Tofu

The Vietnamese love exotic meats, and when such delicacies are unavailable, they enjoy dishes that mimic the real thing. This northern stew features a stand-in for ba ba, a freshwater snapping turtle that thrives in the south, where heavy rains offer it perfect muddy living conditions. Since the turtles are hard to find in the drier, colder north, cooks there add extra pork instead. The original southern stew also calls for pork belly. Although I’ve never tasted the real stew, I grew up eating the mock version, which, with its brilliant yellow color, robust flavors, and varied textures, is excellent in its own right. The fried tofu has a meaty consistency, and thick rounds of unripe plaintain (peel included) add interesting starchiness, astringency, and texture. Both ingredients soak up the sauce and complement the savory, rich chunks of pork. While pork shoulder works well, the best way to imitate ba ba meat and the classic stew is to use skin-on boneless pork shank (available at Chinese and Viet markets). It provides a nice balance of chewy meat and gelatinous skin to imitate the turtle, while its fat recalls the original pork belly. The sour cream is a substitute for a tangy fermented rice mash called me, a favorite northern Vietnamese ingredient that is scarce in the States. Fresh red perilla and garlic add the final flourishes to a delicious combination of flavors. Serve the stew with plenty of rice.

Viet cooks often deep-fry cubes of tofu until crisp and golden and then add them to a stir-fry or a simmering liquid (in this case, a mixture of fish sauce, water, and scallion). Fried tofu absorbs other flavors especially well, yet holds its shape and retains its faintly nutty overtones. The end result is a chewy, almost meaty quality. Look for regular or medium-firm tofu for deep-frying, never the silken type or the firm type that is best for grilling. Freshly made tofu (see opposite) will puff up during frying and then deflate as it cools; packaged tofu won’t do that and will be denser after it is out of the oil. Both will have excellent flavor. When building your menu, treat this recipe as the main savory dish and accompany it with a vegetable dish and/or meat-and-vegetable stir-fry, a simple soup, and rice.

Of all the Vietnamese tofu dishes, this recipe and the deep-fried tofu on page 191 are the ones I ate most often as a child. To this day, my mom still panfries double batches of stuffed tofu so that she and my dad can reheat individual servings in the toaster oven over the course of several days. For this recipe, use tofu sold in large, bricklike blocks, rather than smaller cakes, as it is easier to cut the big blocks to size. Regular tofu is a little difficult to stuff but produces a delicate, silky interior. The exterior doesn’t hold its crispiness but is delicious nonetheless. Medium-firm tofu is easier to stuff and holds its crispiness for a long time, but the interior is chewy and less delicate. Firm tofu is too hard and silken tofu is much too soft, When tomatoes are out of season, substitute a 14 1/2-ounce can of whole tomatoes, drained and chopped, and use 1/4 cup of the canning liquid in place of the water. Or, skip the tomato sauce altogether and instead dip the tofu in Simple Dipping Sauce (page 309) or a combination of soy sauce and fresh chiles.

Because I was so used to the watery texture and bland taste of regular tofu, the flavor and texture of marinated and baked tofu was a revelation: a little chewy and nicely tangy from the addition of soy sauce. I know you can make it yourself, but the store-bought kind is so easy to come by that I can’t pass it up, especially because it improves even further with more cooking, such as broiling it along with asparagus to add crispness and color. This recipe is my concession to being outdoor space–challenged, meaning that instead of firing up my trusty Weber like I used to when I had a yard, I crank up the broiler to get a similar flame-kissed effect, without the smoke, of course. If you have a grill, by all means feel free to use a perforated grill pan or vegetable basket for the asparagus and tofu, cooking them until they get charred spots.

When I lived in Peterborough, New Hampshire, in the early 1990s, I had two obsessions. The first was the lettuce mix from organic farming pioneer Rosaly Bass, who charmed me so much I signed up for a subscription that let me pick what I wanted off her land all season long. (I tended to swing by at midnight after a long day as editor of the weekly Monadnock Ledger and shovel up carrots by moonlight.) The second was this powerfully sharp dressing, made by chef Hiroshi Hayashi at his elegant, health-minded Japanese restaurant, Latacarta. While Rosaly’s farm is still going strong, Hayashi long ago closed the restaurant and started the Monadnock School of Natural Cooking and Philosophy, but he still makes this vegan dressing. I use it to dress simple salads of butter lettuce with cherry tomatoes and carrots, taking care to slice the carrots into a perfect julienne the way I remember Hayashi did. The dressing also makes an excellent dip for crudités.

You can find ground bean sauce, a gloopy paste of fermented soybeans, salt, sugar, and sesame oil, in Asian grocery stores or order a jar online.

The cart’s owner wants to keep his recipes under wraps, so the following is an approximation of one of his signature dishes.

Banh mi sandwiches are a Vietnamese street food. Instead of the typical pork and mayonnaise, this version features baked tofu, an anchovy-miso dressing, and cucumber pickles. A key element of banh mi sandwiches is fresh bread—day-old bread is too dry. The best bread to use is a thin-crust white flour baguette that won’t overwhelm the sandwich fillings. Try making these sandwiches for a July picnic.

With baking, the texture of tofu turns satisfyingly dense and chewy. In many cities, you can find fresh and creamy locally-made tofu at farmers’ markets, food co-ops, and in Asian markets. Tender spring snap peas are quick to cook; here they are simply placed in a colander and cooked with the hot water from the soba noodles.

Rutabagas are a robust winter standby that lend themselves well to Asian dishes, where they can act as a sweeter stand-in for the turnips often used in Chinese, Japanese, and Korean cooking. I use chicken stock in this recipe because its richness brings all of the subtle flavors of the dish alive. The star anise lends this soup a fragrant, smoky sweetness.

This brothy, colorful soup is a potent tonic that will cure what ails you. Miso paste, made from fermented soybeans, is an essential component of Japanese cuisine. As with yogurt and other fermented products, miso is most beneficial uncooked, so stir it into the soup only after turning off the heat. Wakame is a mild-tasting green sea vegetable most commonly used in the traditional miso soup that accompanies sushi. Burdock root (shown below) has a texture reminiscent of water chestnuts. It grows wild throughout the United States and can also be found in Japanese markets. After slicing burdock root, soak it in cold water to prevent it from turning brown. If burdock root isn’t available, simply use more of the other vegetables.

This is a very comforting, home-style dish, perfect for a blustery autumn day. Be sure to use only firm tofu for this recipe; softer varieties will fall apart during cooking. The trio of cultivated shiitake, enoki, and shimeji mushrooms is a classic combination in Japanese cooking, and it adds a nice woodsy and earthy flavor to this dish. You can use other kinds of mushrooms, too, if you’d like, everything from the humble button mushroom to fancier porcinis or chanterelles—whatever your budget allows.

This dish is an easy summer favorite prepared with ingredients that every home in Japan has handy in the fridge and cupboard. You can pull it together in less than 10 minutes. Whenever I serve hiyayako to my American-born friends, the reaction is always the same: “Amazing!” The creamy tofu and aromatic, flavorful garnishes also pair beautifully with fruity sake or a chilled glass of white wine. Make sure you use soft “silken” tofu—the firmer varieties are only for cooking.

In Japan, this udon is a rich and comforting wintertime favorite, and it is especially popular with young people. And not only in Japan. Here in Chicago, it’s one of my son’s favorites. He plays ice hockey in school, and when he comes home after practice he’s ravenous. Niku udon to the rescue, every time.

When I make this dish I buy the Asian-style baked tofu so I don’t have to marinate it. It is difficult to find in regular grocery stores, but you can find it at most health food or specialty stores. If you can find it, you can skip the marinating and just stir in the teriyaki sauce at the end. For you meat eaters, a chicken breast can be used instead of the tofu.

When you buy stuffed buns in Asia, there is usually a vegetarian option that features vegetables and pressed tofu. The fragrant, tasty filling is delightful and satisfying enough to please meat lovers. While you can feature just one vegetable, such as a leafy green, I like to create a varied filling that’s full of surprising textures and flavors. It’s important to cut the vegetables and pressed tofu into small, thin pieces so that the cooked filling is easy to measure and wrap up in the dough.

Nothing says “Korean dumpling” more than one filled with kimchi, the spicy pickled cabbage that’s essential to the Korean table. Mandu are the Korean version of Chinese jiaozi and Japanese gyōza. The fillings often incorporate firm tofu as a binder and protein substitute—tofu is used in these kimchi mandu. In addition, the ground Korean red chile pepper used for making kimchi turns the filling a pretty orange color, and there’s plenty of garlic pungency to wake up the palate. Though these can be pan fried, deep-fried, and steamed, I love them boiled. The dryish filling gets a boost of succulence from the hot water bath. Purchased or homemade napa cabbage kimchi, especially older (stinkier) kimchi, works extra well. A side of shredded Korean or daikon radish tossed with a little salt and equal parts rice vinegar and sugar is a refreshing accompaniment.

Meat and vegetable dumplings such as these are a standard offering at Korean dumpling and noodle shops. A favorite way to enjoy them is poached in broth for a warming mandu guk soup (page 49), but they are equally fabulous when fried. However, don’t expect the standard Chinese pot sticker. Korean cooks like to panfry at least two sides of their dumplings for a greater amount of crispy-chewy goodness. When made with extra chewy dough comprised of wheat and sweet rice flour, the dumplings are even tastier. Gun mandu may also be quickly deep-fried in 1 1/4 inches of oil heated to 350°F for 2 to 3 minutes total; the resulting pebbled golden skin is a delightful reminder of American frozen egg roll snacks.

Whereas boiled dumplings have crinkly skins that are tender from having been immersed in hot water, and panfried dumplings have skins that are a combination of crisp bottom and chewy top, steamed dumplings are texturally in between—the skins are slightly chewy and soft. Gentle steam heat also protects the filling flavor and you taste it more, a bonus for delicate combination such as this one. Unlike many other Chinese dumpling fillings, this vegetarian filling is cooked first to allow the cornstarch to work its cohesive magic, binding the vegetables and pressed tofu together so that they are easier to control when you are assembling the dumplings. I like to use some of the liquid from soaking the mushrooms to season the filling with an earthy savor; if you do too, remember to strain the heady liquid through cheesecloth or paper towel to remove any bits of grit. For details on brown, meatlike pressed tofu, see page 17.

Even my meat-eating friends, quietly polite when invited to a dinner featuring tofu, rave about this one. It is easy and delicious and contains flavors traditionally considered typical of both Japanese- and Korean-style cooking. Serve over brown rice.