Langer Lee
Google
You don’t just walk into MingFu — you stumble into it, like falling through a door into a room full of quietly kept secrets and loud, clattering teacups. On the surface, it’s another tight, fluorescent-lit canteen in Taipei’s aging urban sprawl — the kind of place with calligraphy scrolls on beige walls, peach-colored tablecloths, and chairs in need of retirement. But inside, it’s sacred ground. And on this particular day, the altar was a bubbling clay cauldron of Buddha Jumps Over the Wall, served hot, rich, and unapologetically extravagant.
This dish isn’t dinner. It’s a time capsule, a ceremonial soup once reserved for imperial banquets. Ours arrived steaming, reverent — 4200 NTD of gelatinous sea cucumber, pig trotters, sharks fin, chicken innards, baby abalone, dried scallops, bamboo shoots, water chestnuts and bamboo shoots boiled for more than 5 hours. A combination so potent they could exorcise a mild flu or at least soften the edges of your next hangover. Each sip of the broth grew deeper, like aging Pu-erh or a good novel — earthy, complex, and quietly commanding.
The room was packed, mostly multigenerational locals, some in golf shirts, others in floral prints, all with that particular glint of anticipation you only see when a long-awaited meal finally lands. Tables were loud but grounded. Diners brought their own wine, poured each other tea, and most — like us — had either the Buddha Jumps Over the Wall or a whole chicken soup boiling away in a similar pot. It wasn’t special occasion dining. It was the occasion.
The rest of the dishes held their own. Oysters arrived slick with soy and garlic, fried just enough to remind you that raw seafood in Taiwan is still a religion. A plate of verdant stir-fried greens came glossy with oil and dotted with black beans and tiny anchovies — the kind of simple, umami-forward plate that ties a meal together without needing to speak above a whisper.
What made the whole experience sing was the service — not fussy, not over-eager. Just kind. They explained each dish, offered to pack up the leftovers in airtight plastic pots, and smiled like they knew you were lucky to be there — because we were. A group of four had bailed that morning, too hungover to make it before the kitchen shut at 2 p.m. That’s how we got in — by fate or by the spirits of the ancestors who might still haunt that broth (one staff member has been there for 47 years)
7000 NTD in total. Worth every cent. A meal like this doesn’t happen often — not because it’s hard to find, but because it requires time, patience, and a palate that doesn’t shy away from the unctuous or the strange.
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Reservation for Buddha Jump Over the Wall required 1 week in advance
Bring friends. Bring wine. Come hungry.