Jenny Yang presses a quarter-sized chunk of tofu, still hot from the production line, into my gloved hand. Around us, workers in hair nets and slip-on booties navigate the steamy industrial kitchen — a stark contrast to the dry Chicago winter wind whipping outside — as they grind and boil soybeans, eventually turning the resulting milk into thick, pristine slabs of ivory tofu.
She motions for me to pop the cube in my mouth. I do, expecting it to taste of . . . well, nothingness and maybe a whisper of edamame. Instead, it's silky, clean, subtly earthy, sweet and a little nutty. This, I realize, is what tofu is supposed to taste like.
