Who invented stinky tofu

Zhao believes he was made a scapegoat to show that the authorities in Shaoxing were taking food safety seriously. He was a high-profile target due to the attention he had received from the food TV series. Other stinky tofu vendors in Shaoxing went to the local government office to protest the fine on his behalf, but then they, too, started to face harassment for lacking the same license.

Not knowing what else to do, Zhao hired a lawyer and sued the inspection agency. Since my fine, the chengguan have driven a lot of stinky tofu vendors away. As he talked about his legal troubles, a dark cloud passed over his face.

Now I have a second lawyer who says our scale of production is at best at the workshop level. The administration had never given me any notice or warning about this so-called illegal activity.

They just fined me. His eyes filling with tears, he said that when his punishment made the news, many people online advised him to pay a bribe to make the problem go away. Instead, he decided to make his case to the public. Keen to show me just how hygienic his chou doufu is, he took me into the kitchen where a batch of tofu cubes had been soaking in a plastic tub of amaranth brine since the morning. Without hesitation, he rolled up his sleeves and dipped his hands in the murky liquid to scoop out a handful and place in a basket.

The liquid had the color of dirty dishwater, and when I leaned in, it definitely reeked like rotten vegetables in a drain. The cubes usually stay in the brine for several hours, Zhao explained, but it depends on a number of factors, including the quality of the tofu, the freshness of the brine, and the outside temperature.

October is the best month, he said, following the amaranth harvest. He has a secret ingredient, too: a dash of baijiu Chinese grain alcohol that is added to the brine just after the amaranth stalks have reached the perfect stage of putridness. Zhao insisted I have a taste, handing me a container of piping-hot tofu that had just come out of the fryer. The funky odor mixed rather pleasantly with the residual taste of the cooking oil and the slightly sour, umami notes of the tofu.

The outer layer had a rough, craggy appearance, but inside, the tofu was still soft—the perfect counterbalance. Before I realized it, I had eaten half the box. Mao is a longtime chef, Shaoxing food historian, and manager of the Xianheng Tavern. Mao keeps a watchful eye over the preparation of the Shaoxing specialties at his restaurant to ensure their authenticity and, of course, make sure his chefs are following the proper safety guidelines.

But he acknowledges how difficult it is to police a freewheeling industry of small-scale producers like Zhao Baoxian. East of Taipei Zoo, Shenkeng Old Street is an entire boulevard dedicated to the dish, with hawkers selling it boxed, boiled in a spicy soup and even as a flavour of ice cream. Growing up in Taipei, Wu remembers her parents making stinky tofu in their home and selling it on the street.

An acclaimed martial artist, Wu left Taiwan to tour the world for many years as part of a kung fu performance troupe. Yet, the undisputed brains and beating heart of the business is Wu, who maintains the family recipe and creates each batch of her specialty stink by hand. Like all fermented food, stinky tofu takes time. Like a sponge, the tofu slowly absorbs the dark-green mixture for up to two weeks.

The longer the tofu sits, the more it absorbs — and the softer and smellier it becomes. Fancy letting us take care of dinner?

Check out our delicious meals here. Welcome to allplants. We use cookies plant-based, of course! After storing a large amount of unsold tofu in jars and forgetting about them, some time later he discovered a green, smelly substance that was surprisingly tasty — so tasty that he decided to sell it, to great success. See more Heritage snippets here. Thank you for the message. It has been sent.