On a July afternoon of unbearable stickiness, I sat in the soothing, pale-wood dining room at Taiwanese noodle shop Minyoli, contemplating the best hot noodle soup for a scorcher like that day. (Full disclosure: I’m a steadfast believer in hot soup all year round.)
The server could have nudged me toward the seasonal, chilled “pasta salad,” a creamy tangle of thin wheat noodles slicked with sesame sauce tinged with piquant black vinegar and raw garlic beneath strands of raw carrot, cucumber and fried enoki mushroom. But as if reading my mind, he instead suggested the niuroumian, or beef noodle soup, with consommé.
“It’s very light and subtle but complex,” he said, “made from eight-hour-simmered beef bones.”
The soup whispered so gently of beefy minerality and sweet root veg-esque notes (thanks to angelica root and pineapple hearts, I’m told), that I was tempted to lower my voice as I chatted with my date between slurps and bites of tender beef shank. For a hot beef soup, it was, implausibly, refreshing. Of course, I wouldn’t have dared shush my slurping, lest I offend the bouncy, broth-flinging noodles that brought me here in the first place. Minyoli chef/owner and Taiwan native Rich Wang (Boka, Fat Rice) and his team make two shapes of standout wheat noodles in house, one thinner with more surface area for latching onto sauces, the other thicker and ribbon-shaped to remain al dente, “or ‘QQ’ as we would say in Taiwanese,” when set afloat in Minyoli’s beef or vegan broths, Wang explains.
But it’s not just about noodles here, on the menu or in a broader sense. Wang is on a mission to preserve and keep evolving a living—if fast disappearing—cuisine now known as juàn cūn. Historically denoting the makeshift villages created by the Taiwanese government after the Chinese Civil War to house Chinese refugees and their families, juàn cūn cuisine arose from the organic mingling and progression of various regional Chinese foodways inside these villages for three quarters of a century. The villages once numbered well over 800 across the country, but have diminished to less than 30 in recent years, facing demolition as part of government-led urban renewal projects or falling into complete disrepair.
A movement is already underway in Taiwan to revitalize juàn cūn cuisine, “a phrase and concept that didn't even exist until 15 years ago,” Wang says. “I'm just doing so outside of Taiwan, in my new home in Chicago.”
In other words, when at Minyoli, don’t limit yourself to a—yes, generous—bowl of noodles. I’ll second our server’s resounding endorsement of Wang’s fried chicken, which owes its enigmatic sweetness to a beloved finishing technique of Taiwanese night markets: plum salt powder. This tangy-sweet dust goes on just after the potato starch-dredged meat’s second fry, and lingers on your tongue once the craggy, airily crunchy exterior shatters and gives way to savory, juicy meat inside.
Luwei, or snacks braised in soy-based broth with aromatics, and served cold, are a dichotomy of concentrated, slow-simmered flavors and invigorating textures: Phoenix Bean tofu soaks in meaty, allium-rich aromatics while maintaining its springiness; intensely beefy, chewy tendon is laced with sharp pickled mustard greens for contrast. Turnipy hulks of daikon take on a flavor like soy jam, but are too soft for my liking.
I’ll also urge you to get the wood ear mushroom salad while you can (through summer’s end, I’m told). It sports a springy crunch befitting of its bright, gingery dressing that’s flecked with cilantro. Then again, at the first prick of a chill in the air, I’ll be more than ready for Minyoli’s spicy tallow ganban noodles, glossed with a sauce whose richness derives from blending long-simmered tallow (fat) with Minyoli’s housemade chili oil, soy sauce and Taiwanese black vinegar.
Meanwhile, Wang keeps quietly growing Minyoli’s gastronomic ledger, via specials like the Taiwanese breakfast Fan Tuan, or sticky rice stuffed with preserved daikon, jammy tea egg and pork floss.
Some items he’s workshopping have all but disappeared, he says, save for the cooks who keep them alive for their families in their home kitchens. Thankfully, there’s now a pro kitchen on Chicago’s far north side pumping oxygen back into juàn cūn cuisine too, alongside the kind of soothing comfort that transcends even the hottest summer days.
The food: Satisfying housemade noodle dishes and noodle* soups, fried and braised snacks anchor the tight menu. Highlights include the red-braised niuroumian and spicy tallow ganban noodles and craggy fried chicken. Start with a seasonal salad or the terrific pickled cucumbers, assertively sauced with fermented black beans, garlic and housemade chili oil. On that note, almost everything you eat here benefits from a dab or two of Minyoli’s chili oil (which you can also buy). *Note: Gluten-free noodles are available, though not made in house.
The drink: Taiwanese flavors infuse the cocktail end of Minyoli’s menu, too. Think Sichuan peppercorn Gin & Tonics and Oolong Long Island Iced Tea, with gin, sorghum liquor and junmai sake. Taiwanese beer and soft drinks (sarsaparilla, apple and yogurt pop), a few wines and a finely balanced bubble tea with not-too-sweet black sugar tapioca pearls round out the small beverage list.
The vibe: This light and airy 50-seater, accented in pale wood and exposed brick with turquoise accents, sports a come-as-you-are vibe. Heads up: A covered, 40-seat patio opened in July.