Starting from a Bankrupt Sichuan Cuisine Restaurant

The "home-style" in Home-Style Tofu means there’s no set recipe.

Zhou Yan had eaten at countless Sichuan Cuisine restaurants, and perhaps because of the words "home-style," the chefs all took creative liberties.

Some added minced pork, some used pork belly, and others used second-cut pork; he had even tried a version with beef.

The side dishes were even more varied: green and red peppers, wood ear mushrooms, garlic shoots... The main principle seemed to be, ’I’ll add whatever I have in the kitchen today.’

The flavor profiles were incredibly diverse too, ranging from savory to mala, and even a sweet and sour mala.

And you couldn’t deny it—each had its own unique flavor, was delicious, and didn’t break the bank.

So, what did Zhou Yan have in his kitchen?

A piece of the second-cut pork that had been boiled just this morning. That would be the primary accompaniment for this Home-Style Tofu.

The Home-Style Tofu Zhou Yan planned to make today was closer to a "Tofu Twice-Cooked Pork."

It was based on the method for Twice-Cooked Pork, but with tofu added in. He’d had it once in his previous life at a hole-in-the-wall eatery that used authentic second-cut pork, and the texture and flavor had left a profound impression on him.

Of course, the main reason he knew it so well was that he’d gone into their kitchen and filmed the detailed process. He had watched the footage over and over while editing, committing it to memory.

’The fish-fragrant style of Home-Style Tofu is also one of my favorites,’ Zhou Yan thought. ’I’ll have to see if I can recreate that flavor next time.’

Mrs. Zhao took the initiative to handle cleaning the fish.

Zhou Yan sliced the fatty second-cut pork into thin pieces. The Sword Technique was the same as the one for making Twice-Cooked Pork with garlic shoots. He cut the heads of the garlic shoots diagonally into "horse ears" and the leaves into sections. He smashed the ginger and garlic with a single blow before slicing them.

He transferred the tofu from the bowl to the cutting board. It wobbled precariously—it was soft tofu.

Many people prefer to use firm tofu for pan-frying, as it holds its shape, doesn’t crumble easily, and absorbs flavors better.

But Zhou Yan preferred soft tofu, precisely for that crispy-on-the-outside, tender-on-the-inside texture.

He cut the tofu into square slices of uniform thickness. Many restaurants cut it into triangles for a prettier presentation.

In Jiazhou, however, families didn’t cut tofu that way. There were certain beliefs attached to it, and Zhou Yan had no intention of testing Mrs. Zhao’s willingness to give him a taste of her bamboo cane.

He first marinated the fish Mrs. Zhao had prepared with scallions, ginger, and cooking wine. Then, he heated the wok, added a spoonful of rapeseed oil, sprinkled a little salt into the pan, and laid in the tofu to pan-fry slowly over low heat.

SIZZLE! Oil splattered everywhere. Once the tofu was in the pan, you couldn’t be hasty to flip it. After frying until both sides were golden brown, he removed it and set it aside.

You had to hand it to the tofu; though it looked delicate, it proved quite resilient during the frying process.

It was Zhou Yan’s first time pan-frying tofu, yet he hadn’t broken a single piece.

As it fried to a golden brown on both sides, the fragrance of the tofu began to waft through the air.

Zhou Momo had long ago pulled over a small stool to sit on. At some point, she had stood up on it, staring eagerly at the plate of shimmering golden tofu. In a sweet, childish voice, she asked, "Brother, the tofu is so pretty! Is it yummy?"

"Here, I’ll get you a piece to try." Zhou Yan took a small saucer, picked up a piece of tofu from the plate, and while its surface was still sizzling with tiny bubbles of oil, he sprinkled on some salt and pepper. He handed it to Zhou Momo, saying, "It’s hot, okay? Wait for it to cool down a bit before you eat."

What was this?

A simplified, home-style version of iron plate tofu.

Back in his college days, there was a man who sold iron plate tofu from a tricycle behind the university’s back gate. Business was ridiculously good; there were long lines every single day.

He fried his tofu until it was crispy outside and tender inside. The seasoning was fragrant and spicy with a hint of numbing mala, and the surface, fried to a perfect gold, had a dry, aromatic char, while the inside was as smooth as egg custard.

Legend had it that with this single skill, he had roamed the back gates of major universities for ten years and bought three apartments in Rongcheng.

Countless people tried to imitate him, but none could ever take his place.

Zhou Yan was shameless. One time while waiting in line, he struck up a conversation with the man. The vendor said his iron plate tofu was better than anyone else’s because he made the tofu himself. His hometown was Xiba Town in Jiazhou.

West Bank Tofu was incredibly famous, and the Tofu Banquet was one of Jiazhou’s signature culinary experiences.

Moreover, the powdered seasoning he sprinkled on the tofu was his own secret recipe, one he had spent years perfecting. Some barbecue joints even bought their seasoning powder from him.

Unfortunately, even after Zhou Yan tried every trick in the book, he couldn’t get the recipe out of the man. He nearly got a beating for his efforts and was almost blacklisted.

Zhou Momo sat on her little stool, cradling the small saucer in her hands. She blew on the tofu with tiny puffs of air, her eyes fixed on it with reverence. It was impossible to say how many times she had already swallowed in anticipation.

Mrs. Zhao handed her a small spoon, smiling. "Go on, scoop some up and eat."

"Mhm!" The little girl took the spoon, carefully scooped up a corner, and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes flew open, and her delicate eyebrows shot up.

Mmm—so yummy!

It was crispy and crunchy, yet soft and tender.

Her little legs swung happily as she scooped another piece into her mouth. Her eyes curved into smiling crescents; she was clearly delighted.

Zhou Yan, who was now pan-frying the fish, glanced back at her and couldn’t help but smile.

’What a little foodie,’ he thought. ’She’s not picky at all. She can get this happy over a simple piece of fried tofu. Anyone who didn’t know better would think she was eating some fancy dessert.’

Zhou Yan felt that his skill at frying tofu had been honed by practicing on crucian carp.

Compared to the flat, stable tofu, pan-frying crucian carp was a much greater test of Fire Control.

Zhou Yan used lard to fry the crucian carp. After frying two of them until they were golden brown on both sides, he grabbed a thermos and poured in half a pot of hot water.

Whether or not the fish soup turned a milky white all depended on this next step.

The moment the hot water hit the pan, the broth visibly turned a milky white.

"You’re just adding water without anything else? Won’t it be fishy?" Mrs. Zhao asked, watching from the side.

"It was marinated beforehand and fried in lard, so it won’t be fishy," Zhou Yan said with a smile. He added the prepared slices of ginger and scallion to the pot, then drizzled in a little more cooking wine.

"Your crucian carp soup is so white! A perfect milky white! Why doesn’t the soup I make ever turn out this beautiful?" Mrs. Zhao exclaimed in amazement.