Red fermented bean curd "cheese" -- at last!

Before I say anything more, let me make one point: this is the most absurdly delicious fermented bean curd (aka tofu cheese) that will ever, Ever, EVER pass your lips.

Period.

I've had an indiscreet love affair with the stuff called nanru for nigh on three decades now, and most of the commercial versions are pretty good when used to make cheesy scarlet sauces for chicken or pork shank. No matter who produces it, these dishes have always turned out perfectly for me. So, if your only desire is for tofu cheese that makes the grade in sauces, then there's really no need to go to the trouble of making a batch at home.

Newly packed jar of nanru

But, if you want to taste something in its natural state that is beyond your wildest imagination, then have I got a gift for you. After 6 months of fermentation, with only occasional tastes along the way, I recently opened up the jar that had waited so patiently for my attentions and discovered ambrosia, so I soon devoured it with singular pleasure and instantly regretted deeply that I hadn't made a couple gallons of this brined wonder last March.

The magical transformation that took place in that jar is hard to relate, for bits of the cubes actually sparkled on my tongue! Fermentation was still going on in there, and as I scooped bits of the nanru into my mouth, tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide exploded on my taste buds, and that is one reason why this is the best recipe ever.

The flavor was absolutely incredible, too. Deep wine aromas accompanied each little bite, the red rice clinging to the custardy tofu and tinting it a beautiful scarlet, and each piece was spangled with darker maroon spots that were the inoculant rice causing all of this action in my mouth. I had added bits of sugar to the jar over the months, feeding the yeast, and was rewarded when the nanru was finally ripe enough to enjoy.

My late mother-in-law used to make the white form of fermented bean curd -- doufuru -- when she lived in Taiwan, and the process she relied on was pretty much the same as Andrea Nguyen described in her seminal work, Asian Tofu: squares of fresh, firm tofu are left to mold for a couple of days, tossed in salt and flavorings, and then covered with rice wine. Nature and time takes care of the rest, converting what looks for all the world like it should be avoided like the plague into a food of incomparable texture and flavor.

Golden yellow spores & blotches

But Andrea said one thing in my book that make me perk up my ears. As if throwing a gauntlet on the floor in my general direction, she noted that she had "attempted to make red fermented tofu but to no avail."

Hm, I thought, that is a challenge if I ever saw one. The thing is, Andrea probably hadn't yet encountered Fujian's Red Wine Lees, which are the key component of nanru, so her statement is more than understandable. But since I always have a fat jar of red wine lees hiding somewhere in the dank, dark recesses of my fridge, I knew that there was only one thing to do: substitute a healthy scoop of the red lees and a good dollop of its amber liquid in place of plain rice wine.

And it worked. And I'll show you how.

Making any kind of fermented bean curd is nothing less than an act of faith. I mean, look at the mold-covered square to the upper right. It looks dangerous, like it could cause severe gastric distress, if not death. So I appreciate you following me this far down the garden path. Your faith will be rewarded!

Andrea's "3S" achieved

You will find when your tofu hits the perfect state of moldiness -- what Andrea called the "3S criteria": slime, splotches, and stink -- that the bean curd actually smells pretty good, at least to my nose. There really was more of a bread-like, yeasty bloom in the air, and when I sampled one of the moldy squares (yes, I am insane), it tasted like a soft Camembert. There was nothing disgusting about it, although my husband left the room as he noticed me happily licking my fingertips.

Here is the recipe, one that more or less follows Andrea's wonderfully precise directions that she says were influenced by the work by another great lady, Florence Lin's Chinese Vegetarian Cookbook (note: this book is also completely brilliant), as they give the bean curd just the right environment to mold perfectly. The brine, of course, is my own, and is a result of lots of guesswork and good luck and memories of what my mom-in-law told me.


Red fermented bean curd "cheese" 
Nánrŭ  南乳
Northern Fujian
Makes about a pint

1 square (13.5 ounces, or so) extra-firm fresh bean curd (see Tips)
1½ tablespoons sea salt
3 tablespoons Red Wine Lees (the solids)
½ cup wine left over from the Red Wine Lees, or a neutral rice wine (see Tips)
½ cup water
Sugar

1. Wash your hands and cutting board and everything else so that there is absolutely no oil or contamination. 


2. Cut the bean curd in half horizontally and then into pieces that are more or less square. Lay a tea towel (something with a smooth weave, rather than terry cloth) in a clean rimmed pan on your kitchen counter and then place the bean curd squares on top of the towel so that they don't touch. Lay other towel on top of the squares, place a smaller pan on top of that, and the weight the whole thing down with 2 to 3 pounds of cans, pans, or whatever. This will gently squeeze most of the moisture out of the bean curd. The squares will feel relatively dry after a couple of hours. 

A tiny masterpiece

3. Have a rimmed glass baking pan ready that is (as always) super clean. Place the squares in the pan so that they don't touch each other, as this gives each side more of a chance to grown mold. Cover the pan with plastic wrap and use a toothpick or skewer to punch about 10 holes in the plastic so that the gases can escape.

4. Place the pan in a warm place away from breezes (an unheated oven is handy), and wait about 3 days until the bean curd is covered with yellowish spots, looks very moist, and has a yeasty smell (see Tips). 

5. Carefully clean a 1-pint jar and lid, and then rinse them out with boiling water; turn them upside-down and let them air dry; prepare two new bamboo skewers for handling the bean curd. Place the salt in a small bowl and put the Red Wine Lees in the bottom of the jar. One-by-one, lift each cube of the bean curd up with a very clean bamboo skewer, roll it lightly in the salt, and then ever-so-gently place it in the jar so that it lies fairly flat and doesn't break apart (see Tips). 

6. When all of the bean curd has been placed in the jar, pour the wine and water into the jar and twist on the lid loosely so that gases can escape as the bean curd ferments. Label the jar with the date and place it in the refrigerator. After about a month, add a tablespoon of sugar to the jar and then lightly reseal and return it to the fridge. After another month, add another tablespoon of sugar. By the third month, take a very clean spoon and taste the sauce; if it still needs a bit more sugar, add it. 

7. By month 5 or 6, your fermented bean curd "cheese" will be ready. Always use a very clean spoon to remove the squares, recover the jar, and return it to the fridge. It will keep for a very long time, and the sauce can be used again in your next batch or in some dish that calls for red fermented bean curd, such as the ones mentioned at the top of this page.

Tips

Use extra-firm tofu here, not firm or anything softer. The reason for this is that it will become incredibly soft as it molds, and extra-firm has been the only type (in my experience, at least) that keeps its shape relatively easily. Don't worry, though... the fermented result will have the consistency of custard.

I always recommend organic, non-GMO bean curd. Soybeans are one of the most heavily messed-with crops, and the big pesticide companies are turning them into tiny images of Frankenstein's monster. Corn, soy, and anything that is made with them should always be non-GMO (not genetically modified) for your health and for the planet's. End of speech.

If you don't have any of the wine left over from your Red Wine Lees expedition, use a neutral-flavored rice wine like Taiwanese rice wine (mijiu), as Shaoxing's flavor will fight with that of the Fujian lees.

The time it takes for the bean curd to mold perfectly will vary according to your kitchen temperature. Check on it daily, and when it's ready, proceed immediately.

If some of the squares break apart as you pick them up, don't despair. Just place them in the center of the jar where no one will see them. Push your perfect squares up against the glass, though, as shown in the second photo from the top... they look beautiful that way.

How much sugar you use depends on two major things: the flavor of your Red Wine Lees and your own palate. The sugar will also help feed the yeast and form those delightful bubbles, but don't overdo it. When it tastes exactly right, stop.

A final note on how to enjoy this nanru, as a couple of readers asked quite sensibly, "If I'm not supposed to throw it into some pork or chicken dish, how do you want me to eat it?" To which I reply, "Savor it like a great cheese." 

Good nanru is most traditionally served as a side dish with congee (rice porridge), and I love it that way. But even better is when a single cube is placed on top of a bowl of freshly steamed rice (get the best you can) or slathered inside of a split mantou (plain steamed bun). You see, just as with soft Western cheeses, nanru benefits from this contrast with starchy sweetness and welcomes a bit of blandness to play against its salty pungency.

Of course, if you are a serious addict like me, you might find yourself nibbling on a spoonful while staring mindlessly out the window, licking bits off of the spoon, letting them dissolve in a shimmer of bubbles on your tongue and lips, and then going back for more until, with little warning, the jar is empty. 

Cheesy chicken from Anhui

It took me a long time to figure out where this dish originally came from, possibly because I have had all sorts of versions over the years. 

First guess: Guangdong, because they do make some wonderful fermented bean curd (doufuru) down there, but when that wasn't correct, I figured it had to be from Jiangsu because of their famous pork hock in a cheesy sauce, but even that wasn't right. So down the list I went until I hit that obscure cuisine that tends to be the motherload of all sorts of delicious jackpots: Anhui.


You just don't hear much about Anhui style cooking (except on this blog, perhaps, as I admit quite freely that I am smitten with their way with food). And that is a crying shame because even though few people have ever eaten Anhui dishes outside of its borders, this is where many of East China's most famous dishes were created, like lion's head casserole. (Jiangsu and Shanghai lay all sorts of claim to this meatball dish, and to be fair, they have some pretty incredible variations that make it one of the best pork concoctions of all time.)

Daxi style doufuru

But I digress.

Chicken cooked in a sauce seasoned with fermented bean curd really does have a cheesy edge to it, very rich and creamy, especially when a really great fermented bean curd is used. Although there are supermarket shelves loaded with all sorts of different kinds -- spicy, stinky, red, white, what have you -- my favorite is now a homemade one that uses Fujian's red wine lees.

I really like the way that it turns into a velvety blanket for whatever is being cooked. The taste is not harsh the way that some of the brine-packed doufuru tend to be, and the sauce the little squares are packed in is every bit as tasty as the bean curd itself.

Over the years, I've played around with this classic a bit, so it might not be quite as authentic an Anhui dish as it used to, particularly because I have added some of that beautiful Fujian red wine lees not only for the depth of flavor, but also for its brilliant color. 

Putting this dish together takes less than 30 minutes from fridge to table, and all you need is some hot rice and a stir-fried vegetable. Fit for company or family, this is sure to be an instant favorite.

Lovely red from the wine lees

Chicken in fermented bean curd sauce  
Furu ji 腐乳雞  
Anhui
Serves 4 as part of a multicourse meal, or 2 as a main dish

4 chicken thighs, preferably organic and free range (see Tips)
2 tablespoons peanut or vegetable oil
6 thin slices ginger, minced
4 green onions, trimmed and cut into 2-inch lengths
3 tablespoons Shaoxing rice wine
¾ cup water
2 squares Fermented Bean Curd, or to taste
2 tablespoons Fujian's red wine lees
Sugar or soy sauce, if needed
Handful of cilantro, chopped

1. Rinse the chicken thighs and pat dry. Cut off any extra fat or skin and save it for something else. 

2. Heat the oil in a wok or frying pan over medium heat. Add the ginger and lay the chicken on top. Fry the chicken on one side until golden, and then flip the thighs over. Toss in the green onions. 

Doufuru and red wine lees

3. When both sides of the chicken are golden brown, add the rice wine, water, fermented bean curd, and red wine lees. Bring the sauce to a boil and then lower the heat to a simmer. Cook the chicken until just done (about 20 minutes for bone-in thighs, 15 minutes for boneless), and then raise the heat under the pan to quickly reduce the sauce. Taste the sauce and adjust the seasoning, if needed, with some sugar and soy sauce. (I don't use any extra seasoning, but since not all doufuru are created equal, feel free to play with the flavors.) Toss in the chopped cilantro and serve.

Tips

Use organic, free-range chicken, if at all possible.

Different cuts can be used instead of thighs, if you like. Wings are great, or you could chop up a whole chicken and double or triple the sauce ingredients, depending upon the size of the chicken.

This dish can be made ahead of time and then heated up  just before serving.

Jiangsu's cheesy pork

Without a doubt, the Jiangsu style dish that captivated me completely at first bite was this one. Furu tibang was from then on my idea of celebration food, and if I could have convinced anyone to stick candles in it, this would have been my idea of the perfect birthday cake.

Pork hock is not a cut of meat that is eaten much around here in the States, especially with the skin on. But this incredibly soft bundle of meaty joy is so good precisely because it has that terrific layer of pork skin holding everything together until the last minute, at which point it thoughtfully dissolves into almost a porky custard. 

I have tried making this dish with other cuts of meat, like pork shoulder and so on, and they are okay, but not the stuff of dreams. If pork hock is really and truly beyond the scope of your butcher, you definitely need to find yourself a new purveyor. In the meantime, buy a piece of pork belly with the skin on - half meat and half fat is a good ratio - and you'll still be in good shape.

The best part of the pig

Whenever you can, as always, use pork that's been raised humanely and naturally. The flavor just isn't the same with factory pork. In fact, I was so disgusted by the stuff we bought after we came back from Taiwan that I almost never ate pork for years until people started offering the good stuff. 

And try to use the hock from a front leg, which is what is called the tipang in Chinese; those from the rear legs are called zhouzi, which can be used in a pinch, but they're a lot bigger. These smaller tipang cuts have a special place in the hearts of Chinese diners because they are tender, have the auspicious shape of money bags, and are just darned cute. I mean, look at this boned tipang on the right... I think it's almost cuddly.

Which leads us to today's recipe: Pork Hock in Fermented Bean Curd Cheese.

A few columns ago I talked about fermented bean curd cheese, so if you are unfamiliar with this ingredient, go back and take a peek. The other exotic ingredient in here is Fujian's red fermented rice, or hongzao. You can find this in well-stocked Chinese groceries, usually in the refrigerated section, but if it's not available, use fermented rice and add a bit of beet juice if you want the traditional seductive red hue. (I'll give the recipe for authentic red fermented rice in an upcoming column for all of you home brewers out there.)

Turned into culinary magic

This is really a special occasion dish, but it's also terribly easy to make. And, even better, you should prepare this at least a day or two in advance so that the pork has a chance to soak in that cheesy sauce and become even more succulent. The best garnish for this dish is another Shanghainese specialty, flash fried pea sprouts. These are best in the spring and early summer, so gather ye pea sprouts while ye may.

Pork hock in fermented bean curd cheese 
Furu tipang  腐乳蹄膀 
Jiangsu

Serves 6 to 8 as part of a multicourse meal

Pork:

1 pork hock with the skin on
2-inch piece of fresh ginger
4 green onions, trimmed
2 whole star anise

Sauce:

4 squares red fermented bean curd
4 tablespoons sauce from the fermented bean curd
½ cup Fujian style red fermented rice (hongzao)
3 tablespoons light soy sauce
1½ cups Shaoxing rice wine
Boiling filtered water as needed
2 pieces of rock sugar about the size of walnuts

Start boning from the smaller end

1. If your butcher can't bone the pork hock without splitting it up the side (and I can't believe how many times they do that even though I tell them not to), bone it yourself because it's not that hard:

2. Use a long thin blade to work around the bone on the thin end of the hock, and then flip it over and start cutting the meat away from the bone on the thick end. As you can see from the picture down below, the bone isn't round, but has a deep indentation on one side. So, cut away from the bone carefully, keeping it in one piece as much as possible. If any small bit fall out, stuff them back inside. Pick over the skin and either pluck or burn off any hairs. (Don't worry about the ink marks, as they'll disappear later on as the meat cooks.)

3. Place the boned hock in a medium saucepan and cover it with water. Bring the water to a boil and then simmer the meat for about 10 minutes to remove any impurities. Dump out the water, rinse off the hock, and pat it dry with a paper towel. Rinse out the saucepan and pat it dry, as well.

An easy sense of accomplishment...

4. Return the hock to the saucepan. Smash the ginger with the side of a cleaver and toss it and the whole onions into the saucepan. Add the star anise, fermented bean curd, sauce, red fermented rice, soy sauce, and rice wine, and then pour in enough boiling water to cover the pork. Bring the pot to a boil and then lower it to a simmer. Slowly cook the pork for 2 to 2½ hours, or until a chopstick can be poked into the thickest part of the hock without any resistance. The sauce should have reduced by about a half at this point. Remove and discard the ginger, onions, and star anise.

5. Place the hock in a large heatproof bowl with the skin side down. Pour the sauce over the pork and add the rock sugar. Steam the pork for another hour or so until the meat is extremely moist and tender. (Steaming it instead of continuing to cook it on the stove protects it from falling apart.) Pour the sauce out into a smaller saucepan, taste and adjust the seasonings, and reduce it to about ¾ cup. (You can cool the pork and sauce off at this point and either store them together in the refrigerator, or freeze for longer storage. To reheat the pork and sauce, just steam them until the pork is hot all the way through.)

6. To serve, drain the sauce off of the pork and then place a rimmed plate over the bowl; flip the bowl over onto the plate. Pour the sauce around the pork and garnish it with a wreath of the flash fried pea sprouts. Serve with lots of hot steamed rice.

Sichuan classic updated: hot bean sauce fish

One of our favorite places to eat on the outskirts of Taipei was a Sichuan-style place near the little port of Tamsui (Danshui) at the mouth of the river that weaves through the capital. The place was always packed, and almost everyone ordered this specialty of the house.

First, though, we had to take life and death into our hands and decide which fish would end up on our plates, which started out feeling rather grisly, but as time went on it made me more appreciative of the sacrifice that something was making (i.e., the live carp) to feed me.

           

Look for bright eyes and a fast swimmer with no suspicious fungi or parasites calling it home. But then comes the harder part: figuring out whether it is a boy or girl.

Why? Because we (and everyone else, for that matter) were always hoping to snag a fat one filled with the lovely, tasty, texturally wonderful coral roe (yúzĭ 魚子), rather than packed with a bland sperm sac. The males had what is called “fish white” (yúbái 魚白) in them, which still was edible, but it always felt like a consolation prize.

Frying salmon filets

One time we had settled on the perfect one when another person in our party insisted that we were wrong, that she had honed in on a female jam-packed with roe. She was so definite that we let her decide, and so we ended up with a boy on our plate. Oh, the shame she had to bear.

Those in the know like us would finish up the fish and then send the plate with all of its sauce back to the kitchen for a second round of either regular white bean curd or “red bean curd” (i.e., coagulated blood) quickly braised in all of those delicious leftover flavors, and that would be the point at which we’d scoop up as much as we felt we could get away with onto bowls of freshly steamed rice. At the end of the meal, even saddling us with fish white could be generously forgiven… but never forgotten.

There is probably no fish dish more quintessentially Sichuanese than douban yu, or possibly even more delicious. But it is in serious need of updating, as the traditional way with the ingredients is to use a whole freshwater carp, braise it in the sauce, and then add the bean curd later as a final course.

Sichuan bean sauce + ginger + garlic

I've found a much easier and tasty way to cook this, one that assumes you have little more than 30 minutes from start to finish, and one that will require you prepare only a pot of steamed rice and possibly a side vegetable in order to make this a truly memorable dinner. 

This is traditionally made with a whole fish, but since they are hard at times to hunt down, I've come to rely on salmon filets, which are perfectly tasty here, gorgeous to look at, and firm enough to stand up to a simple braise.

Fish and bean curd in fermented bean sauce

Dòufŭ dòubàn yú  豆腐豆瓣魚

Sichuan
Serves 4

Fish:

12 ounces (or so) salmon filets, or 1 pound whole fish

¼ cup peanut or vegetable oil

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh ginger

Fry the bean sauce

3 green onions, white parts only, coarsely chopped

3 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped

Bean curd:

1 pound fresh firm bean curd or coagulated pork, chicken, or duck blood

Boiling filtered water, as needed

1 tablespoon sea salt

Sauce:

3 tablespoons hot fermented bean sauce (la doubanjiang)

¼ cup rice lees solids

2 tablespoons rice lees liquid or Shaoxing rice wine

2 teaspoons sugar

2 teaspoons regular soy sauce

¾ cup unsalted stock or filtered water

1½ teaspoons dark vinegar

1 teaspoon cornstarch mixed with 2 tablespoons filtered water

½ teaspoon finely ground toasted Sichuan peppercorns

3 green onions, green parts only, coarsely chopped

1. Clean and scale the fish, but keep the skin on; pat it very dry. If you are using filets, cut the fish across the grain into strips as wide as you want them. If you are using a whole fish, leave it whole.

Simmer the bean curd

2. Heat a wok over medium-high, add the oil and swirl it around before adding the ginger. As soon as it is fragrant, lower the heat to medium and place the fish skin-side down in the oil. Leave the fish be while it browns, and as soon as it moves easily when you shake the wok, turn the fish over and add the green onion whites and garlic to the oil. When the second side is lightly browned, either scoot everything up the sides of the wok out of the hot oil or remove the fish and aromatics to a plate.

3. While the fish is browning, cut the bean curd or blood into 16 pieces. Place the bean curd or blood into a small saucepan, cover with the boiling water, and add the salt. Bring the water to a boil and then lower the heat to a gentle simmer. Cook the pieces for around 5 minutes and dump out the water.

4. Remove all but about 2 tablespoons oil from the wok. Heat the wok to medium high and add the bean sauce. Stir this for about 30 seconds to get the sauce hot and smelling terrific, and then add the rice lees and liquid (or rice wine), sugar, soy sauce, and stock or water. As it comes to a boil, add the bean curd or blood and simmer these for around 5 to 10 minutes, until they are cooked and flavorsome. Make a well in the center of the wok and return the fish to the bottom of the wok, heat the fish on both sides in the sauce, and swirl in the vinegar; taste and adjust the seasoning. Dribble in the cornstarch slurry, swirl the wok around to mix it in, and then plate the fish and bean curd/blood. Dust the top with the Sichuan peppercorns and green onion leaves and serve immediately.

The signature dish of Chef Peng

A relatively new dish in Hunan’s canon, Peng Family Bean Curd was almost an instant hit when it was created in Taiwan by Chef Péng Chángguì 彭長貴.

Chef Peng is a native of Hunan who at the age of 13 first studied under the Cantonese Tan family-style chef Cáo Gàichén 曹蓋臣 before heading north to the Yangtze River area, and then he fled to Taiwan at the end of the Chinese Civil War. Once he was an accomplished chef in his own right, he opened up his signature restaurant in Taipei, as well as a now-defunct branch in Manhattan called Peng Yuan on 44^th Street near the United Nations, where Henry Kissinger helped stimulate interest in both this restaurant and Hunan-style cooking.

Credited with developing some of the most famous dishes in the Hunan school, Chef Peng produced “General Tso’s chicken” ( Zuŏ Zōngtáng jī  左宗堂雞), its sweet-sour-spicy sauce entrancing Chinese diners at his Peng’s Agora Garden (Péngjiā huìguǎn 彭家會館) as much as his many other creations, such as “minced squab in bamboo cups” (zhújié gēzhōng 竹節鴿盅), which was always one of my favorites when I was able to dine there as the interpreter-in-tow for the National Museum of History.

Wick off the excess moisture

This was always a dining experience for me, as the museum’s director knew the menu like an old friend. Here we would have honeyed ham, smoked pork charcuterie with garlic stems, and flash fish soup, all of which never failed to elicit sighs of almost carnal pleasure in our foreign guests.

His signature bean curd dish, though, was more homey than fancy, and so it wouldn’t often make the cut at these banquets. But that did not stop my husband and me from enjoying it there later on, as well as our old haunt near the museum that was not as near as fancy—but almost as good—as the original cooking palace of Mr. Peng.

Peng family bean curd

Péngjiā dòufu  彭家豆腐

Hunan
Serves 4 to 6

1 square (about 14 ounces) firm, fresh, organic bean curd

2 to 3 ounces pork loin, shredded against the grain

1 tablespoon rice wine

Brown the bean curd

1 teaspoon cornstarch

1 tender leek or 2 green onions, trimmed

¼ cup peanut or vegetable oil (used okay if it smells fresh)

2 cloves garlic, coarsely chopped

2 red jalapeno peppers, stemmed, seeded, and cut into thin shreds

2 tablespoons fermented black beans, rinsed and lightly chopped

½ cup hot filtered water

1 tablespoon regular soy sauce

1 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil

1. Cut the bean curd square in half lengthwise and then again crosswise into ¼ inch cubes. Place them in a single layer on a clean tea towel, and pat the tops with the towel, too. Let them drain while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.

2. Place the pork in a small work bowl and toss it with the rice wine and cornstarch. Cut the leek or green onions on the diagonal into ½-inch wide strips.

3. Heat a wok over medium-high heat, and when it starts to smoke, add the oil. Swirl the oil around in the wok and then lay half of the bean curd squares in a single layer on the hot wok. Cook the bean curd until it is a golden brown on one side, and then flip each slice over and cook the other side. Remove the bean curd to a plate and repeat with the other half of the bean curd. Pour out about half of the oil.

Marinate the meat first

3. Raise the heat under the wok to high. To the hot wok add the leeks or green onions and garlic, and stir-fry them for about 10 seconds to release their fragrance. Toss in the pork and all its marinade and quickly stir-fry them until the meat is no longer pink. Add the peppers and black beans, toss them quickly to heat them through, and then the hot water. Toss these all together and then scoot the vegetables up the side of the wok.

4. Arrange the browned bean curd slices in a single layer in the sauce, cover, reduce the heat to medium-low, and simmer them for about 5 minutes. Turn the slices over, drizzle the cornstarch mixture around the edge of the bean curd, and then gently toss everything together to mix until the sauce thickens. Toss in the sesame oil, toss one last time, and serve on a platter.

Tip 

Chicken can be used instead of pork or left out if you prefer this meatless; if no meat is used, stir the cornstarch into the wine and toss it into the sauce right before adding the bean curd in Step 4.

Autumnal lotus root à la Guangxi and Guizhou

As autumn works its way into the year, slowly showing summer the door and painting the leaves the colors of a sunset, yet another Chinese vegetable makes its way onto the stage: the lotus root.

Nowadays, lotus roots can be found in Chinese markets most of the year, but that doesn't mean that they are at their best at any other time than fall and early winter. The reason is that the juiciest and plumpest ones are plucked when the leaves begin to wither. That is when the sugars in the lotus roots are at their highest.

They will also be fatter and heavier, as if they were little bears getting ready for hibernation. Which is exactly what is happening. Not that they are bears, of course, but they are preparing for a long winter's nap, and so food has been stored to keep the plant alive and give it that energetic burst once spring rolls around again.

Cubed lotus root...

The two relatively hidden provinces that I've been focused on recently that lie in China's south-central region -- Guizhou and Guangxi -- both have a marked fondness for lotus roots. And they treat them in ways I've never seen in other places.

One is an unusual quick pickle that uses the uniquely starchy, crunchy, refreshing nature of lotus root in a unexpected yet totally delightful way. The other is a side dish that is has fermented bean curd flavored with an ingredient that I used to think was confined only to northern Fujian province: red rice wine lees, or hongzao.

But just earlier today, as I was researching the background of Sichuan cuisine, I found a historical record that mentions hongzao being a favorite local ingredient... a thousand years ago! In Sichuan! That's like discovering that Leondardo da Vinci's mom cooked with lutefisk.

Why am I mentioning Sichuan? Because my own personal theory is that Guizhou and western Guangxi -- along with Yunnan province -- should be considered part of the Sichuan school of Chinese cooking.

and sliced

This is one big puzzle piece in the overall grand picture of Chinese food that divides it into eight broad cuisines. The main problem (for me, at least) is that it tends to be strictly drawn along borders, lumping together provinces that may have had some geopolitical relationship at one time or another, but in the end that doesn't take into account what people actually make for dinner. Also, in doing it this traditional way, many wonderful places have been left out of this patchwork, including Yunnan, Guangxi, and Guizhou to give just three important examples.

So, one of the things I'm going to start discussing here as we continue on our trip around China's cuisines is how they relate to each other historically, physically, and most importantly in their approach to food. 

One clue as to why Guizhou is part of Sichuan's general school is its love for chilies, its reliance on salt and fermented chili pastes rather than soy sauce, the main ingredients that make up the backbone of these cuisine, and their similar approaches to cooking.

Take this pickle as a good illustration. The main flavors come from lots of fresh garlic and ginger and green onions -- aromatics that color most of Sichuan's dishes -- plus the hot pickled chilies that add both tang and heat to any dish. These pickled chilies are almost always from Sichuan, and they tend to be either red or green Thai peppers preserved with salt, vinegar, and little else.

Homemade nanru

I love them. The flavors are clear in a way that the hot sauces are not. They convey a sharpness of color and aroma, too, that is unique and delicious. Called pao lajiao, or pickled chilies, they always come in glass jars, either whole or chopped. I much prefer the whole ones because the texture is so much cleaner, while the chopped ones tend to be mushy. Plus, they offer more versatility for the cook, as one can easily slice or dice them if that's what is called for in the recipe.

Pickles of all sorts are a big deal in Sichuan. Just about any Sichuan cookbook worth its salt will have page after page of pickle recipes. And those pickles with their chilies exploding against garlic and ginger look a whole lot like today's recipe from Guizhou, thus stacking even more evidence on the table in favor of my case for enveloping Guizhou (as well as Yunnan and western Guangxi) in Sichuan's loving though considerably spicy embrace.

The second recipe here is for a creamy, cheesy lotus root. This is a subtle dish with more of those echoes of trips to Guangxi by visitors in the north. Guangdong has its fair share of fermented bean curd, but they like their doufuru white and very funky there, while this mild red version called nanru is a taste of places further up China's eastern edge. Cross pollination is always at work in Chinese cuisine. Half of the fun is trying to connect the dots...

Sichuan style aromas

Pickled lotus root from Guizhou 
Guizhou paojiao lian'ou  貴州泡椒蓮藕  
Guangxi 
Makes about 2 cups

Lotus root and aromatics:
1 plump lotus root, about 6 to 7 inches long
½ teaspoon sea salt
Filtered water as needed
3 green onions, trimmed and chopped into ¼-inch rounds
1 tablespoon peeled fresh garlic, finely chopped
10 or more pickled red chilies (I use 14)
2 plump garlic cloves, thinly sliced

Brine:
2 tablespoons vinegar from the pickled chilies
¼ cup light rice vinegar or good cider vinegar
¼ cup sugar
2 teaspoons sea salt
Filtered water as needed

1. Peel the lotus root and remove both ends. Rinse the root thoroughly under running water; if there is mud in one of the holes, use a thin chopstick to scrub the inside. Cut the lotus root lengthwise in half and then into quarter-inch cubes. Place the cubed lotus root in a small saucepan, add the half teaspoon salt, and cover with water. Bring the pan to a full boil and then reduce to a simmer. Cook the root for about 5 minutes, or until it is just barely tender but still has a crunchy texture. Drain the pan in a colander and rinse the lotus root with cool water to stop the cooking.

2. Place the cooked lotus root in a 3 cup container with the green onions, ginger, pickled chilies, and cloves. Mix together the pickled chili vinegar, rice vinegar, sugar, and salt, and then pour this over the vegetables; add just enough water to almost cover them. Refrigerate the pickle for at least 24 hours. Remove whatever amount you want with a very clean slotted spoon. The pickle will stay crispy and tasty for at least 5 days.

Velvety lacy slices

Guangxi style lotus root with red bean curd cheese 
Guishi nanru oupian 桂式南乳藕片
Guangxi
Serves 4 as a side dish

1 plump lotus root, about 6 to 7 inches long
2 teaspoons roasted sesame oil
2 cloves garlic, thinly sliced  
½ cup filtered water
½ teaspoon sea salt
1 cube red fermented bean curd (aka red bean curd cheese or nanru), lightly mashed, plus a dribble of the nanru's sauce
1 teaspoon sugar

1. Peel the lotus root and remove both ends. Rinse the root thoroughly under running water; if there is mud in one of the holes, use a thin chopstick to scrub the inside. Thinly slice the lotus root crosswise into lacy rounds.

Creamy vs. crunchy

2. Heat the sesame oil in a wok over medium-high heat until it smells wonderful, and then add the lotus root. Quickly stir-fry them for a minute or two to heat them through. Then, add the rest of the ingredients. Toss the lotus roots in the sauce for a few minutes until the sauce thickens. Taste and adjust seasoning, and then serve in a pretty bowl.

Tips

Select lotus roots that are heavy for their size. Avoid any with soft spots or heavy bruises, as this also indicates that the roots might be muddy inside.

Store the roots in a plastic bag in the refrigerator. They keep best if wrapped with a damp paper towel first since they are, after all, aquatic plants.

Pickled chili peppers will be found in the condiment aisle of Chinese markets. Look for peppers that are a shiny red, which shows that they are still fresh; dull red ones have been around too long. Keep leftovers in the fridge like any other pickle.

Red fermented bean curd (red bean curd cheese or 南乳 nanru) will also be on the condiment aisle. Store an opened container in a cool place, preferably the fridge if you're not going to use it up quickly. (I will be sharing a recipe for this creamy ingredient before long... so if you don't have your Red Wine Lees made yet, get started!)

If you want, you can use regular doufuru with a teaspoon or so of the Red Wine Lees.