Reflections of Ray, Taiwanese Founder of Manman Chouniu: A Sobering Guide for F&B—Neither Involution Nor Lying Flat

[Catering Industry]

For years the internet has taught us to escape our comfort zone,

but I'm only good at comfort.

Ray, the Taiwanese founder of Manman Chouniu, reassures us:

Staying in your comfort zone is also a skill!

Is it better to flail around with a fancy butterfly stroke you never quite mastered,

or the doggy paddle you've known since childhood?

First time I met Ray was in his office. He had a fine-featured face, a gentle smile breaking now and then, nodded lightly as he spoke, revealing gleaming teeth—a carefree, well-to-do young man. 'Probably a rich second-generation Taiwanese,' I thought to myself.

While Haidilao's profits were down 90% year-on-year and they were branching into milk tea and noodle shops, while Japanese sukiyaki and yakiniku were booming as a surefire investment hotspot, Ray was in the eye of the storm chatting with me about how to make customers feel happy eating his bowl of traditional charcoal-grilled beef donburi. This, at its core, has nothing to do with the 'involution' topics—awards, expansion, venture capital—that successful chain bosses typically bring up when they meet. And of course, he's by no means 'lying flat.' It was only after a deeper chat that I realized he's a first-generation entrepreneur who turned a tiny beef donburi shop into a small chain empire, and his original intention never wavered—that earned my deep respect.

Most customers, like me, squeeze in half an hour during a busy workday at Manman Chouniu, and what fills their hearts is an unadorned sense of 'man'—satisfaction, fulfillment, energy topped up... then they happily return to their own rhythm. Ray often stays in the shop, gazing infatuatedly at these expressions of contentment, as if seeing his own startup self.

Do what you love and are good at

Ray used to be a professional handball player—a niche sport in Asia that practically only exists in Korea and Japan. That short athletic career unexpectedly cultivated Ray's meat-loving cells, making him the team's renowned charcoal steak expert. He recalled that even back when he was on the school team, yakitori and yakiniku joints were already all the rage in Taipei. 'I fell in love with it in high school when I tried Ganbei (a Taipei Japanese-style yakiniku restaurant).'

He retired largely because he found himself obsessed with charcoal-grilled meat cuisine and decided to interview at Taipei's one-Michelin-star 'Da Wan Shao Rou'—a place whose boss had come from the very Ganbei he adored. But Ray kept failing to land the job, couldn't even get the simplest salad position. 'I gained a deep respect for this industry. Back in 2011, a full meal there cost about 1,200 RMB, all counter seating and à la carte. Turns out you had to stick at the salad station for over a year before moving up; standards were sky-high.'

He settled for another yakiniku place as a fallback and quietly began market research, learning the down-to-earth skills to fly low in this trade. 'In Taiwan, you don't do all that marketing fuss. You focus on the food, nothing beyond that. People come for the flavors they love, price and ambience don't matter. After work, we'd go for Taipei-style noodle shops, costing maybe 20–30 RMB. You love it for itself, no packaging, very simple.'

Ray's workday in Taipei started at three in the afternoon, when the city was bustling. Going home was a whole different scene. He'd ride his scooter out from the shop, often well past midnight, streets deserted. With several lanes to himself, throttle wide open, his mind was free of engine roar, only clear thoughts under the moonlit sky. One day it dawned on him: time for a change. When he started the business in 2015, he was only 27 and felt he ought to do something meaningful before 30. He roped in a former manager from the yakiniku days as partner. 'His name is Paul. We're close in age—I'm '86, he's '85. We just love this stuff; charcoal has a special charm.'

Brimming with that fearless rookie spirit, from December 2014 to January 2015 Ray feverishly wrote a restaurant plan and decided to do affordable charcoal steak with a sense of ritual. The concept was to give night-market fare an upgrade, searing at the table, a 6-ounce portion priced around 40–50 RMB. 'Meat is cheap in Taiwan. We believed we could make it great.'

Ray was confident, but after opening, many unforeseen issues came up, and he paid plenty of tuition. 'We had no idea whether the building could legally be a restaurant, if it met codes—all that blew the budget.' He borrowed 500,000 NT dollars from his parents and opened a scruffy little shop on the most ramshackle street corner near Taipei 101, in the new district. 'On our right was Huánán Wénxiù, with lots of artists. Across one street was a luxury residential area worth tens of billions. Our spot was a slum—tire shop on the left, pharmacy on the right. The contrast was brutal.'

For months after opening, flies outnumbered customers. All sorts of unexpected hitches cropped up, and they were short-staffed. Ray put in 20 hours a day at the shop, doing the purchasing himself. 'To survive, we started selling lunch and bento—simpler than dinner, no salad, fruit, or side dishes. A bowl of rice topped with steak, fatty beef, or fish. Lunch did okay in that area; the affordable charcoal steak dinner just wouldn't move. After months of poor evening traffic, we'd ride around at night to study other businesses' product mix and footfall.'

The entire team backed Ray's decisive move. Instagram was trending, so Ray had a university student write a post—within days, queues formed, and he hadn't spent a dime. They'd accidentally hit on the perfect blogger, and the business exploded. 'We're not a big company with a fully-fledged HR department. I never thought I needed all the manpower and funding lined up to do what I wanted. We tried a lot of staff who didn't work out, so my parents came to help with the dishes. There was a time when a friend even brought Guo *ming to eat; lots of celebrities visited. I welcomed them—no problem—but that's an illusion. They aren't my real customers. My customers come 2–3 times a week. For the long haul, I need regulars.'

Ray says they were lucky, and along the way some elders tipped them off about pitfalls. 'We didn't know. The rice bowls were doing so well we couldn't keep up, had to do a lot ourselves—serving, washing dishes, every shift until about 11 pm. So much bickering and unpleasantness; looking back, it's all experience. Even though I've got a fiery temper, I'd look back and care for the team. I just want the best for the company, for our business. It's about the issue, not the person. Later we brought in a partner, one of the guys from Wangpin, older than us, and I learned a ton from him. At first I didn't get his thinking, but last year a lot of things clicked—I still have so much to learn.'

Business was unstoppable. By then Ray had two tiny shops. They asked Wangpin if they wanted to buy them; they said no. In 2016, Ray came to Hangzhou to scout. He's sentimental, and the reason he wanted to grow a business here was because his significant other was here. But midway through the launch plan, they broke up. By then his partner had married and couldn't come either, so Ray's connection to Hangzhou felt a bit forced—yet later it proved to be his lucky ground.

Still, it wasn't smooth at first. In 2017, Ray ventured into the Hangzhou market alone, full of confidence, but things went wrong. He landed May 14th, opened June 27th, and immediately started losing money. 'We had good cost control in theory, but after digging I found many problems—flavors, ingredients. The same grade of ingredients we used in Taiwan had to be re-sourced here. We lost money four months straight. I went back to Taiwan alone, apologized at a shareholders' meeting, and cried. After returning, another three months of losses. I compiled daily reports, sometimes covering the shortfall out of my own pocket. If we targeted 1,000, but only hit 800, I'd put in 200. Those three months were agonizing. I visited every yakiniku spot's process to find issues, adjusted everything myself, including the sauces. It was a brutal stretch.'

At this point, most operators would push marketing hard, but Ray held back for four months, doing nothing on Dianping or through bank channels. 'I knew we weren't ready. In Taiwan we never do discounts; people might think you're going under. There were marketing efforts, just different methods. I kept learning while watching.'

When I asked how he personally perfected the sauce, he told me about a detail he noticed at local yakiniku joints. In Taiwan, most yakiniku is eaten with just salt and pepper, the pure taste. But here, sauces were thick and heavy. To find the right flavor, he ate himself into injury after arriving in Hangzhou—going from an athletic bodybuilder's physique to that of a 'food-loving restaurateur.'

'Because in Taiwan our sauce took an all-natural route. Here, I changed it, but I still refuse to use additives. We use more fruit, extend the simmering time, adapting to Hangzhou tastes, different from Taiwan. In Taiwan I used sugarcane; here I use apple—more natural, suitable for vegetarians too. I don't use chicken bones. We also redesigned the plating for Hangzhou, breaking everything apart—salad apart, fruit apart, soup apart. It sounds like set meals, cold square boxes, but I arrange it to be as bountiful as a kaiseki course. I love doing R&D with staff—they see from different angles and inspire me.'

He toured many famous Hangzhou yakiniku spots, tasting, researching, tweaking sauces in the kitchen, barely resting. 'Only after you've dialed it in can you move forward. The tableware and all that—ultimately you have to persist. You don't know if giving up would make any difference; we weren't at the final moment yet. The shareholders supported us. It's still about persistence, having judgment on things. Once we did that marketing activity, we took off. In those days, the only similar place in Hangzhou was Jingjingwu, but they did sashimi rice bowls. We only do beef. We're categorized as Japanese cuisine; guests ask why there's no salmon—I can't make it, I don't have that skill, and food safety-wise, what if a customer gets an upset stomach?'

Treat guests like friends

Friends around Ray and I share the same feeling—his business instinct is nothing short of genius. Asked about techniques, he says it's purely intuition; customers' reactions are straightforward. He's not much of a talker; he just reads faces, cares about behavioral feedback. 'Like the sauce—I always make it myself, never entrust it to others, no matter how late. Everyone's experience differs. The feedback you read at the table is also different.'

However, regarding the Hangzhou market, Ray admits it's tough. 'Hangzhou dining habits lean toward cheap but abundant food. It's really hard now; the population base isn't that big, and being a tourist city means high mobility. No matter which city you're in, you have to persevere. You can't cut corners just because you're turning a profit today—treat guests with honesty.'

That said, Hangzhou has become more open-minded over the past two years. Back in 2017, when he had staff ask guests for feedback, they usually got cold stares. But Ray always told the team to treat guests as friends, and now guests are more generous, especially regulars—they'll sincerely offer valuable suggestions to help the restaurant improve.

Having lived in Hangzhou for four years, Ray finds many young locals have bold palates. 'You have to know what they want. When I was young, at 20, it was the same—I ate more gourmet than the younger ones. Now I go for plain hot pot with just clear broth; I don't eat sukiyaki anymore, find it too heavy. I pick things straight from the pot, very light. I keep my tastebuds young—by always eating light, I won't miss those strong flavors.'

I mention dining at RAW in Taipei—their staff visits different markets each noon, buys ingredients, cooks together, discusses new dishes and creative R&D. Ray says he's not picky about Hangzhou food; he can eat anything. His first meal here was something like braised duck and Old Man's Oil-blasted Shrimp—after tasting that shrimp, he started working on his own sauce. 'That was so satisfying with rice. I kept thinking, it's like the flavors of Taipei home cooking—not too salty or sweet, very cozy, a deep memory anchor. Next is malatang, like Taiwan's braised snacks, with a herbal base, no oil—you choose the ingredients, they blanch them, add pickled greens, chili, you mix your own dressing, very clean. That's so inspiring. I've always wanted to eat malatang, to develop the same tastebuds as young Hangzhou locals.'

When you're good friends, you want to know how they feel.

Finding a new comfort zone in a new market

Ray says he doesn't touch what he's not good at. With meat, he does what he's meant to, and he chooses to persist. His personality is single-minded.

'When making products in Hangzhou, Manman Chouniu was niche then, and still is. We've always done niche things. Some guests inevitably don't get it—after all, I'm doing niche in a mass market.' I told him that's precisely a uniquely positioned concept in a big market, very sharp. This creativity in the Hangzhou market is unparalleled—no wonder Manman Chouniu's store at Guoda and the one on Huanglong both made the Must-Eat list!

Recently Ray has been digging deeper into his product. He personally likes the little bistro vibe, so he opened 'Xiaoman Canteen.' He enjoys crafting atmosphere and hopes young people won't eat so heavy. 'The product should be positioned above fast food but below fine dining—our own thing. People keep seeing our rice bowls, but many probably don't know our insistence. We use binchotan charcoal; beef is too pricey, but char fire's temperature is something we're adamant about—you can't get that flavor from electric grills. We don't skimp. We calculate everything when preparing. Guests are smart. We just carry on normally, not changing despite the pandemic or rising ingredient costs—the portions we promise, we deliver. We keep iterating, adding extra seasonal premium ingredients for guests, all factored into the original price.'

Ray is deeply refining this bowl, aiming for top three nationwide. 'Why does Yoshinoya only do that much? It's about price and customer base. We make the mid-priced product excellent. I want Manman Chouniu to layer on more service—for example, in that soup guests love, the rule is no fewer than three pieces of beef.'

During the strict pandemic period when only delivery was possible, guests asked if they could pack the borscht soup as well, and Ray said yes—they'd package it in a 1,000cc container, free of charge. 'We're not greedy for the price of a few bowls. Guests are your loyal fans. We put heart into our soup—borscht is something Hangzhou people love. When I think about this rice bowl, I consider what can cut the greasiness because it's all meat. What to avoid, how to finish—I think it all through. Not just slapping stuff together—that's my understanding of rice bowls. Also, we include vegetable tempura in the bowl, making it a Sino-Japanese hybrid donburi.'

I think this bowl should really be tried by Japanese diners—they'd be pleasantly surprised, because pure Japanese donburi is very simple. 'Their shops just serve meat, only in sizes medium, large, extra-large. No seafood paired with beef—either raw fish or just beef. That doesn't suit the Chinese market. Taiwan is a mature market, so we built it with a Taiwanese structure. Then we adjusted to the Hangzhou taste spectrum.' Ultimately, Ray's bowl is a collaborative creation of chefs, the generous toppings and playful flavors making Hangzhou locals feel it's great value.

As my appetite rises from the conversation, I suddenly need a bowl of 'thick-cut steak donburi.'

I gaze at the layers of lavish toppings in this bowl from Manman Chouniu—charcoal-grilled beef, king oyster mushrooms, vegetable tempura, okra, onsen egg, crispy nori, special sauce, shichimi spice—leaving no room for any smug 'no.' Any time but late night, I'd happily click on this video.

Ray's thoughts still race along Taipei's four-lane roads on his scooter. He says he wants to take the rice bowl even further; there's more to life, he wants to subvert. 'I want to create a brand like a food theatre—very novel in the mainland. In Taipei, teppanyaki meals involve moving to a different room, with a pre-meal tea. For now, I can't pull that off in the mainland; you can't have heavy fumes. You start with small dishes, eventually in the main dining area. Many steps, like a Japanese meal, then go to another room for dessert. I want to break it down and make it more delicate.'

I think to myself, with a mind spinning that fast, no wonder he's not the least bit overweight! That's the secret of the comfort zone!

What’s for dinner tonight?

Coinciding with Manman Chouniu's 4th anniversary,

whether you order à la carte or a set meal,

as long as it contains 'thick-cut steak donburi,'

practice 'clean plate' and show the secret smile hiding at the bottom of your bowl,

you'll receive a cute little token of appreciation.

'A comfortable life is so important;

an overly austere existence saps the soul.'

Food Bless You!

Advisor to the China International Gourmet Expo

Producer of 'Tables of the Gods'