I am incapable of drinking butt.

I didn’t always know this about myself. On a winter day I walked into Papaya King with El Ultimo and ordered a combo meal with papaya smoothie.

“You got the papaya?” He queried in an uncharacteristic tone of caution. “Melissa says that stuff tastes like butt.”

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth mid-swallow. It’s funny how readily my taste buds registered the flavors of butt despite their having never been exposed to the genuine article (I hope). I gagged a bit, put the straw back in my mouth and finished my drink.

I decided to never drink butt again. I drew a fine line between instinct and intolerance that called into question why I simply don’t eat certain foods. I’ve long had slanted tastes, preventing me from enjoying many a dish because of the presence of raw onions, mayonnaise, cheese and a great many other staples of cuisine from any country. Some of these aversions I interpret as physiological – If you give me a sandwich with mayo and cheese in it, it’s likely that I’ll throw up trying to eat it. Others I would describe as psychosomatic – I never had much of a problem with mushrooms until a middle aged bohemian Russian artist with the flu served me homemade pickled and salted mushrooms from a bowl buried deep in his refrigerator and covered with foliage.

When it comes to eating things like butt, I suspect that my gag reflex acts more as a cultural barrier than a biological defense mechanism. Disgust, after all, is as culturally informed as taste, and I hadn’t gagged on papaya until my olfactory receptors received the search command that would make it impossible for me to digest that particular flavor as anything else. Even when I know better, I find myself rendered helpless by the stubbornness of my own senses, the limitations of my own liminality.

Nevertheless, I do know better. Last weekend, I happily took up an offer by Bobby Digital to introduce me to Taiwanese stinky tofu in Flushing. Infamously straightforward about its pungent aroma (one friend of mine referred to it as “homeless tofu,” while another referred to it as “fucking nasty”), stinky tofu would actually be out of place in the pantheon of extreme eating. It’s entirely commonplace, in restaurants and on the street, in most of China, and is considered by some to be the national food of Taiwan. Much like natto, kimchi and any number of fermented staples, stinky tofu is essentially a comfort food. Only in the guise of a foreign substance does it trigger warning.

That’s not to say that it doesn’t stink. The stinky tofu we were served at Gu Sheong Taiwanese Restaurant in downtown Flushing was clouded in a palpable funk – while it didn’t smell like butt, it did smell like rotting butt. I took the fact that I didn’t find this necessarily unappealing as a sign that my palate still showed promise. I dipped a chunk of the fried fermented bean curd into herb laced soy sauce and took my first bite.

The opening of that bite was entirely pleasant. The cooks at Gu Sheong had done a fine job of preparing and cooking the dish; the crisped edges and springy/porous/moist substance of the tofu were textural wins. A slight hue of sour colored what would otherwise be a neutral bite of tofu with a flavor favoring anyone, myself included, who had enjoyed the restaurant’s pork and chinese pickle soup.

I was ready to declare victory for my taste buds when I realized that I wasn’t allowing the tofu to reach the back of my mouth. Finally sensing the odor of the stinky tofu creeping along my taste buds, I learned that my gag reflex had been suppressed by my tongue reflex, a defense mechanism of which I had been entirely unaware. I juggled the crumbling tofu a bit and swallowed, reaching towards the teapot as my tongue darted madly for anything to mask the gentle yet persistent feeling that something was decomposing in my maw.

Tea didn’t do the trick, so I dove into our other dishes. Gu Sheong’s shredded pork with bean curd proved to be a better remedy for the immutable stink; pairing tender pork with hearty, silky, flavorful cuts of tofu in a sweet and savory gravy, it gave my tongue the smack of familiarity it desired. The restaurant’s sauteed water spinach, minimally flavored and enjoyably fresh, was equally delicious. Once my palate had been effectively cleansed, I returned to the entree that Bobby was so nonchalantly devouring.

To my dismay, my second bite of stinky tofu was identical to the first. To say that it was overwhelming or that it tasted bad would be a fallacy; The flavor that so grated against my instincts was undeniably mild. I couldn’t agree more with stinky tofu fans that its taste in no way matches its aroma in potency. Yet, I couldn’t finish three pieces before deciding that I’d been bested. As Bobby cleaned off the plate, I felt more humbled than anything else.

Stinky tofu, true to its name, will linger in the index of my mind. I’m not sure if I ever will turn that fermented page, but as long as I consider myself a champion of pickled eggs and chicken fried bacon, I’ll have no excuse for closing the book on my stunted senses.

Gu Sheong Taiwanese Restaurant
135-38 39th Avenue
Flushing, NY 11355
718.939.5468

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This entry was posted on Monday, May 18th, 2009 at 1:26 am and is filed under New York.