Are there things you try to practice daily to live a more sustainable lifestyle?
To be honest, I’m someone who wants to be proactive, but in reality, I’m not always that disciplined. When it comes to sustainable living, I’m far from being a role model. Still, if I really think about it, there are a few things I’ve been consistently doing — small efforts, perhaps, but still something.
The one thing I can confidently say I do regularly (and that actually has some visible effect) is taking the stairs at work — from two floors underground all the way up to the seventh floor. No elevator, no carbon footprint, and a decent cardio workout. Two birds, one stone.
Other habits? They’re a bit more hit-or-miss. I try to keep up with my independent programming projects, daily prayer, and — on days when the weather’s good, it’s not too hot, and I don’t have plans after work — I bike to the office. So yes, there’s effort, but definitely not the kind of consistency I’d brag about.
Speaking of “sustainable,” it’s hard not to think of ESG — the trendiest three-letter acronym in today’s corporate world.
Nowadays, even CEOs and board chairs are being called “Chief Sustainability Officers.” It’s like everyone’s trying to save the planet. But in Taiwan, where most industries rely heavily on exports, ESG often ends up being more about compliance than conviction — just something companies need to check off in order to keep selling to the EU or other markets with strict green regulations.
In other words, a lot of what we see is “ESG for the sake of ESG” — also known as greenwashing. Reports get written, labels get slapped on, events are held with pretty photos, but whether any of it truly benefits the environment, improves employees’ lives, or strengthens society? That’s a big question mark.
So compared to those shiny reports filled with buzzwords, I actually trust the small, boring stuff in daily life a lot more. Like my daily staircase climb — no headlines, no fancy design, but it’s real.
Sustainability, in the end, might just mean keeping at it. Even if it’s something small, the goal is to be a little better than yesterday.
What’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever eaten?
At first glance, this seems like a simple question. But for someone over 40, it actually becomes quite hard to answer.
While there are still plenty of rare delicacies I haven’t tried, I’ve already had the chance to taste most of the popular spots frequently featured in Taiwanese media and recommended by food YouTubers. Many of them were delicious—some even unforgettable. But when asked what’s the most delicious food, my mind draws a blank.
I’ve talked before about pork jowl slices from my childhood. That dish was certainly tasty, but not the most exquisite thing I’ve eaten. Yet the memory of it sticks with me—not so much because of the taste, but because of the feelings and moments tied to it.
Honestly, unless I someday encounter a truly out-of-this-world delicacy from the mountains or the sea (which hasn’t happened yet), I think the earlier in life you eat something delicious, the more its taste fades from memory. Over time, flavor memories fade, but the moments shared at the table—those stay with you.
Still, I want to share two recent meals that really stood out:
First, there’s “Whale Pot” (鯨鍋), a hotpot restaurant in Gongliao District, New Taipei City. Thanks to the owner’s dedication to freshness, you get to enjoy seafood that actually tastes like it came straight from the ocean. The fish slices and baby squid aren’t served in large portions, but the freshness and quality are top-notch—simple and truly satisfying.
Then there’s Ikinari Steak, a Japanese chain known for its thick-cut beef. The moment you walk into the restaurant, you’re hit with that irresistible aroma from the Maillard reaction—rich, smoky, and mouthwatering. They weigh and cook your steak right in front of you, no heavy seasoning, just the natural flavor of high-quality meat perfectly seared.
Looking back, maybe delicious food doesn’t have to blow your mind. If it brings back memories or creates a moment worth remembering, then it’s already more than enough.
If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?
If this question ever became reality, I’d actually be relieved—no more daily decision fatigue. What’s left is an honest reflection: How do I want to be seen?
I want to be seen as someone calm, grounded, and quietly strong. Not flashy, not loud—just a steady presence that speaks for itself.
For the top, I’d choose a collarless shirt. It avoids the stiffness of a formal button-up and the casual slouch of a T-shirt—striking a balance between structure and ease. Simple lines, muted tones, nothing loud. It carries the quiet confidence of a modern monk or a street-level philosopher.
For the bottom, a pair of slim-fit trousers—not skin-tight, but cut well enough to move easily while still holding shape. Something breathable, with a bit of stretch. Easy to wash, easy to dry, and looks good without fuss. The kind of pants that respect your day without demanding your attention.
On my feet: New Balance or Mizuno sneakers. Designed for Asian feet, supportive over long walks, functional without being boring. And if I ever wanted to be even more grounded, I’d switch to minimalist kung fu shoes—close to the earth, light, tactile, like walking was a meditative act.
I don’t wear luxury brands. What I can afford comes from Uniqlo, Muji, or even Lativ—everyday clothing brands that understand balance, not status. But in those choices, there’s a kind of quiet taste, an understanding of daily life and how clothes should move with it.
I care less about price, more about fabric feel, proportion, and whether the piece can grow old with me. Clothes aren’t decoration; they’re part of how I speak to the world—without saying a word.
If I had to wear one outfit forever, I’d want it to be this: subtle but firm, comfortable but intentional. Just like the person I’m trying to become.
Brassai Kao’s Tech Weave 