Ganmodoki (がんもどき, Hiryōzu)

Tofu becomes interesting when you make it give up its water. That sounds severe, but it isn't. Press it, crumble it, knead it with a little grated yam, and the soft block turns into something you can shape with your hands.

People see ganmodoki and think the difficult part must be the frying. It isn't. The first secret is dryness: momen-dōfu (firm cotton tofu) should feel like damp clay, not custard, before it ever meets the oil. Too wet, and the rounds slump and spit. Properly pressed, they brown gently and hold the tiny pieces of carrot, gobō (burdock root), hijiki, and ginkgo as if they had always belonged there.

The vegetables are cut small because this is a tofu dish, not a treasure hunt. Big pieces tear the surface and make the center heavy. A little yamaimo or nagaimo gives the paste its quiet stickiness, so we don't need egg; then the oil sets the outside, and the simmering broth finishes the work. For a meatless table, the dashi comes from konbu and dried shiitake, the way temple kitchens do it. That is 本物 (honmono, the real thing), not a compromise.

Serve ganmodoki beside rice, pickles, and one clear soup, or make it ahead and let it drink its broth overnight. It belongs to comfort food, but not the sort that hides anything. The tofu should taste like tofu, the roots like roots, and the broth should be clear enough to keep everyone honest.