Color Version The Article That Influences a Person's Life -- The Art of Life

Author: Liang Shiqiu, Shu Ting
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-08-01
Features: Tofu is a treasure in Chinese cuisine. Whether the method of making tofu originated with Liu An of Huainan in the Han Dynasty is irrelevant; we have been eating it for centuries and still do. Students studying abroad often enjoy a plate of braised tofu at a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown to satisfy their cravings for home flavors. Some have even made fortunes from making tofu overseas, while others have earned degrees by researching it. There is so much to write about tofu, but here I will only discuss a few personal favorite ways to enjoy it.
Cold Tofu, the simplest of all. Buy a block of fresh tofu, rinse it clean, add some chopped scallions, sprinkle with salt, and drizzle with sesame oil—it’s delicious. If you pour some red bean sauce over it, it’s even better. At the very least, a splash of soy sauce and sesame oil is also good. My favorite is Tofu with Fragrant Forsythia. Forsythia is the tree mentioned by Zhuangzi as "with eight thousand years as spring and eight thousand years as autumn." Taking its auspiciousness into account, I have a small forsythia tree in my backyard. In spring, its tender buds turn green with a hint of red. Boil them in water, chop them into fine pieces, and mix them with tofu for an extraordinary aroma. But be careful not to mistake it for stink tree (Ailanthus altissima); the Bencao Gangmu by Li Shizhen notes that its leaves are foul-smelling and were once eaten by people during lean years. Recently, I’ve seen occasional forsythia sprouts in Taiwanese markets, though they are too coarse and lack fragrance. In Beiping, Tofu with Cucumber is comparable to Tofu with Forsythia. Eating cucumber and tofu in winter, when there are no cucumbers, is a delight. It’s far tastier than Tofu with Cracked Egg.
"Rooster’s Digging Tofu" is a common home dish but has a unique flavor. Take a block of firm tofu and poke it into bits with a spatula in hot oil, making it messy. Stir-fry for a moment, then add a cracked egg and stir again. Finish with plenty of chopped scallions. Those who have raised chickens know what a tofu block looks like after a rooster has dug at it.
Pan-Fried Tofu is another variation. Cut the tofu into rectangular pieces of any thickness, coat them with egg batter, then cover with a layer of cornstarch. Fry in oil until both sides are crispy, then remove. Return to the pan, pour in pre-prepared seasoned sauce (like soy sauce and cooking wine), and add shrimp if desired. Stir-fry for a short while, and it’s ready. Though still tofu, it has a distinct taste. Mr. Chen Wanshecè of Tianchu in Taipei, who eats vegetarian but enjoys cooking, introduced Pan-Fried Tofu in the style of Beiping.
Street vendors sell "Old Tofu." One side of the cart has a stove where tofu is cooked until it forms a honeycomb texture, while the other side has bowls, spoons, and condiments like soy sauce, vinegar, chopped chives, sesame paste, and chili oil. You can make this at home too. Tianchu’s Old Tofu, however, is elevated with ingredients like abalone and ham, giving it a higher status. Vendors also shout, "Braised Tofu, Fried Tofu!" They sell fried tofu in triangular shapes, sometimes with fried tofu balls added. Boiled until tender and seasoned with spices like Sichuan peppercorns, it’s another delightful variation.
Between 1929 and 1930, Mr. Li Hong hosted a banquet at Meili Cuisine (formerly known as Meili Restaurant) on Shanghai’s Fourth Road. I remember guests like Xu Beihong and Jiang Biwei were present, along with others I can’t recall. One dish that stands out is "Oyster Sauce Tofu." Over fifty years later, I wonder if Mr. Li You still remembers it. Oyster Sauce Tofu is served in a large, shallow dish, with layers of fresh tofu arranged neatly like roof tiles. A golden, glossy oyster sauce is poured over it, shimmering. Back then, Sichuan cuisine was just gaining popularity in Shanghai, and I was amazed by its unique flavor. Over the decades that followed, I’ve eaten countless Sichuan dishes but have never encountered such a masterpiece. I suspect the tofu was steamed after being arranged, then drizzled with sauce.
At Houdefu, there’s a famous dish called "Arhat Tofu," which few have tried because they only make it for special occasions—it’s too troublesome to prepare. The tofu is mashed, mixed with cornstarch for stickiness, then shaped into small cakes filled with meat. It’s cooked like a dumpling, then pan-fried and braised with condiments. "Arhat" refers to a sage who has transcended all worldly desires, so it’s ironic to call this tofu-filled dumpling "Arhat Tofu." It has no special flavor and is just a gimmick, like "Buddha Jumps Over the Wall."
Frozen Tofu is widely loved, perfect for hot pot or stir-fried with vermicelli and pickled vegetables (or cabbage). Some say frozen tofu from Yuquan Mountain is the best because the spring water is excellent, but that’s not necessarily true. All frozen tofu tastes similar. I often see Northern laborers, after a long day’s work, holding a large flatbread and a dark-brown bowl of frozen tofu and vermicelli with pickled vegetables, slurping it down happily. I know they are self-reliant and content.