“Simple is better.”
Morihiro Onodera tells me about the different flavors of tofu he has made over the years. The chef at Morihiro Restaurant in Atwater Village is one of the country's most revered sushi masters. He has also been making his own tofu since he was a child on his family's farm in Fujisawa, Japan.
Onodera has made tofu with mashed sweet white summer corn when it is in season. She has even made tofu with beets.
“It looked really unique,” he says with a laugh. But as with most things, he says, simple is better.
Chef Mori's signature tofu at Morihiro
Chef Mori Onodera at Morihiro. The chef serves his signature tofu at the beginning of each omakase meal at the bar.
(Shelby Moore/For The Times)
The omakase at Morihiro Sushi Bar starts with a block of fresh tofu, simply garnished with his own soy sauce and a small pile of fresh wasabi. It’s the same way he’s presented the dish for the past 23 years, ever since he started serving homemade tofu at his eponymous Mori Sushi restaurant in 2001.
“I remember that at that time nobody served homemade tofu, and I like to serve a very special tofu,” he says.
Onodera used to make his own soy milk, spending three to four hours on each batch before turning it into tofu. Now, he sources his soy milk from a producer in Kyoto, Japan, and continues to make fresh tofu daily for the restaurant.
The tofu arrives as a first course, in a blue ceramic bowl with green flecks that the chef also made himself. For years, Onodera has made ceramics for his restaurants, as well as for a few others in the city, such as Providence and Mélisse.
The milky-colored tofu is darkened with a few drops of soy sauce and a small pile of fresh wasabi.
I like to sprinkle the wasabi on top, distributing it evenly over the smooth surface. The tofu is beyond silky, creamier than custard, and softer than you might imagine. It's a texture unique to Onodera tofu, with a nutty soy milk flavor that's just as unique.
The soy sauce that will accompany the nigiri later in the meal is fortified with sake and konbu. The soy sauce used to dress the tofu is thicker and richer, and its umami comes from both the tamari and soy sauce, sugar, and maguro flakes.
Wasabi sharpens each spoonful with a nose-tingling freshness.
What follows the tofu is a meal of seasonal vegetables, grilled fish, fried seafood, artfully crafted nigiri and a dessert worthy of the biggest celebration. But those six spoonfuls of tofu at the beginning are a delight.
Tofu with macha sauce at Yess
Tofu with macha sauce from Yess restaurant in the Arts District.
(Jenn Harris/Los Angeles Times)
My affinity for the cold tofu at Yess, chef Junya Yamasaki’s restaurant in the Arts District, has little to do with the block of good cold tofu and everything to do with the fact that it’s smothered in my favorite condiment.
Yamasaki thought about making a more traditional cold tofu for his Japanese restaurant, topping the dish with shredded bonito, ginger and scallions. Or maybe he could make mala sauce, inspired by his time spent in Sichuan, China, and his friendship with Jing Gao, founder of Fly by Jing Sichuan crispy chili products. Ultimately, he settled on macha sauce.
“Here in Los Angeles, you want to do something a little more fun and original,” Yamasaki says. “I also love Mexican food, and Mexican food is pretty much the food of Los Angeles. I also love salsa macha.”
He thought of the similarities between Sichuan chili crisp and salsa macha, their respective sources of heat, crunch and umami. Yamasaki’s version starts by sautéing chopped ginger and garlic in rice bran oil. He reserves the oil, then adds dried guajillo chile, chile de árbol and cascabel chiles to the softened ginger and garlic. To give the sauce a savory base, Yamasaki stirs in red miso, black vinegar and mirin. He then pours the warmed rice bran oil over the mixture.
To ensure the various nuts and seeds in your sauce stay crunchy, toast the almonds, pumpkin seeds, and sesame seeds separately and then add them after the hot oil.
Chef Junya Yamasak prepares dishes inside the large open kitchen at Yess restaurant in the Arts District.
(Mariah Tauger/Los Angeles Times)
Before the sauce, Yamasaki places a spoonful of diced cucumber and radish on top of the Meji tofu square, along with a drizzle of tamari. Then, he pours on enough macha sauce to completely saturate the tofu block. Nuts, seeds, and rehydrated dried chili flakes collect on top in a small clump while oil and vinegar threaten to overflow over the sides of the plate.
It's hard to resist the juxtaposition of soft, cold tofu with warm, crunchy sauce. When the tofu was gone, I used my spoon to scoop up the remnants of macha sauce, treating the ultra-coarse condiment as if it were its own garnish. If Yamasaki ever bottles his sauce, I suspect I'll be eating it straight from the jar.
