
滷肉 Braised pork
Pork belly and shoulder, hand-diced and braised with soy, rice wine, fried shallot and five spice until the fat goes glossy and the sauce clings to the rice.
Two SonsTaiwanese lu rou fan, packed into a box.
Rice underneath. Pork on top. Egg in the corner. Pickles and greens to keep things honest. We make one thing. We make it every morning. It is ready at eleven and available until the pot is empty.


Pork belly and shoulder, hand-diced and braised with soy, rice wine, fried shallot and five spice until the fat goes glossy and the sauce clings to the rice.

Short-grain rice, steamed to order and packed warm. Enough to hold the braise without disappearing underneath it.

Sat in the braise overnight. Dark outside, soft in the middle. Eat it last.

Pickled mustard green. Sour enough to cut through the pork and make you take another bite. Vegetables count.
We make one thing.
Small if you’re sensible.
Large if lunch is the point.
Available from eleven until the pot is empty, usually around two.
Two Sons
ORDER TICKET · NO. 0417
READY 11:00



In 2025, I stepped off the traditional career path to dive headfirst into entrepreneurship. It has been the hardest and most rewarding year of my life — a crash course in everything from accounting to operations, driven entirely by the desire to build things I truly care about.
This box comes from that exact same place. I am making Taiwanese bian dang because I grew up with it, because my two sons love it, and because I wanted to bring an authentic, high-quality version to our community.
This is our very first box.
It is on the counter of the shop by the station, in the lunchbox handed through a school gate, in the pot on the back of the stove at home. Nobody performs it. Everyone has an opinion about it.
We cook it the way a lunch shop does: one pot, every morning, dark by noon. Then we pack it in a box that survives the walk back to your desk.
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