More than a Bland Meat Substitute: Tofu’s Rich Culinary and Cultural History

Tofu has helped meet the nutritional needs and gastronomical wants of billions of people for millennia. Relatively high in protein, iron, vitamin B, and made with easy-to-cultivate ingredients, tofu is a cultural staple that links together many of East Asia’s different culinary traditions. In the West, tofu is marketed as a healthy and relatively affordable meat alternative– an image which has made it synonymous with vegetarians, environmentalists, and left-leaning groups. Through this process of symbolic diversification, the ways tofu is consumed and conceptualized in East Asia are at times lost to outsiders. For example, Chinese culinary tradition does not inherently see tofu as an ingredient to be used in the place of meat or as part of a health-conscious diet. If anything, its blandness and versatility have allowed it a place in the most luxurious and decadent recipes full of meats, oils, and spices. Furthermore, Tofu’s smooth and pale “jade-like” appearance, its origin stories, and the hard labor that goes into its production have shaped its image into a cultural object. If anything, the qualities of morality, health, and simplicity which are often attributed to tofu in the West are more often present in Chinese culture than Chinese cuisine.

Morality, Health, and Simplicity: Tofu’s Symbolism in Chinese Culture 

Though the exact origins of tofu are unknown, a number of creation myths surround this centuries-old product. A legend tells of Yue Yi, a military official from the Warring States period (453-221 BC) whose parents had become unable to chew soybeans due to their old age. After a doctor prescribed gypsum (a traditional ingredient in Chinese medicine), “Yue took a shortcut and put it into the soy milk [he had ground himself], which curdled and became tofu” (Thomas 33). Yet another tells of Sun Bin (d. 316 BC), a general who also accidentally invented tofu by mixing salt into soymilk he had made for his sick teacher Guiguzi. Though the creation of tofu is explained as an accident, both Yue Yi and Sun Bin’s actions were spurred by filial piety and an understanding of the health benefits of soybean products, thus creating a symbolic relationship between tofu, morality, and health. While tofu’s excellent nutritional content is lauded in both East Asia and the West, China’s usage of the product goes beyond the culinary realm and into the medical and cultural one. For example, traditional Chinese medicine (TCM) prescribes tofu to clear heat, eliminate toxins, and resolve dryness. TCM’s recommended tofu recipes might even appear “unhealthy” to a Western audience; a few such dishes include fried tofu with vinegar for dysentery and malaria, and steamed tofu with brown sugar for leukorrhea (http://chinesenutrition.org/). Thus, though China and the West both see tofu through the lenses of morality and health, China does so because of cultural, historical, medicinal, and sometimes religious reasons, rather than political or culinary ones. 

This is even less surprising when considering that the relationship between tofu and morality (specifically in regards to simplicity and hard work) has existed in Chinese society for centuries, especially considering its availability to lower-class people and the arduous labor that went behind its production before industrialization. By the Han dynasty (206 BC- 200 AD), soy had become an important crop along with rice and wheat, especially among poorer people. The 1st century Book of Han, written by Ban Gu, noted that “the poor had only soybeans to chew and water to drink” (Tan 100). Similarly, a 1970s study found that “rice, tofu, and cabbage or mustard leaves (which may be pickled) make up the ordinary person’s household food in South China” (Tan, 109), serving as testimony to the long-standing presence and importance of soybean products for the lower classes. This, however, has led to tofu being associated with poverty. During imperial China, uncorrupt officials were called “doufu guan” (tofu officials) because “those who were not corrupt could not enrich themselves and therefore could not afford foods fancier than tofu” (Tan 114). This way, tofu became a symbol of modesty, simplicity, and hard work. These connotations were strengthened by the fact that before industrialization, soybeans had to be ground with water for hours before the liquid could be strained. A traditional Chinese saying perfectly expresses the difficulty of such a process: “there are three sufferings in this world: punting a boat, forging iron and making tofu” (Thomas 35).

Cooked in Lard and Garnished with Meat: Extravagant Tofu Recipes in Chinese Cuisine 

While Chinese cuisine does champion tofu for its light flavor and its health benefits, it would be wrong to assume that tofu has no place in oily, heavily-spiced meat dishes. As Qing poet and gastronomer Yuan Mei (1716-1798) proves in his book Recipes from the Garden of Contentment, tofu has long been included in extravagant dining. Though most of his tofu recipes fall under the section titled “Assorted Vegetable Dishes,” animal products are used in over half of the recipes in the form of meat, stock, or lard, though never as primary ingredients. In the preface to this section, Yuan curiously states that “the privileged and wealthy indulge themselves more on vegetable dishes than they do on meat-based dishes” (255). As this section shows, Yuan’s claim lies in the fact that even the simplest vegetable dishes– supposedly cheap and light– were cooked in expensive ways for the wealthy. Tofu, with its ability to absorb any sauce it is cooked in, is the star of the show, topping all other recipes under the “Assorted Vegetable Dishes” section. 

Yuan’s recipe for “Assistant Minister Jiang’s Tofu” (259) is a perfect example of a decadent tofu dish which makes use of meats, oils, and deep flavors. It is also a snapshot of the culinary practices of Yuan’s time. For example, as the English-language translator of the book notes, measurements in China were standardized by the mid-18th century, butthey “could vary by location, meaning that Yuan Mei’s spoon or scoop (shao) may have been different from that of his contemporaries in northern or western China” (xxx). This quote reminds us that it is difficult to make a claim about “Chinese culinary tradition” and tofu’s role in it when considering how much Chinese cuisine varies by region. In tackling such a topic, Recipes from the Garden of Contentment is an optimal source due to the varied origins of each dish. Working as a high-ranking government official and then retiring to Nanjing to work as a writer and teacher, Yuan Mei compiled his recipes throughout years of interregional travel and trips to the homes of acquaintances who, having grown up in other parts of China, had their food cooked in particular ways.

Making “Assistant Minister Jiang’s Tofu” 

I am slightly tweaking the following recipe to make the cooking process easier and to adjust it to my own tastes, since I believe that is what cooking is all about, even when following a recipe.

Ingredients

Instead of lard, I used olive oil.

It is unclear what Yuan meant by “autumn sauce,” but I believe it must have been a seasonal product. I used soy sauce and oyster sauce in its place, since they are widely used in Chinese cuisine.

Since the dried shrimp in the recipe were boiled and soaked before use, I used normal cooked shrimp.

Sweet jiu definitely would’ve made the recipe richer in flavor, and its usage builds onto the idea that decadent tofu recipes were ubiquitous. At the same time, I have no similar product, so I did without.

I chose firm tofu so that it would hold up well.

Green onions, salt, sugar.

In order to “sun-dry” the tofu, I cut it into long and strips put it in the microwave for 15 minutes at 400 Fahrenheit, flipping each piece once at the 10 minute mark. This process gets rid of any unwanted soybean taste and prevents the tofu from sticking onto the pan.

I waited until the oil was very hot before putting the tofu in, though waiting until smoke forms like the recipe says seems to be excessive; I’d imagine the tofu would burn that way, though it might be different with lard. I put a generous amount of salt on one side before turning the tofu over. I only cooked it this way for about 5 minutes.

I added the shrimp, sauces and sugar to the pan like the recipe instructed, but it was a bit hard to mix, primarily because I was concerned about breaking the tofu. At this point I remembered that the original said to cut the tofu into sixteen slices. Though it is unclear how large a block Yuan was talking about, 16 slices would have made significantly smaller pieces, which would have been easier to stir.

By “plate at a leisurely pace,” I understood that some effort should be put into the presentation of this dish, so I tried to make it visually pleasing. I was surprised to read that the green onion should be cut at half-inch intervals. Each piece ended up looking much longer and thicker than what I am used to.