An Assault of Smells

The smell of stinky tofu. It is one thing to see it sitting in jars with indecipherable Chinese writing-the cloudy lumps in sanitized jars are contained, safe.
On humid streets I am confronted with what I believe to be the most noxious smell, only comparable to a mix of mouldy feet with growing fungus, days-old soured milk, rotting raw chicken breast, and open sewage. The smell is enough to stop one in their tracks.
In Shanghai, one cannot stop-you are compelled to move along with the natural wave of people, half-listening to the clamouring voices of stalls, and the dense humidity of the air that is permeated with the spices of outdoor food. Stopping in the middle of the crowd is tantamount to interrupting what is understood to be the manner of movement, and can thus earn you a scornful spit in one’s direction.
Stop I did. I was compelled to find the source of the smell. Having been in China for months, I assumed that having eaten a writhing scorpion on a skewer, marinated pork-fat, and camel’s hump meant that somehow I was a Chinese street cuisine connoisseur.
I move slowly through dense crowds, following my nose to the cart in question. I take note that the crowd of people surrounding the cart uses bags, elbows, and body weight to make their order known to the nonplussed vendor behind the cart. The rising agitation and excitement of his customers’ demands for large boxes of chòu dòufu is distinct, and each buyer scurries away with their treasure, some unable to wait for more than a few steps before shovelling brown solid gold into their mouths.
Timidly I approach the cart, ask for a sample-the mere request which can warrant a clacking of the cooking tongs in your direction. I guess I look like a nervous traveller, so the tofu chef offers a smallish piece on the end of his tongs to me with a knowing smirk, and an excusal: “It is okay if you don’t like it-only the locals like this.” I take it with my fingers, and take a nibble off the corners.
I initially have to get over the smell and texture of the little innocent-looking cube I hold in my hand. There is a distinct gap between its smell and appearance to its taste; tangy, slippery, smoky and spicy all at once. I guess my surprised look elicits laughter from the vendor(and those around the cart watching me intently). For my risk, I am the recipient of slaps on the back, and of course, a free box of stinky tofu to (according to the vendor) “keep on enjoying” as I continue my walk down the street.