Talkin’ Tofu
By 
This is maybe not the most pressing business, but as a huge tofu fan, I thought this was a great discussion of the incredibly versatile food. The problem with tofu in the United States is that it was introduced by hippies who basically thought that eating was a moral project and not a joyful project. Shorter vegans in 1989: “This rice cake is so deliciously flavorless!” So that was unlikely to gain a lot of adherents. Moreover, tofu is often paired with pork in a lot of Chinese food. But in truth we know nothing about it. And today’s vegans are also interested in actually getting people to want to eat their food by making it taste good. So this discussion of the various ways the Chinese use tofu in vegetarian/vegan food (which was a reality of not having access to meat, not some puritanical moralism) is quite interesting and worth a discussion.
Anyway, here’s an excerpt:
These hyperlocal dishes are the heart of common vegetarianism, and their counterparts are found all over China. Even in the places you’d least suspect. The northern city of Yinchuan — famous for its whole roast lamb, not its vegan cooking — still had plenty for me to eat.
Corn spaghetti (玉米面 yùmǐmiàn) in a pickled vegetable soup? The noodles, plumper than their wheat counterparts, ferried a smoky, acidic broth made with wok-charred, lacto-fermented mustard greens (酸菜 suāncài). Succulent baby bok choy (上海青 Shànghǎi qīng) floated lazily through the broth; blanched, the greens gave up their own water content and reabsorbed the soup. Incredible.
Peanut tofu with hemp bran (麻麸拌花生豆腐 máfū bàn huāshēngdòufu)? The tofu had a gelatinous quality, nearer to hard-boiled egg whites than bean curd, and the hemp alluded playfully to white pepper. It’s a local specialty, my server disclosed. We refine hemp into oil, or boil and crumble it onto food. The taste is smoother and more balanced than peppercorn.
Tucked behind an elementary school, a small shop advertised four types of oat noodles. The one I tried was like a toothy, ribbed linguini. Dressed with a light chile broth and carrot dice, cucumber sticks, and red and green Thai chiles, it tasted rough and substantial.
In three days in Yinchuan, I tried a dozen vegan foods that you simply couldn’t find in China’s big cities. The same thing happened in every place I visited. Wuyuan, a countryside renowned for its canola fields that flower in the springtime, situated near the central-east Jiangnan region, had a breakfast cuisine that was almost entirely vegetarian. Their miniature bāo 包, loaded with chile oil-drenched potatoes, radishes, or tofu, pleated, and steamed, were juicier than a Shanghai soup dumpling. Guiyang, where I worked with Master Luo, had at least eight unique tofu varieties you couldn’t find anywhere else. The city of Jinan in Shandong Province, around 250 miles south of Beijing, served a one-of-a-kind seitan called ǒumiànjīn 藕面筋, or lotus wheat gluten. The texture can only be compared to osteoporosis: Silky, gelatinous shells contained what once was whole tissue but now was just holey. These vessels were filled to the brim with spicy raw garlic, Chinese sesame paste, and cilantro, and they cleared your nose like a hearty helping of wasabi.
City by city, village by village, my astonishment gave way to wonder. How were people not talking about these foods?
And now I am super hungry.