Tofu Tour of China - Guizhou (part 2)

Visiting a friend's tofu studio, a "day market" buffet, and a Buddhist tofu feast.

Happy holidays, tofu lovers!

On Day 2 of our Guizhou tofu tour, Luojing’s wife, Chenxin, and baby, Jingdou, joined us for breakfast.

The food carts and small shops in front of our hotel became a Vegas buffet. A sweet taste of 糍粑 ciba, Chinese mochi, made from hammer smashed glutinous rice, sprinkled with ground perilla seeds and peanut flour. Then a bowl of 酸粉 suanfen, noodles made from fermented rice, topped with chili oil, vinegar, soy sauce, fermented mustard greens, peanuts, scallions, and cilantro. Due to its short shelf life, you rarely see it outside Guiyang. (If you’re curious how it’s made, this blogger did a deep dive: https://baijiahao.baidu.com/s?id=1589259179739382028&wfr=spider&for=pc .)

Next were two tries at 豆花饭/面 douhuafan/mian, tofu pudding over rice or alkaline noodles. Traditionally, Guiyang douhua is set with pickled mustard green juice, creating a coarse, airy crumb. But our first shop turned out to use gypsum, for a completely different texture, and the second muddled their dipping sauce. The balance of scorched chilies, rapeseed oil, and mint wasn’t bright like it should be.

The second 豆花饭 douhuafan. Rip off a piece of tofu with your chopsticks, dip it in the chili sauce, and eat it over rice.

I usually shy away from Buddhist temple restaurants, as they don’t cook with garlic, onion, or chives, the main aromatics used in Chinese cooking. But one such eatery beckoned our group. 觉园素斋 jueyuan suzhai offered seven (!!) different varieties of tofu under one roof. We sampled a third 豆花饭 douhuafan; it tasted old, like it was put out overnight and reheated, but had fermented vegetables mixed in with the curds, which added a spark of contrast. Then a pressed tofu stir fried with 糟辣椒 zaolajiao, sharp and salty lacto-fermented chilies. A thin chewy skin, miraculously tender flesh, and… a flavor like bacon? (I must learn to make this!) Next came a dried, rock-puffed 泡豆腐 paodoufu, sulfury from the alkaline, with an elastic bite like Tianjin-style fried gluten puffs 油面筋 youmianjin. Rolled and dried yuba, 豆腐棒 doufubang, called to mind the layered structure of BBQ seitan 烧烤面筋 shaokao mianjin and chewiness of dried tofu sticks 腐竹 fuzhu. Fried tofu balls 豆腐圆子 doufuyuanzi, normally crisp and chewy, had become limp and juicy in a saucy braise. 

A smattering of tofus at 觉园素斋 Jueyuan Suzhai. Vegetable tofu pudding, smoked pressed tofu, puffed tofu, doufubang, fried tofu balls, a homemade fermented tofu 霉豆腐, and a delicious fried tofu dumpling(?)

The food itself was okay, not exceptional. But it was so unusual to see such a variety of tofus at just one restaurant. That’s Guiyang.

Your average Guiyang tofu stand, with nearly a dozen different types of tofus. The last picture is the fermented mustard green juice that's used to curdle (and flavor) local tofu.

After spending all morning near our new hotel, we revisited the neighborhood where I first studied tofu making. 27 Road 二七路, the kilometer-long “day market,” was every bit as packed as 2019.  From 恋爱豆腐果 lian’ai doufuguo love affair tofu dumplings, grilled over charcoal until melted inside; to Yunnan-style lava tofu 包浆豆腐 baojiang doufu; to rice cake tofu 糍粑豆腐 cibadoufu; to local variants of stinky 臭豆腐 choudoufu. We also ordered chili-dusted crinkle-cut potatoes, fried until soft, not crisp, and veggie-filled rice skin rolls 裹卷 guojuan. The highlight of it all? Nearly having our heads blown off by an exploding cauldron, pressure puffing popcorn the old fashioned way.

27st Road "Day Market" 美食街, love affair tofu dumplings and lava tofu, guojuan (rice skin rolls), alpha sigma-style pressure cooked popcorn.

Unfortunately we didn’t have time to eat everything!! Because a friend wanted to show us her tofu making studio, and we were very late… 

It was nearly 7:00 pm. Closing up her stall at the local farmers market, Auntie rushed home to help her husband and brother finish the day’s last batch of tofu. When we arrived, she was unwrapping and slicing thin sheets of pressed tofu and loading it into soy sauce-stained stewing crates. After being born in Wuhan, making tofu for several decades in Shandong Province, and seeing family members peel off to settle in Zhejiang, she somehow ended up here. Her husband, son, grandkids, and brother all followed her. For $100/month, Auntie rents a permanent booth at the local market, where you can find her daily. A mile away, her family makes the tofu in their backyard. A table outdoors for chopping and boxing; a side room to grind and boil the soymilk; a cellar to store the beans; a backroom for pressing the tofu. Despite the late hour, Auntie was pulsing with energy. We were so grateful to be welcomed into her home and took a couple photos to commemorate it. But in the dim lighting, face obscured by a baseball cap, the only part of me that made it was my nose, which shined like Rudolph. 

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Now that I’m back from China and Broken Cuisine is out, I’m deciding what to work on next. I’m getting excited about the idea of opening a restaurant: a tofu-to-table eatery. How cool would it be to make our core offerings from scratch, using the traditional methods that make my Shifu and Auntie’s tofu so delicious: wood-fired soymilk, pickled vegetable juice for curdling, total attention to curd quality, etc. While I’m grateful for the large factories that make tofu accessible in grocery stores, they simply can’t replicate the tastiest artisan techniques. And if we’re to win over mainstream consumers to camp tofu, it would help to show them the best that we have.

If you know of chefs or foodies who might be curious about the concept, please send ‘em my way. Nothing set in stone – there’s too much to still figure out – but I’m excited to explore.

Happy holidays, and wishing you warmth and peace in the New Year.

-George