In an old apartment with an inner courtyard in eastern Taipei, where the walls remember former residents and the air is steeped in the smell of charcoal, chef Chen Tinghua (Tim) kindles a fire of binchotan. Chicken wings, aged in the cold for four days, touch the glowing embers — the skin instantly turns golden and crisp, while inside remains a juicy, almost raw sweetness.
The Taiwanese red-feathered chicken, chosen after six months of testing, yields clean, delicate meat that cannot be replicated with imported poultry. Four days of low-temperature drying concentrate the flavor, while the direct flame of binchotan imparts a smoky aroma unattainable with gas or ordinary charcoal. It is precisely this combination of soil, climate and hands that makes the yakitori here inimitable.
Tim trained at the Michelin-starred Torisho Ishii in Osaka. There he mastered precise fire control, the proportions of skewering and the butchering of the carcass. Upon returning, he spent a year searching for premises and fitting them out: 16 seats at an open counter, old Japanese doors, embroidered panels depicting charcoal. The name “Sumika” comes from “sumi” (charcoal) and “ka” (fragrance), and in Japanese it also means “dwelling.”
Guests take their seats at the counter and watch the master unfold each series: from crispy wings to tender offal. The wine is selected to match the season — right now it is sake from Miyagi with bright umami that enhances the sweetness of the chicken. Every two and a half months the menu changes, so that every visit remains a new conversation of flavors.
Interest in authentic yakitori is growing in Taipei: after the pandemic, more and more people traveled to Japan and returned understanding that chicken is not just cheap meat. Tim notes that previously many establishments closed because customers were not accustomed to a whole chicken and different cuts. Now, however, a new audience is forming, ready to pay for technique and quality.
You need to book in advance — there are only sixteen seats. It is best to come in the evening, when the courtyard is lit by soft light and the embers gradually fade. Then it becomes especially clear why this place is called a “dwelling” — here people do not simply eat, but spend time by the fire, as at home.
In this yakitori, Taipei recognizes itself: a city where Japanese tradition meets Taiwanese poultry and the hands of a master who decided that the best place for such a fire is precisely here.
