Tofu histories
“How long have you had this shop?”
“Before the war”
I’m not surprised by the answer. She looks like she’ll be checking out anytime soon.
“Do you still make tofu the same way?”
“Some little changes here and there, but basically the same. What can you change about it? It’s tofu.”
I arrived at this shop by chance. I would have never found the neighborhood unless my cellphone told me to go this way. I was on my way to get my hair cut, and decided to go by bike. Tokyo streets are notorious for never going straight, so I input the hairstylist’s address in my cellphone’s GPS and followed the instructions.
I eventually drove into a shopping arcade that seemed stuck in time. Small stores dotted the sideways, and mothers with children on their bikes were the queens of the road.
After driving past the main buzz of the arcade, and having already loaded on fruits and vegetables from the local peddler, I saw tofu from the corner of my eye.
“Can I have a block of soft tofu, and a couple of fried tofu cakes?” “One more thing…would you mind if I take a picture of your store?”
“Go ahead.”
The shop had a couple of big pots, boilers, deep friers and refrigerators. At the back you could see their home with a five year old watching TV. Small businesses are on their way out, and I wouldn’t be surprised if keeping the old lady busy was the only reason the family still ran a tofu shop.
“Would you like to be in the picture?”
“Bad luck.”
When your business survived more than 60 years, who am I to argue against her superstitions. I hopped on my bike, and drove home to make miso soup with a piece of tofu history.
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I love places like that.
How was the tofu?
This is the kind of thing I wish wasn’t disappearing from Japan. I love these little tofu shops run by old couple but the one in my neighborhood closed this year. Nice post, thank you!
There used to be a similar tofu shop at the old market place near my home in China. It was much smaller than the grandma’s shop, with very dim lights and the floor was always moist from the steamer. There were piles of squared wooden boxes set up on a long bench. The shop owner would open the box once I told him what I wanted buy for the day. Sometimes the tofu would be so fresh that hot steam ooze out once the cover was lifted. The tofu in my memory had a much stronger soya taste, the color less white but the texture delicate. My favorite way of eating it will be with a little green onion and soya sauce. The best is the simplest.
The market is now replaced by bamboo shot looking high raises and box shopping malls. Why does the tastiest thing only lives in our memory?