(此文為英文版食記部落格，欲看中文版食記請點以下連結 🔗/ This blog is the English version of the food blog; for the Chinese travel blog, please click on the link below 🔗)：
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Watch Our YouTube Video First:
Pingdong Steamed Bawan Mini Meatballs: A Taiwanese Culinary Story of Resilience
Why This $700 Taiwanese Pingdong Steamed Bawan Mini Meatballs Have Foodies Losing Their Minds (And Craving More)
I spot it.
There.
Buried among all the overpriced crap in the bougie, invite-only group buying, VIP invite-only group reserved for yuppie moms who don’t blink at NT$700 dried mullet roe.
But this—this—
《Pingdong steamed bawan mini meatballs》
My eyeballs nearly fall into my steaming oolong.
My soul leaves my body and slaps me across the face.
“Bitch… is that THE one?”
My fingers are already trembling before my brain catches up.
I double-check the ingredients.
Taiwanese pork. Bamboo shoots. Sesame oil. Peanut powder. Garlic. Cinnamon.
Oh my God.
The PTSD kicks in.
Not the bad kind. The edible kind.
Suddenly, I’m 14 again—
Hungry, greasy, and dead broke.
Setting up my little stand in Shilin night market.
My shirt smells like fryer oil and other people’s stinky tofu.
I’m running on hope, gum I found in my pocket, and half a cup of room-temperature papaya milk.
And there she is—my bigger sister from the next stall.
She doesn’t even say a word.
She hands me a tiny, steaming, alien-looking orb and says:
“I brought them all the way for Sanchong explicitly for you; aren’t you always hungry?”
She. Brought. It. For. Me.
I remember biting into that Pingdong steamed mini meatballs like I was being baptized in porky glory.
Thin, elastic rice wrapper—delicate like grandma’s handkerchief.
Inside? A hot, juicy nugget of marinated pork so tender it gives me trust issues.
The coriander is fragrant, and the bamboo shoots are crisp, sweet, spicy, and fresh.
Peanut powder. Black sesame. A faint tease of five spices.
The savoury, sweet, spicy, herbaceous confusion that makes you question your loyalty to your own taste buds.
And then… it vanished from my life.
Like a one-night stand who made you believe in love.
Gone.
Until now.
So obviously, I smash that “fill order” button like it owes me rent.
Then, the anticipation begins, like a thrilling suspense movie. I watch that shipping status like a hungry dog at a dumpling shop, each update bringing a surge of excitement.
I watch that shipping status like a hungry dog at a dumpling shop.
Each hour feels like a decade.
I open my freezer 27 times before it even arrives, just in case it magically teleports.
Then—delivery day.
Delivery Day: The Return of the Bawan
The doorbell rings.
I fall down the stairs.
Not even mad.
Open the box like it’s the Ark of the Covenant.
There they are.
15 frozen soldiers of salvation.
Packed tight, like a family I never had.
I steam them.
Patiently.
Okay, fine, I lift the lid every 45 seconds.
The smell…
Sesame oil, garlic, sweet and spicy soul fragrance.
It’s all flooding back—night markets, neon lights, sweat, grit, hustle, loneliness… and her.
With trembling hands, I take the first bite.
I die.
I actually die.
My knees give in.
My ears ring.
My ancestors high-five me from the spirit realm.
The outer layer still has that same nostalgic bounce—it’s so bouncy—but it’s not too sticky like some desperate wannabes.
The pork?
Juicy, seasoned like a K-drama lead: intense but emotionally available.
The bamboo shoots are still there, still whispering crunchy little secrets into my soul.
And that sauce.
That damn sauce.
It slides down your throat like an apology from your emotionally unavailable ex.
It says, “I’m sorry I ghosted you 20 years ago.”
And you forgive it.
You forgive everything.
I polish off 5 in one sitting.
Contemplate heating up 5 more.
Decide against it.
Then do it anyway.
This isn’t just food.
It’s closure.
It’s a hug in starch form.
It’s my hobo teenage trauma, lovingly wrapped in a translucent glutenous veil, whispering,
“You made it. You’re still hungry. But this time… it’s for joy.”
The History Behind Bawan Meatballs
But before I take another bite of this glorious, steaming orb of redemption, let’s talk history. Because this ain’t just a snack. This is a Taiwanese war survivor, a culinary cockroach, a sticky symbol of struggle that’s been bouncing through time like me dodging student loans.
Legend has it that “bawan“ meatballs were born not in some fancy palace but in the muddy, rainy, flood-prone mountains of Changhua during the Qing Dynasty—
And if you’ve ever been to Changhua during typhoon season, you know these folks don’t play. It was wartime. Food was scarce. Morale was lower than my bank account after rent.
So, what did our Taiwanese ancestors do? They innovated. With pork scraps and starch. They crushed long-grain enriched rice and pounded it like it owed them money, turning it into a chewy rice paste and wrapping whatever meat they could find inside like they were swaddling a baby made of dreams and desperation.
Then they steamed it—they were not fried because oil was expensive, and they weren’t trying to flex; they just survived.
And boom: Bawan meatballs were born. The OG poverty gourmet. The ghetto dumpling. The sticky saviour. The gelatinous God.
Over the years, it travelled south and got slutty in Tainan, where people started deep-frying it like they had no cholesterol limit. In Sanchong, it got mini-sized and sneakily cute, like some kawaii assassin of your self-control.
And now? Now it shows up in posh VIP-only invite group like a glow-up ex who used to sleep on a floor mat and now wears MUJI linen.
But let’s not forget—肉圓 didn’t come from luxury. It came from hunger, from hustle, from necessity. Just like me.
So, every time I bite into one, I don’t just taste pork and bamboo. I taste the resilience of a whole damn island. I chew on centuries of poor people, making it work with whatever they had.
It’s not just food. It’s a tribute.
And now, I pay homage with my mouth full and my heart heavier than my freezer. While I may still be broke and broken in parts, at least I’m eating like a sticky rice empress with trauma and a steam basket.
Long live bawan meatballs.
Born from rain.
Steamed in pain.
Still here—
Bouncy, bold, and deliciously unapologetic.
Verdict
Buy it.
Eat it.
Cry into your steaming plate.
Repeat.
Your Turn
So, what’s your meatball? Share your own food stories, and let’s celebrate the dishes that make us who we are. They’re your entire damn origin story.
