Stinky Tofu

When we first met the Chinese businessmen, it was at a “Welcome to Shanghai” dinner held in our honor at a corporate retreat compound on the outskirts of the city. Our study abroad group had landed in Shanghai the previous day after two weeks of playing tourist in Beijing and Xian. I was battling the effects of undercooked meat from a hot-pot dinner in Xian and had not yet discovered the benefits of the colon-cleansing drug Cipro. We arrived at the compound via tour bus, expecting a polite introduction to the movers and shakers of Shanghai business and government. There was even a promise (or threat) of a karaoke machine. The choice between the dinner and recovering in my dorm room was closer than one might think, but I reluctantly went along thinking that maybe they would offer us a cold beer or two to calm the rumbling abyss that was my stomach.

The first surprise of the night came when we found out that we were to be randomly placed at tables with four classmates paired with four or five of our hosts. I was seated with Ricky, Saul, and Margie from our group. Our Chinese hosts at the table were Kerry, George, Jen, and Sunshine/Mr. Lee (the Chinese often take English names when conducting business with Westerners, and Sunshine/Mr. Lee picked two). Our hosts welcomed us graciously and, in a bit of foreshadowing of things to come, made us chug a beer before we even sat down.

Laid out before us, family-style, was a cornucopia of Chinese dishes. Kung-pao chicken, sautéed prawns, beef and broccoli, various noodle dishes, various tofu dishes, a whole fish (head attached), rice (of course) and several other rich-smelling foods were spread on the dolly, awaiting their turn in front of our plates. All of the food turned out to be delicious, particularly the prawns, but we soon learned that the night was not to be about the food.

Glancing around during the night, it became obvious that some tables were getting along better than others. At some tables, quiet and reserved American students were seated with quiet and reserved Chinese bureaucrats. You could hear the chewing at these tables, and the aura of awkward hung high above them. Other tables appeared to be more congenial, and pleasant conversations ensued. Our table turned out to be the drunkards’ table. They had, completely by accident, paired four of the most notorious partiers from the “Summer in Shanghai” group with four of the wildest Chinese revelers. With coquettish but aggressive waitresses refusing to allow our wine glasses and beer mugs (everyone at the table had both a wine glass and a beer mug) to sink even to three-quarters full, our table quickly accomplished the dual goals of making asses of ourselves and becoming the envy of every other table in the room.

In Chinese, ganbei literally means “empty glass.” Every time anyone yelled “ganbei!” to someone, both the yeller and the yellee became instantly immersed in a chugging contest. Inevitably, someone else at the table felt left out, so you were then forced to ganbei with them. After clinking glasses (trying to clink lower on the other person’s glass to prove yourself more humble than the other) one opened one’s gullet and gulped either the plum wine or the pijou (mainly Tsingtao or Suntory beer) down, eliciting cheers from the rest of the table. Needless to say, everyone at the table quickly became he jiu (or, roughly translated, piss-ass drunk). By the end of the night, I had tried my hand at karaoke (which I hate), had abandoned my boxer shorts in the bathroom (damn that hot-pot and its ill effects on the ass!) and, along with the other Americans at the table, had made new Chinese friends to show us the finer points of Shanghai’s swinging nightlife.

Our hangovers had barely had time to subside when we received a call from Kerry the next day. America’s Independence Day was coming up soon, and he and his friends wanted to take me, Ricky, Saul, and Margie out to celebrate. Falling on a Thursday, this 4th of July night on the town would mean another rough morning of Chinese classes the next day. Despite that, we quickly accepted, though Margie was somewhat concerned about their insistence on the presence of the “pretty blonde girl.” We also invited our fellow classmate Eric, because he had the craziest dance moves anyone had ever seen, and we knew that would be much appreciated by our Chinese hosts.

As our other classmates rolled their eyes and my roommate prepared himself for my imminent drunken return, the four of us left for the front gates of East China Normal University, where Kerry and Sunshine/Mr. Lee met us with a waiting car. We drove along the crowded streets of Shanghai, narrowly avoiding the multitude of cars, buses, and bicyclists, some of whom had so many parcels loaded onto their backs that it seemed to defy the very laws of physics. Finally, we arrived in one of the ritzier areas of the city, and were led into a restaurant that appeared at first to have no patrons. As we weaved through the hallways, we soon realized that instead of one large dining area, the place was set up with several large private rooms, each equipped with a large table and attendants in each corner. The rooms were filled with pieces of Chinese art (both framed and on scrolls) and gentle Chinese classical music came from an unseen speaker. Our Chinese friends had brought their boss along, a dignified gentleman named “Ark.” As in, Noah’s Ark.

Like our “Welcome to Shanghai” dinner before, a cornucopia of dishes appeared on the dolly and the attendants made sure we remained permanently soused. Unlike that dinner, however, a new dish with a pungent stench made an appearance. I would say that it was an unwelcome surprise, but our Chinese hosts could not get enough of this treat and practically climbed over each other to snag a piece. Meanwhile, the dish sat on the dolly, looking at us. Ricky and I looked at each other with trepidation, fully aware that at some point in the night, we were going to have to eat a bit of the chou doufu, or “stinky tofu.”

Stinky tofu had gained somewhat of an urban legend mythology among those of us on this trip. While a few others on the trip had actually tried it (and one guy actually liked it), most of us had been exposed to stinky tofu only through the rotten milk smell we noticed occasionally while walking the streets of Shanghai. Often described to us as the “national dish” of China, stinky tofu is made by frying squares of baked tofu and then leaving those squares outside until mold has accumulated on them. The mold is then scraped off, a spicy red sauce covers the squares, and the stinky tofu is then, I’m told, ready for human consumption. Describing the smell as “rotten milk” actually does this dish no justice. The actual smell is far more complex. Mixed in with the rotten milk aroma is a hint of human, or possibly animal depending on the region, excrement. Like a fine wine, stinky tofu’s flavor increases with age and may contain sediments, possibly from the normal dirt and grime of the city. Shanghai appeared to be the Napa Valley of stinky tofu.

The night that America celebrated her independence from England, Ricky and I were frantically trying to come up with ways to divest ourselves from our obligation to try everything at the table. Whenever the dolly would present the stinky tofu plate in front of us, we would quickly twirl the dolly around, as the smell alone was turning our stomachs. Meanwhile, we stuffed ourselves with noodles, green beans, shrimp, and non-stinky tofu squares. Many ganbei’s commenced, with toasts to us, to them, to Russia, to Mao, to George Washington, to Margie (several times), and to each of us individually. The dolly kept its clockwise spin, providing us with the finest food Shanghai had to offer. All the while, our Chinese hosts mumbled conspiratorially to each other while looking in our direction. Finally, Judgment Day arrived.

“You have not tried the chou doufu.”

“Are you sure? I thought I had.” Nice. Clever.

“Oh, no, we have been waiting for you to eat it. It is delicious dish.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m getting pretty full, what about you Ricky?”

“Yeah, me too, but thanks.”

“We have saying in China," Kerry noted, "until you eat chou doufu, you are not a man.”

Now wait just a cotton-picking minute here! They had clearly crossed the line. I was pretty sure whether or not we ate moldy bean curd had no bearing on our manhoods. But, then again, the Chinese were an ancient, wise people. And, as Ricky and I were quite drunk at this point, they had managed to push the right button.

“Well then, I guess we’re just going to have to become men then, huh?” This elicited great cheers at the table. Kerry swiveled the dolly until the foul, vile dish appeared in front of us. The stinky tofu laughed - an evil, sinister laugh. We tentatively fidgeted our chopsticks over the plate as sweat droplets appeared on our foreheads. Finally, we broke off a piece and drenched it in the spicy sauce. Everyone at the table grew quiet and leaned forward in anticipation. Those bastards knew exactly what was going to happen, but, like a frat hazing, we had little choice. We closed our eyes and shoved the piece of stinky tofu into our mouths.

During my stay in China, I tried all manners of strange foods. I ate roasted bug larvae, roasted scorpion (not bad, like a French fry), rattlesnake, pigeon, cow stomach, and some things that I had no idea what they were. I managed to gulp each of these down with a laugh and a smile, and was actually surprised at the edibility of several of these delicacies. This was not the case with the stinky tofu. From the moment that bite entered my open mouth, my body was screaming, “bad idea!” The palate-wrecking sourness of this single bite still haunts me. Adding to the rotten milk/excrement taste was the incredibly spicy sauce that, far from complimenting the tofu, only enhanced its unique taste characteristics. Ricky started gagging, and I quickly swallowed, hoping the evil would leave my mouth upon the absence of the stinky tofu. I was mistaken in that belief. I grabbed for my glass of beer, and tried to drown the taste out. Instead I created a new lingering taste – rotten milk/shit/spicy red sauce/beer – which made it worse. I was near panic. However, my brain decided to kick in at this point (where were you a minute ago, jackass?). I grabbed the first non-stinky tofu plate I could see, and began shoving prawns, beef and broccoli, and anything else I could find into my mouth to mask the taste. This method, thankfully, lessened the blow somewhat. Our Chinese hosts fell out of their chairs laughing at us. But, at least for now, we were men.

With hints of chou doufu still on our breath, we finished our meal and headed out to a bar in the new and trendy Xin Tian Di neighborhood to continue the 4th of July celebration. It was the beginning of monsoon season in Shanghai, and as we stepped outside to our waiting car the rain was blowing sideways, though not all that hard. We drove to a classy bar full of Chinese and American patrons, and seated ourselves at a large table overlooking the dance floor. On the stage, a rock cover band from America was playing. We ordered tall glasses of beers and shandys. After a few beers and a dozen failed explanations of how in America if a girl is pretty we say she is “hot” (or "re" in Chinese), repeatedly using Margie as a reference, we decided to head for the dance floor to check out the band. This would also (as Ricky, Margie, Saul and I knew) provide an opportunity for our Chinese hosts to witness Eric’s “trance” dancing.

As he had explained to us numerous times, when the music is pumping and he enters the dance floor, Eric loses all control of himself. He develops a vision of falling through the sky while trying to juggle a large orb (his words). As it turns out, this is exactly what he looks like while dancing. Completely unaware of his surroundings, Eric flails his arms, legs, and head around in what can best be described as a faster version of Elaine Bennis’ dance moves from Seinfeld. It is both the most hilarious and most astounding sight any of us had ever witnessed (and we had watched this numerous times while in China). We couldn’t wait to see the reaction of our Chinese hosts.

Eric entered the dance floor and quickly cleared it, as the other astounded patrons expected that his moves would morph into an old-school breakdance show. This, of course, did not happen. Moving completely oblivious to the actual beat of the music, Eric began flailing and twitching with a vacant look in his eyes. As we started simultaneously shaking our heads and laughing, our Chinese hosts leapt onto the dance floor, and began dancing exactly like Eric. Perhaps they thought this was the latest American dance craze. Perhaps they wanted to lessen his embarrassment. For whatever reason, the result was electric. Everyone else commenced dancing, all mimicking our friend Eric. We looked at each other, shrugged, and joined in on the “trance” dancing, the lot of us resembling a pack of zombies being electrocuted. Oh well, when in Shanghai…

After that night, we caught up with our new Chinese friends a couple of other times (including once in Morgantown, West Virginia, where they had gone to study business English at West Virginia University), and were always shown the best time Shanghai had to offer. We definitely experienced true Shanghainese hospitality each time. However, years later, I swear I can still taste that awful stinky tofu, no matter what I try to wash it down with.