What it is, how to prepare it, and a couple recipes to get started
If you listened to yesterday’s episode of Food with Mark Bittman with tofu enthusiast George Stiffman, you probably understand why we’re so excited about tofu this week. And if you didn’t listen, maybe you’ll read the below excerpt from Broken Cuisine: Chinese tofu, Western cooking, and a hope to save our planet — which George co-wrote with Vanessa Lauren and David Lespron — and the tantalizing descriptions of spongy tofu will get you going. It’s hard to imagine not wanting to try these lesser known (to Americans) varieties of tofu after hearing about them. See what you think.
On the tofu family tree, almost everyone is descended from grandma soymilk. Everyone, that is, besides her estranged second cousin – spongy tofu, or qianyedoufu 千页豆腐. Made from soybean protein instead of ground beans, spongy tofu has a unique structure that is uniform, elastic, and compact. Where firm tofu might crumble or silken tofu might fall apart, spongy tofu simply jiggles and bounces, like an omnipotent Jell-O. Under heat, especially moist heat, this structure shapeshifts, puffing up to triple its size and becoming pillowy, tender, and silky. This mouthfeel is unique among tofu and other proteins.
Beyond structure, spongy tofu tastes different from other varieties. Most other tofu is curded, by coagulating soymilk proteins into pillowy curds and then pressing them into a block. Impurities in the soymilk, like oils or spices, obstruct this process, so curded tofu can usually only be seasoned after pressing, through cooking. Spongy tofu, on the other hand, isn’t curded. It’s made by slow-cooking a soy protein slurry until it sets. Spices do not affect this process, so it can be flavored before it even reaches your kitchen. Nowadays, it’s common for producers to throw in a dash of salt and umami and a drizzle of oil, which round out the soy notes and create a warm, full-bodied creaminess. This ensures that the tofu tastes great, no matter how it’s cooked.
In China, spongy tofu is less common than other varieties, though it is indispensable in a few applications. In Sichuan “dry pots,” it’s sliced thin, par-fried to puff up, stir-fried with mounds of garlic and chilies, and piled on top of red onions. At youth BBQs, it’s thick-sliced, kabobbed, and charcoal-roasted, with an intermittent basting of oil and dusting of cumin, chili powder, Sichuan peppercorn, and other spices. While less common, some higher end vegan restaurants will slice it into thin sheets, slow roast it, then roll its puffy skin around a sauce or filling.
Because it’s so different from standard American tofu, we think spongy tofu could really take off here. We found the following techniques to be especially straightforward and delicious: The first and easiest technique is stewing it in a flavorful sauce. Slice up your tofu, boil it lid on over high heat until it puffs to several times its original size, then lower the temperature and simmer to absorb flavors. This process roughly mimics par-frying then stir-frying. Optimal boiling and stewing times depend upon the size of your tofu pieces. Thin 1/4” slices require just a couple minutes of vigorous boiling to puff up, and just a few minutes more of simmering. Cubes and chunky pieces take much longer. (If spongy tofu is underboiled, it will deflate back to its original chewy state without becoming silky and tender, which also lowers its ability to absorb flavors.) We loved this technique with a Mediterranean Cherry Tomatoes and Chickpeas sauce, but you can use any liquid, whether stock, cream, pasta water, or whatever, as long as it is not too viscous. Cook it into a full dish, or stew it as a protein add-on for your favorite sandwiches, salads, pasta, or soup.
A second technique, borrowing from Chinese cooking, is to throw it on the grill. If you can, use a charcoal setup, or throw some charcoal on top of your gas grates. What you want here is smoke, which unlike salt or spice will permeate every crevice of the tofu. Preheat your grill, chop your tofu however you’d like, or leave it whole, baste it with oil and seasonings, and char it for a few minutes on each side. Just like the previous technique, you can do anything with this smoky, creamy, and chewy protein. Use it as a salad add-in, slice it onto a sandwich or pizza, mince it for a filling … go crazy.
While these first two techniques are delicious, this third one blew us away. While honing a pureed silken tofu cream for our Glass Cannoli filling, we wondered what would happen if we blended this spongy variety, given its vastly different structure. When we first tried it, we were impressed by its body and subtle touch of sweetness and umami. But we were left with an unpleasant gritty and powdery aftertaste. Interesting. Vanessa remembered how the tofu changed after puffing up, surrendering its dense elasticity and becoming tender and silky, so we tried blending the puffy stuff. And wow. Par-blanching the tofu in water eliminated the powdery negatives while providing an even richer and creamier mouthfeel. It also removed a bit of tofu oil, leaving a cleaner taste. The result was incredible.
These are just a few possibilities. There’s so much you can create with this ingredient. (I’m daydreaming right now about a wild mushroom ravioli filling and an herbed spaetzle main). Take note that most spongy tofu sold in the U.S. is pre-seasoned with a little umami, which can get in the way of sweeter dessert applications. If you use it for sweet things, rinse the pebbles thoroughly, and blend in a little at a time so you don’t overdo it. Spongy tofu is available at most Chinese markets, usually in the frozen section, but sometimes near the fresh tofu. It can last for a week or two in your fridge, or indefinitely in the freezer. It can be refrozen with only minor changes to its structure.
— Excerpted from Broken Cuisine: Chinese tofu, Western cooking, and a hope to save our planet
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