Taiwanese Stinky Tofu Restaurants

The other night I had a food adventure. I like to try new things, just to know what they are like, just to have the experience. I have a friend here who is the same way. We were starving, so together we went searching through a Taiwanese night market for some grub, almost literally.

We stopped at a stall where a man with beetlenut reddened, crooked teeth was selling various Taiwanese snacks. He had a pile of tasty looking bright green soybeans. With salivary glands fully functioning, we ordered up a bag. Seemingly happy that foreigners were patronizing his booth, he wanted to share his oriental delights with us. He handed out samples of everything for us to try. It started with a rubbery brown ring. I took a bite. It was squid soaked in sweet soy sauce, and probably by far the most succulent squid I have ever eaten. He then handed us a white slice that almost looked like a piece of Swiss cheese. I crunched into the juicy treat. It was some sort of pickled vegetable flavored with a delicious gingery sauce. We paid his about $1 USD and he gave us a huge bag of soybeans. They were scrumptiously marinated in peppery vinaigrette, light, crisp, and fresh. We munched on our snack and continued our search.

We stopped in front of a stinky tofu restaurant. You can smell a stinky tofu place from a mile away, with its foul odor like the grimiest barroom men’s bathroom, or a port-o-potty that has been left to stew and fester in the hot summer sun for weeks. I think there is a common saying about stinky tofu that goes something like, “Smells like a bathroom, but tastes heavenly.”

Everyone in Taiwan that I meet asks if I have eaten stinky tofu, so I decided to be brave and finally try the malodorous stuff. We also ordered a bowl of soup to even out our meal, hoping that if the tofu was a bust that the soup would be a safety back-up. Boy, were we wrong.
The tofu arrived at the table, fried crispy blocks drenched soy sauce and accompanied by a sprig of pickled cabbage. It didn’t smell that bad. I diligently picked up a cube with my chopsticks and raised it into my quivering mouth. It wasn’t as horrible as I thought, but it wasn’t as magnificent as claimed either. I swallowed, waited. The after taste was vile. Like the smell of a toilet was caught in my nasal passage, rising up from the sewer pipes of the back of my throat, rotting and clogged in my stomach. I bravely and politely continued to eat, just to fulfill my ravenous hunger.

The soup came. There were thin noodles suspended in a brown gelatinous broth. This was topped by strange slices of some sort unspecified organ and globular clear gray balls floating like brains in a Petri dish. I hesitantly picked up a “brain” with my chops sticks and popped it down the chute. Its sliminess squished between my teeth bursting with a fishy, unexpected taste. Was this a brain? Who’s brain? The whole soup tasted like fish, pungent and revolting. I do not like to waste food so I kept eating, or rather trying to swallow without chewing my cud. I was glad my friend was there so I did not have to finish the dishes on my own. I snuck some of my portion of the brains into her bowl when she wasn’t looking to sooth my gag reflexes. A Taiwanese woman was chatting with us at our table. She commended us on our courage. “Most foreigners do not eat at places like this.” I smiled gracefully and nodded, but in the back of my mouth my taste buds screamed, “I can taste why!”

When I returned home I viciously scrubbed my mouth with my toothbrush and a massive quantity of toothpaste to rid myself of the flavors. Yet, I still feel like I have the vile tastes imbedded on my tongue, emanating from my innards.