The street food scene in Asia has been deeply impacted by tourism, gentrification, and the pandemic, shifting the once-vibrant landscapes of bustling markets to quieter, less authentic spaces.

A decade ago, Shilin Night Market in Taipei was a buzzing hotspot, overflowing with vendors serving up stinky tofu, grilled squid, and skewers of sizzling meats to a never-ending crowd.

Jason Cheung, a Taipei-based culture writer who has been chronicling the evolution of Shilin Market on his blog, believes those lively days are behind us.

‘It used to be so crowded you could barely move,’ he recalls, stretching his arms wide as he walks through an alley lined with food stalls. But now, on a typical Friday night, the market is only half full.

Despite Taiwan having gone over 250 days without local Covid-19 transmissions, the true issue lies in Shilin’s heavy reliance on international tourists, a demand that’s yet to return to pre-pandemic levels.

‘Shilin used to offer a much wider variety of food,’ he explains. ‘Now, it’s all tailored for tourists. Everyone’s selling the same things. It’s become dull.’

Taiwan is synonymous with its night markets, informal gatherings of vendors that originally thrived around the attractions of local temples.

This tradition dates back to dynastic China, when people would regularly gather at temples. Vendors, eager to take advantage of the crowds, would converge from all directions with their goods carried on shoulder poles or simple carts.

This is where the image of night markets has remained frozen in time – bustling, illuminated streets crowded with people, where vendors have honed their craft, specializing in the same dishes passed down through generations.

During the later decades of the 20th century, a time of rapid economic growth often referred to as the 'Taiwan Miracle,' businesses across the island experienced a golden age.

‘From a business standpoint, night markets saw their peak prosperity during the 1980s and up until the mid-1990s,’ explains Dr. Shuenn-Der Yu, a scholar at the Academia Sinica Institute of Ethnology, whose doctoral research focused on Taiwanese night markets.

Yet, poor hygiene standards and construction issues, coupled with public health concerns like malaria outbreaks and fire hazards, led to authorities relocating and rebuilding night markets several times throughout history.

In 2011, Shilin Night Market introduced a new underground section in an effort to organize the food vendors and clean up the streets.

The venture was a failure. While the open-air vendors continue to thrive, the underground area remains the least visited section of the market, despite its ample lighting and air conditioning.

‘A lot of locals grew up around here, so when the market moved underground, it didn’t sit well with many,’ Cheung explains, pointing out that the underground area feels more like a mall, with nearly identical menus across all the stalls.

‘Carnivals controlled by the establishment.’

Shilin Night Market serves as a microcosm for many of Taiwan’s night markets, where attempts at tight regulation and control have often fallen short.

‘In 1998, the government proposed a five-year plan to gentrify both morning and night markets across the island,’ wrote Yu in a 2004 book on Taiwanese culture.

These reforms brought in elements like uniforms for vendors, performances, and trade shows to the markets.

‘Many night markets might turn into carnivals controlled by the authorities for the people,’ Yu predicted. ‘If this trend continues, the vibrant, noisy night markets we know may soon be gone.’

Kathy Cheng, a cultural writer and communications consultant based in Taipei, shares this view.

‘Night markets are stuck in a rut,’ she says. ‘The iconic stalls still deliver, but they’re the ones holding the tradition together. It doesn’t seem like the government is actively considering how to safeguard, preserve, and adapt these markets for the future.’

Not all of Taipei’s night markets have experienced the same decline as Shilin, of course.

Ningxia Night Market, as Cheng observes, is one of the few in Taipei that has managed to keep its charm intact.

‘You can still find all the classic Taiwanese dishes – oyster omelette, coal-grilled sausages, fried chicken, pig’s blood cake, stinky tofu – and the overall vibe of the market is pretty much unchanged,’ she notes.

Traditional street food will undoubtedly endure in some form, but locals worry that the markets are becoming increasingly uniform.

‘The quality is mostly unchanged, but the variety of food options has definitely shrunk,’ Cheung observes. ‘When you visit Taiwan’s old streets, you’ll notice the offerings are repetitive, with many stalls selling the same items.’

Yu explains that, starting in the 1990s, successful night market businesses focusing on specific dishes – like salt and pepper chicken or braised duck head – began to expand by franchising.

Food could be prepared in a central kitchen and then distributed to vendors who simply reheated it at their stalls.

‘Some people want to run a night market stall but don’t know how to cook,’ Yu says. ‘So they become franchisees, and all they need to do is fry the chicken.’

‘Now, many of the items sold are identical,’ he adds. ‘It’s becoming a real concern.’

Saving the culture – and the chaos – of street food.

The decline of street food culture is not exclusive to Taipei; it's a trend spreading across Asia.

Street food, by definition, refers to food sold on the streets, and for centuries, it was the heart of economic life in cities, offering affordable meals through low-income street vendors.

As development has progressed, so too has the demand for higher standards of hygiene and order, which clashes with the spontaneous spirit of night markets. At the same time, globalization has introduced international dishes and competition from global restaurant chains.

Over the past few decades, cities across Asia have struggled to balance the cultural significance of street food with the need to control its chaotic nature.

In Beijing, this drive for control has led to the elimination of almost all unregulated street food vendors and markets. Wangfujing, a street once known for its vibrant night market, has been transformed into a broad pedestrian avenue lined with large department stores.

In Tokyo, the traditional street food lanes are increasingly being replaced by chain stores.

‘The media often romanticizes Tokyo’s street food scene, depicting yakitori stands under the train tracks in central Tokyo,’ says Melinda Joe, a food writer based in Japan.

‘These types of places have been undergoing renovations in recent years. It’s a mixed blessing. Many of those yakitori spots weren’t particularly good, but they’re being replaced by chains. There’s even a big Starbucks now,’”

In Hong Kong, street food is slowly disappearing. There are only 25 licensed street food vendors, known as dai pai dongs, and the government has stopped issuing new licenses.

‘The license is tied to the business owner, not the stall,’ explains Hong Kong-based food writer Janice Leung Hayes.

‘If the business owner passes away or retires, they cannot hand the business down. Once their license expires, the stall must shut down,’”

Over the past decade, South Korean authorities have increased their crackdown on unlicensed street vendors.

According to the Korea Times, in 2017, 7,300 people were operating street stalls in Seoul, but only 1,000 of them had official city permits.

‘Street food was always somewhat of a legal grey area, but the authorities really started enforcing regulations,’ says Robert Joe, a Korean-American filmmaker based in Seoul.

Government-backed markets like the Seoul Bamdokkaebi Night Market now exist, but Joe feels they lack the authentic charm of traditional street food scenes.

‘Nothing ever sticks or creates enough buzz for me to think, ‘I want to check out this government-approved night market to try that burger from that guy’s truck,’” he says.

Thailand's military government has launched one of the region’s most aggressive anti-street food campaigns. In 2017, a large-scale removal of street food stalls took place along Bangkok's main roads.

‘The government has been overly eager in clearing the sidewalks and returning them to the general public, trying to portray street food vendors as outsiders,’ says Chawadee Nualkhair, a Bangkok-based food writer. ‘They’re essentially forcing these vendors off the streets. It’s almost unconscionable.’

Although there have been efforts to relocate vendors, most of these attempts have been unsuccessful.

‘The problem is they place night markets in areas nobody wants to be,’ says Nualkhair. ‘They’re situated in places that are hard to reach, so the night markets inevitably fail. It’s not working, and what they’re doing isn’t really helping anymore.’

When street food is relocated out of its natural setting – like into an underground mall or an empty parking lot – it loses its appeal.

‘They’re trying to cater to what they think tourists want,’ says Nualkhair. ‘But they don’t understand that tourists want experiences they can’t have back home. They’re not looking for malls.’

However, not everyone believes that street food must remain on the streets.

KF Seetoh, known as Singapore's street food expert, argues that controlled environments like the city’s hawker centers offer their own set of advantages.

‘Sure, you can call it sterile if you like, but who really wants to risk food poisoning from shady street vendors?’ he says.

‘Hawker centers in Singapore essentially serve as a formalized version of what were once illegal street food stalls. All vendors were relocated there, with each stall equipped with water, power, gas, electricity, grease traps, and ventilation. Managing a hawker stall is no different from running a restaurant,’ he explains.

However, the biggest challenge facing Singapore’s hawker stalls – and a common issue across Asia – is the lack of continuity in the trade.

‘Singapore is losing this skill,’ Seetoh says. ‘It’s tough for newcomers to match the expertise of the old masters. It’s not a career path college graduates are encouraged to pursue, and the competition is fierce,’ he adds.

Declining culinary traditions

While there's a certain charm in the concept of a one-dish vendor, with recipes passed down and honed over generations, for many families, it has simply become an impractical way of life.

‘In the 80s and 90s, night market stalls were very lucrative,’ says Yu, reflecting on Taipei. ‘As a result, many of their children received good educations and now don't feel the need to take over the family business.’

‘It was a good deal,’ he adds. ‘Many vendors had a strong incentive to sell their stalls, knowing the new owner could keep the branding intact and market it as the same restaurant.’

While an aging vendor workforce, gentrification, and government crackdowns are all ongoing challenges for street food stalls across Asia, the coronavirus pandemic this year may have dealt the final blow to many of these businesses.

‘There’s nobody around anymore. Back in the day, you wouldn’t even have been able to interview me. Business was thriving,’ says Mr. Li, a vendor at Shilin Night Market.

Li’s family has been crafting and selling Taiwanese spring rolls for 47 years, and through all the changes at Shilin Night Market, he says the pandemic has been the hardest blow, especially given their heavy dependence on international tourists.

Foot traffic has dwindled significantly, and by 7 p.m., Li admits he's already contemplating packing up for the day.

‘We don’t have tourists anymore,’ he says. ‘Markets like Ningxia are doing alright because they cater to locals. But Shilin doesn’t have that advantage, and the rent is just too high.’

Positive developments

While the street food stalls of old may be fading, many believe this isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and that the future holds even greater potential.

In Singapore, Seetoh is advocating for the creation of an international street food academy to raise the status of the craft and preserve it for future generations.

‘There should be an institution dedicated to teaching the traditional art of comfort food from the streets,’ he says. ‘They need to do it before the old masters are gone.’

In Indonesia, food writer Kevindra Soemantri believes the government is taking a step in the right direction by bringing food writers on board as consultants.

‘They’re focusing on improving hygiene standards and are even building a large central kitchen to assist small businesses with training,’ he explains.

He’s also noticed second-generation chefs taking their family’s traditional recipes and reimagining them with a modern twist, while still preserving the authenticity of the flavors.

One example he points to is Bubur Cap Tiger, a specialist in congee.

‘They teamed up with a brand and interior designer to create a contemporary yet welcoming space. The food is exceptional, and the older generation of chefs are still deeply involved behind the scenes,’ he adds.

In Taipei, Ningxia Night Market is standing out by embracing mobile payment and delivery services. By allowing customers to pay or order through their phones, it speeds up the line and helps vendors stay connected through digital promotions.

‘The key difference is that they’re focusing on the local crowd, not just tourists,’ says Cheung.

While street food is evolving, it’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

Yu, who has closely studied Taiwanese night markets for almost 30 years, observes that what’s considered ‘traditional’ is ultimately subjective.

‘Night markets are always evolving,’ he notes.