally intelligent engineers. Suddenly, I remember Taiwan night markets: Not visually, emotionally. The feeling: Sweaty crowds, Scooters screaming past, Plastic stools, Steam everywhere, Vendors shouting, People eating shoulder-to-shoulder.
One of the amazing things about the culinary traditions of Taiwan is how it makes no distinction between mere survival and indulgence. It’s not that Taiwanese people eat just to live; no, they seek out sensations—Q-ness, Bounce, Chewiness, Fragrance, Mouthfeel. Taiwanese cooking loves texture in a way that isn’t always found in western cuisine. Zongzi is a texture war. The northern zongzi scores higher when it comes to complexity, while the southern zongzi takes the prize in the category of tenderness. Me, meanwhile, I’m right there at the table trying the different varieties with all the gusto of an American Idol-style dating show contestant: “This one has depth.” “This one’s emotionally stable.” “This one’s richer.” “This one listens well.” In one instance, I remember my mom saying something offhand about her preference for chestnuts over peanuts. I agree with her too. Chestnuts should be part of those historical movies where lovers meet under the light of the moon. For me, peanuts will always evoke images of fathers sitting in front of TVs wearing tank tops.
The package instructions actually mention that the southern zongzi becomes more Q after cooling a bit— and they are right. The texture tightens slightly, becomes chewier, and more balanced. And suddenly I understand this zongzi more clearly. It was never trying to overpower me. It was trying to comfort me slowly, unlike the northern zongzi, which seduces immediately like a toxic hot person at a nightclub. And as I continue eating, I keep drifting between present and past, between Taiwan and Canada, between childhood and adulthood, between resentment and gratitude. Food does that to me constantly now. Especially Taiwanese food. Because once you’ve grown up abroad, Taiwanese cuisine isn’t just about satiety but also about Proof: Proof that your childhood was real, Proof that your identity existed prior to survival mode stripping away parts of it, Proof that buried within all of the frenzy, you are truly a part of something greater.
Conclusion: Two Kinds of Survival
I easily recognize the differences in the two zongzi based on their different kinds of rice, an educational knowledge I picked up way back when I enrolled in local Taiwanese elementary school. For some reason, my mother gets ridiculously proud when I do. My mom sounds absurdly proud after I point them out. “See? Education,” she says with a proud face. And honestly? I can’t help but laugh because no matter what Asian mothers would use education as an excuse. Then I look down again at the two half-eaten zongzi sitting side by side. And weirdly… they begin to resemble my own life: The northern zongzi is the version of me people see: Loud, Complicated, Overstuffed, Chaotic, Full of dramatic flavours and emotional overreaction. The southerner zongzi, on the other hand, remains the more gentle one hidden beneath: delicate, fragile, desperate for comfort from itself.
Perhaps that is the reason for which this taste is such an emotional journey for me because, at this point, I am not comparing two different rice dumplings. No. At this point, I am comparing two different kinds of survival. And somewhere between chestnuts and peanuts, between soy sauce and sticky rice, between childhood and adulthood— I suddenly feel heartbreakingly grateful. Grateful that food can continue to affect me so profoundly, Thankful that memory can be retrieved through taste, Thankful that even having grown up in many countries, many personas, and many forms of embarrassment, betrayal, sicknesses, displacement, and misfortunes, just one bite of zongzi can still take me back to where I belong. And the truth is, that could very well be the most Taiwanese part of me.
