Chapter 89: The Tofu Feast

After walking a long way down the street, Chen Xin checked the address in her hand and knocked on the gate of a small courtyard.

“So you’re the gourmet friends Bingzi mentioned, are you? Come in, come in. I’ve already tidied up the rooms.” The hostess welcomed them warmly and rubbed her hands together as she asked what they would like to eat.

“It’s all right, Auntie. Bingzi told us to come. She said your cooking is superb, so whatever you make, we’ll eat. We’re not picky.”

Chen Xin had come precisely to discover local delicacies, so of course the best thing was to eat whatever the host did best.

The hostess of this house was the maternal cousin-aunt of Chen Xin’s online friend Bingzi. She had married into this area more than twenty years ago and learned a marvelous craft; the tofu she made was nothing short of extraordinary.

All the tofu at her home was made entirely by hand, using ancient methods, without the slightest touch of machinery. Even the soy milk was ground with an old stone mill, and four elderly villagers were hired specifically to turn it. After that, boiling the soy liquid and straining out the lees followed the full assembly of an old workshop’s traditional process. Tofu made this way had a texture completely different from the machine-made kind.

There were other tofu shops in town as well, but none could rival this family’s business. More often than not, people only went elsewhere after this household had sold out.

Bingzi’s aunt had three signature dishes: braised tofu, baked dried tofu, and tofu tossed with scallions.

None of the three sounded especially remarkable, but the more ordinary a dish appears, the more clearly true skill can be tasted within it.

There were two kinds of braised tofu. One was a vegetarian braise, the sort older folk usually preferred: napa cabbage and wood-ear mushrooms were stir-fried with broad-bean paste, then water and tofu were added and simmered until the flavors soaked in; after that, a thin slurry of bean flour was stirred in, and finally a handful of chopped scallions or flowering chives was scattered over the top. The other was tofu braised with minced meat.

This minced-meat braised tofu resembled the well-known mapo tofu somewhat, but the difference lay in its emphasis on savory fragrance rather than numbing heat. The sauce used for frying the meat was their own homemade soybean paste, with large grains of fermented black soybeans mixed in. Once the meat was cooked, the tofu was added and braised until the liquid had nearly dried away. This dish had to be made with firm tofu. When eaten, the tofu was riddled with tiny honeycomb holes; the moment one bit into it, meat juices were pressed from those cavities, mingling with the tofu’s own distinctive aroma, and the more one chewed, the better it became.

Baked dried tofu was the favorite of the town’s men, especially as a companion to drink. It had a delightful chew, and the more one chewed, the more fragrant it grew. This tofu had to be soaked in brine before it had air-dried: in summer, half a day; in winter, more than eighteen hours, with the exact timing judged according to the temperature. Once soaked, the tofu was laid on bamboo trays in layers, each separated by about four inches, and placed in the drying room over a slow charcoal fire. It had to be watched constantly, and the tofu from the upper and lower levels had to be switched around according to how dry each piece had become.

When finished, the dried tofu was threaded onto slender bamboo strips and hung beneath the eaves to air-dry. It would keep for two or three months without spoiling. When it was time to eat, one simply took down a string, rinsed off the dust with hot water, and drained it. This kind of dried tofu was best with liquor. Bingzi’s aunt’s husband relied on it to accompany his daily small measure of spirits, and lived in very comfortable contentment.

The simplest dish, and at the same time the least simple, was tofu tossed with scallions.

For this, one had to choose silken tofu, and anyone who wanted it had to place an order in advance and come the next day to collect it.

A neat square block of tofu was sliced swiftly and precisely with a sharp kitchen knife; the tofu must not collapse. The whole block, still intact, was set directly onto a plate. Then the seasonings were prepared, the scallions chopped and spread over the tofu first, and only then was the dressing poured over the scallions. When it came time to eat, one had to use the chopsticks with strength both delicate and exact. Too light, and the tofu could not be lifted; too heavy, and the tender curd would break apart. So the mastery required for this dish was the hardest of all. In the entire town, the only person who could make this kind of tofu, keeping the block whole without letting it fall apart, was Bingzi’s aunt. Other households either sold only braised tofu, or else tofu pudding.

At noon, Bingzi’s aunt prepared braised tofu and scallion-tossed tofu for them, saying that in the evening she would put together a full tofu feast.

Before the meal, Chen Xin told them she wanted to take photographs. She chose a spot with excellent light, arranged the finished dishes there, and used rustic earthenware bowls from the farmhouse. On the table she specially spread a piece of coarse blue printed cloth she had found, and paired it with unglazed clay bowls and chopsticks shaved from fresh young bamboo. In an instant, a photograph of farmhouse cooking rich with the breath of the countryside was born.

Bingzi’s aunt found the whole thing wonderfully novel and stood beside her smiling all the while. After a moment’s thought, Chen Xin asked whether the elderly couple would mind having their pictures posted online. She explained in detail what she intended to do, and even asked them to telephone their children for their opinions. In the end, the whole family was delighted by the idea. Bingzi’s aunt’s youngest daughter, Manhua, who had married into a neighboring town, was so eager that she had her husband bring her and their son back on a motorcycle.

Lunch itself was simple. Chen Xin only photographed a few dishes, along with portraits of Bingzi’s aunt and her husband. The grander courses would wait until evening, and so would the story.

All afternoon, Chen Xin followed behind Bingzi’s aunt with her camera, taking a complete series of photographs of her at work. Even Bingzi’s taciturn husband appeared in the frame, his eyes resting on his wife with a tender, lingering softness.

“My daughter and son-in-law make tofu too, and sell it in their town. Business is fairly good, I suppose. It’s just that young people are a bit lazy—they insist on taking one day off every week. When my daughter heard you were coming today, she hung out a sign saying they’d be closed tomorrow, and hurried over here.”

Bingzi’s younger cousin Manhua smiled brightly, showing a mouthful of white teeth, and followed behind her mother with her son in her arms.

Manhua had a bit of a hearing problem. When she was little, a fever led to a middle-ear infection, and because it was not treated in time, her hearing was damaged. She had not lost it entirely, but unless one spoke close to her, she could not hear. In many families, a girl like that might have suffered greatly, but Bingzi’s aunt and her husband cherished their younger daughter all the more, and every bit of the craft by which they made their living had been taught to her step by step by her mother. Now Manhua was married, and because she possessed a skill, her husband’s family treated her well enough. The young couple lived separately on their own side, and with a bit of business, they had no trouble supporting themselves.

After she arrived, Manhua looked shyly at Chen Xin and Bai Mengqing, clutching her little son like a shield and peeking at the two older sisters from behind the baby’s swaddling.

Manhua’s husband was a local man from an ethnic minority. He was somewhat dark and lean, but his love for Manhua was sincere and unmistakable. As soon as he arrived, without a word, he began helping his father- and mother-in-law with their work, and every now and then he would stick his head out to check on Manhua, afraid she might bump herself while carrying the child.

This area was one of mixed settlement, with both Han people and ethnic minorities living together. Manhua was Han, while her husband belonged to a minority group, so the couple had not been constrained by birth-planning policies. The child they had brought with them was their younger son; at home they also had an older daughter, who was in kindergarten and was usually picked up and dropped off by Manhua’s parents-in-law. They had left in such a hurry today that they had not gone to fetch the girl.

Manhua’s son’s pet name was Dou Dou. What he loved most was the tofu soup his grandmother made, and he could finish a small bowl by himself. At only nine months old, Dou Dou was fair and plump, soft as silken tofu, smiling at everyone he saw and showing two tiny grain-like teeth. He was irresistibly lovable.