Wuchuan Tofu

Wuchuan Tofu

　　  If you go to the countryside or a village, you might hear the “jī gā, jī gā” sound of a millstone turning — not loud like the “whoomp, whoomp, whoomp” noise made when grinding corn, but rather crisp and melodious. That’s the sound of making tofu.

　　    In rural areas, making tofu — especially sour soup tofu — is common and also a way to welcome guests. When you hear that “jī gā, jī gā” sound, it usually means a guest has arrived at someone’s home.

　　    The revolutionary martyr and modern literary master Qu Qiubai once wrote in his “Superfluous Words”: “Chinese tofu is the best in the world.”

　　    I wonder if the Chinese tofu that Mr. Qiubai was referring to is the tofu from my hometown — Wuchuan tofu, the sour soup tofu.

　　    Mr. Qiubai traveled far and wide, journeyed through Europe, visited Soviet Russia, and explored many parts of China. In the end, he concluded with admiration that “Chinese tofu is the best in the world.”

　　    Our Wuchuan sour soup tofu is authentic — made using our own homemade sour soup as a coagulant. First, you must select high-quality soybeans, wash them clean with water, then soak them in clear water. The soaking time should not be too long. It varies between winter and summer. Over-soaking will yield less tofu. Once the beans are soaked, they are slowly and carefully ground in a stone mill to produce thick, white soy milk. This soy milk is then simmered in a pot — not too hot to burn or boil over — just a gentle flame. Just before it starts to rise fully, the sour soup is added slowly and gently. It's a process as delicate as paddling a boat slowly through water. At this point, many white, tender “snowflakes” will float to the surface of the pot — these are the tofu curds. These curds are like fog or snow, like cotton or white clouds. Clumps of them float in the greenish-clear “soybean juice.” Then, these clumps of “white clouds” are scooped up with a ladle into a cloth-lined wooden frame. The cloth is wrapped tightly, and a stone is placed on top to press out the water. This is repeated until most of the moisture is squeezed out. When the cloth is finally opened, you have soft, tender tofu.

　　    Tofu is a wonderful dish — enjoyed by all, refined or rustic. Both royalty and commoners love it. It can be steamed, stir-fried, stewed, or even grilled. Almost any cooking method works well, allowing chefs to showcase their full creativity. But there is an art to it: it must be sour soup tofu. Some types simply won’t do — for example, gypsum tofu or bile salt tofu cannot be used to make dishes like fried tofu, mapo tofu, dry-braised tofu, or fermented tofu. Even if you try to make them, the results are vastly different — the taste and texture are completely off. That’s why you often find misleading tofu in markets. You buy it, try to cook something, and it just doesn’t work — or you take a bite and think, “This isn’t sour soup tofu!”

　　    Why would anyone make gypsum tofu or bile salt tofu? It mainly comes down to profit. Because tofu made with bile salts or gypsum yields more product due to higher expansion rates. It’s also easier to use and doesn’t spoil as quickly, allowing it to be sold for longer periods.

　　    In 1987, when Wuchuan became an autonomous county for ethnic minorities, to properly host visiting guests, the Minzhao Guesthouse (the best one at the time) specially invited tofu masters from Yanshan to make sour soup tofu. The stone mills were transported from Yanshan, the soybeans came from Yanshan, even the firewood and soybean stalks were brought from Yanshan. The wood ash from burnt firewood was used to roast chili peppers, which paired perfectly with fresh garlic sprouts, coriander, parsley, perilla leaves, and Sichuan peppercorns — absolutely delightful. Of course, the guests couldn’t stop praising it.

　　    This year, a few friends from Guiyang were coming to visit. I knew they were coming for my Wuchuan sour soup tofu — they had nearly developed a tofu aversion after years in Guiyang. I often said, “Still, nothing beats our Wuchuan sour soup tofu.” Whenever I said that, they would look at me with skeptical eyes.

　　    This time, when they came, I served them tofu soup, braised tofu, and lamb stewed with tofu. It completely opened their eyes, and they even began to appreciate the nuances. They asked, “Where did the ‘ash’ in this ash tofu go?” And they said, “This could definitely be sold in supermarkets and turned into a brand.”

　　    Many people here have gotten rich by making tofu. A few who specialize in sour soup tofu have even gained quite a reputation. Their tofu doesn’t even need to be taken to market to sell — if you arrive too late, it’s already sold out. Of course, because they make such authentic, high-quality sour soup tofu, they’ve even earned disdain from those who make other kinds.

　　    After hearing all this, you might be craving some. Well, you can certainly find a farmer friend or a rural relative (or even a farmhouse stay) and treat yourself. You can shout loudly: “Grind tofu, make sour soup tofu, prepare two servings of rice, no MSG, add fiery chili peppers, perilla seeds, coriander, perilla leaves...” You’ll sweat from eating it, and you’ll exclaim, “Now this is truly satisfying!” Because in the city, it’s very hard to find (or make) this kind of flavor.

　　    I think we ought to apply for some sort of Guinness World Record — our tofu is the best in the world. Otherwise, if someone else registers it like they did with pickles, won’t we regret it?