Artisanal, Creamy . . . Tofu?
NY Times January 5, 2005
by JULIA MOSKIN

In January everyone is something of a Buddhist. With two weeks of holiday indulgence behind us, even meat-and-potato types may find themselves in a purifying mood, the ideal state to appreciate the simple virtues of fresh tofu.

"When tofu is fresh and made from natural ingredients, it is a totally different experience," Jennifer Maeng said, referring to the packaged tofu many Americans know. Ms. Maeng is the owner of Temple, a Korean restaurant in the East Village that brings in a fresh batch each day from the nearby Ace Soy Corporation, on Allen Street. "The fresher it is, the more sweetness it has," she added.

New York's new and ambitious Asian restaurants have begun to foster the art of tofu appreciation, and more places are now serving fresh or even house-made tofu, delicacies that are soft, creamy and light.

"Coagulated bean curd" is the unappealing definition tofu has been saddled with since it became widely available here in the 1950s, but that description doesn't begin to convey the pleasures of silken tofu — tender mouthfuls of freshly made kinugoshi-dofu (in Japanese), sundubu (Korean) or doufu (Chinese). The dense white blocks that bob in watery tubs at many New York markets, and the leathery strips of "mock duck" served in old-school vegetarian restaurants haven't won tofu many local fans either.

But since the opening of En Japanese Brasserie in the West Village in October, New Yorkers have been able to savor tofu that is made throughout the dinner service, coming out of the kitchen every 90 minutes. The fresh tofu is undeniably plain yet addictively cloudlike, drizzled with a delicate, clear soy sauce; the large, soft curds fall apart lightly and melt on your tongue. "New Yorkers have learned to appreciate so many Japanese specialties, but tofu is still misunderstood, I think," said Reika Yo, an owner. "It is not a substitute for meat, but has its own stature."

In Japan the most popular way to serve fresh tofu is in the refreshing dish hiyayakko: a cube of tofu drizzled with soy sauce, threads of scallion and grated ginger. In the summer hiyayakko is served on a bed of ice cubes. It is the perfect hot-weather lunch, especially at the serene Honmura An in SoHo, which imports its fresh tofu from Niigata Prefecture, north of Tokyo, where it is made with locally harvested soybeans and seawater.

But not all tofu is plain. Kasadela in the East Village makes a creamy, rich goma-dofu from soft tofu and sesame paste, and the dish is the opposite of bland, full of fresh, nutty flavor. Book Chang Dong, a chainlet of restaurants, has opened two new storefronts in Queens that specialize in soon dubu chigae, a hearty brew of spicy broth and silken tofu that is served in cast-iron bowls. Topped with scallions and nuggets of tender oxtail or crisp kimchi, it's the ideal winter meal.

Megu in TriBeCa imports tofu made by Kawashima, an artisan in Karatsu whose product is famous throughout Japan; it costs $15 a serving. But a dollar on Mott Street will buy you a container of still-warm, custardy tofu doused in sugar syrup, to eat on the street as a snack or dessert. And at the new location of Spicy and Tasty in Flushing, Queens, you can order a plate of "stinky tofu," a long-fermented Taiwanese specialty that is to plain tofu as Roquefort is to Velveeta.

Tofu, in fact, is made in almost exactly the same way as cheese, but with pureed sweet soybeans instead of cow, sheep or goat milk as its raw material. Because of its ability to produce so many different forms of nourishment, the soybean has long been called "the cow of China," and tofu was first developed there by Buddhist monks, about 2,000 years ago. The process begins with dried yellow soybeans, called daizu; the fresh, green, immature pods of the same bean are what we know as edamame.

The enormous consumption of tofu in Asian countries, especially China, Japan and Korea, can be traced both to the region's Buddhist vegetarian tradition and to its relatively small number of meat resources. Today, though burgers and barbecue have gained a foothold in East Asia, soy is still its chief protein source, available in innumerable forms and many textures.

Firm tofu, the white cakes that Americans are most familiar with, is pressed from the fresh, silken product to condense its texture and remove some of the water. It is commonly used in Asia for stews and stir-fries, and has a longer shelf life than the fresh, but it is not considered as special and elegant. (That said, firm tofu made daily from scratch at the Korean restaurant Cho Dang Gol in Midtown is nutty and flavorful, and has converted many a tofu loather since the restaurant opened in 1997.)

Grace Young, a Chinese-American food writer, says that tofu is one of the most highly honored foods in Chinese culture because of its very plainness. "Ingredients with texture but not taste are revered in China, and except for tofu, they are the most expensive ones you can buy there — like birds' nests, shark's fin and silver tree fungus." Chinese names for tofu that indicate its high status translate as "meat without bones" and "meat from the fields."

In Korea and China tofu is often served not as a substitute for meat, but alongside it, with a small amount of meat flavoring enriching the silken tofu, which adds its incomparable body and mouth feel. One such dish, ma-po tofu, from Chengdu, has become one of the most popular Sichuanese dishes in China and in the various Chinatowns of New York, said Ms. Young, whose most recent book is "The Breath of a Wok" (Simon & Schuster). "It's often translated as home-style tofu, because it has this rather unusual name, meaning pox-scarred grandmother's tofu," she said. "Tofu is a yang" — cool — "food in the Chinese way of thinking, so having it with meat and garlic and chilies, which are all yin" — warm — "makes it a good dish to the Chinese cook."

Similarly the Korean specialty soon dubu chigae combines soft tofu, spicy broth and bits of meat or seafood or kimchi. Like all Korean soups and stews, it is served hot enough to boil an egg, which is exactly what you do; "soon houses" in Korea and on Northern Boulevard in Flushing serve a raw egg with each bowl, to be cracked into the soup and stirred in. "Soon dubu is hugely popular in Korea," Ms. Maeng said. "Soon houses compete with each other over who has the freshest tofu."

At Li Hua, a Korean restaurant in Lower Manhattan, the tofu is not house made, but the soon dubu is creamy and rich, with the tofu melting into the soup. "Only a few places make their own tofu now," a waiter there said. "You can buy really good tofu in Chinatown and on 32nd Street" in Manhattan.

The tofu-making process is simple but requires precise measuring and monitoring. Yasuhiro Honma, the chef at En, begins with thick, smooth soy milk, imported from Japan, that has the pale yellow richness of the best heavy cream. Speaking through an interpreter he said he makes it fresh because although you can buy good-quality tofu, it will never have the same shita-zawari, or what American chefs call mouth feel (the literal translation is tongue touch) as the fresh product.

Stirring constantly, Mr. Honma heated the milk to 150 degrees, holding a small bowl of nigari at the ready. Nigari, like so many key elements of Japanese cooking, is derived from seawater and seaweed: it is a natural coagulant that is salty and inedibly bitter on its own, but gives tofu a creamy quality. Mr. Honma poured the hot milk into a square container, the traditional vessel for tofu, and added a few drops of nigari.

Immediately the mixture began to change: within one minute the cream had turned to a thick, wobbly custard. Mr. Honma covered the tofu and left it to steam for about 10 minutes, until just firm and ready to scoop into serving boxes.

The taste was fresh, milky and sweet, like just-made mozzarella. And the shita-zawari? Even better than a perfect creme caramel, and that's really saying something.