As a starter, a waiter brought a huge platter called Buddha’s Head. It had but a slight resemblance to a human head-it was carved out of a white gourd, steamed in a bamboo steamer covered with a huge green lotus leaf.

“A special dish.” Pei was all smiles, giving the go-ahead signal to the waiter holding a long bamboo knife.

Chen watched the waiter saw a piece off of the “skull” with the knife, put the chopsticks into the “brains,” and come up with a fried sparrow-inside a grilled quail-inside a braised pigeon.

“So many brains in one head,” one of the executives chuckled.

“It’s Buddha,” Chen said, smiling. “No wonder.”

“All the essences mix together to produce an extraordinary brain boost,” another manager added, “for intellectuals who constantly cudgel their brains out.”

“A perfect balance of yin and yang,” still another said, “from a variety of fowls.”

Chen had heard of theories regarding dietary correspondence between humans and other species. His mother used to cook pork brains for his benefit, but here it was far more elaborate than he had expected.

Then came a lake turtle, steamed with crystal sugar, yellow wine, ginger, scallion, and a few slices of Jinhua ham.

“As we all know, turtle is good for yin, but all you can get at the market are farm-raised, fed with hormones and antibiotics. Ours is different. It comes directly from the lake,” Pei said emphatically, sipping at his wine. “People have erroneous notions about yin/yang. In the winter, they devour red meat, such as lamb, dog, and deer, but that’s not dialectical-”

“Supposedly a boost to yang, so it’s good in the cold winter, I’ve heard,” Chen said, intrigued by Pei ’s lecture, which sounded quite philosophical, “but I’ve never learned about the dialectical part.”

“For some people, with the yang in their system already pathologically high, the red meat choices could be harmful. In a case like that, the turtle actually contributes to the balance,” Pei said, looking flushed more from Chen’s response than from the wine. “Now another common mistake is that people believe sex leads to the depletion of yin and is therefore dangerous. They forget that hard work also consumes yin.”

“Really!” Chen said, thinking of the “thirsty illness” he had been analyzing for his paper. “That’s quite profound.”

“Our dinner is a perfectly balanced one. Good for both yin and yang. Confucius says, you cannot be too selective with your food. What does that mean? Surely it is not just about the taste. For a sage like Confucius, it goes much deeper. Food must be a real boost, so that you will make a great achievement for your country.”

Whether or not it was copied from those classic books solely for business purposes, it was true that Confucian echoes still resounded in Chinese daily life.

Pei proved to be eloquent on more than theories. The banquet continued on with one surprise after another. The gigantic-fish-head soup enriched by American ginseng; Hajia-special Guangxi lizards, fresh instead of dried and processed as commonly seen in herb shops-stewed with white tree ears; and swallow-nest congee strewn with scarlet Gouji.

“Oh, the swallow nest,” Pei exclaimed, raising a ladle. “To make their nests on cliffs, swallows have to take whatever they can pick up and mix it with their saliva-the essence of life.”

The swallow nest was a time-honored bu product. The dainty bowl of sweet congee reminded him of a passage in Dream of the Red Chamber, in which a delicate girl’s swallow-nest breakfast costs more than a farmer’s food for a whole year.

“But how can the swallow saliva be so special?” Chen asked again.

“From time to time people feel dry in their mouths, lacking saliva, especially after the cloud and rain, you know,” Pei said with a warm smile. “That’s a symptom of insufficient yin.”

“Yes, thirsty illness,” Chen said. But people could feel thirsty for all kinds of reasons, he reflected, not necessarily because of the clouds and rain.

To Chen’s surprise, what appeared next on the banquet table was a bowl of fatty pork braised in soy sauce. A homely dish, in sharp contrast to all the extravagances.

“Chairman Mao’s special,” Pei said, reading the question in Chen’s eyes. “On the eve of a crucial battle during the second civil war, Mao declared, ‘My brain is worn out, I need soy-sauce-braised fatty pork to boost it up.’ In those years, it was not always easy to serve meat on the table, but for Mao, the Central Party Committee managed to provide a bowl of fatty pork every day. Sure enough, Mao led the People’s Liberation Army from one victory to another. So how could Mao be wrong?”

“No, Mao could never be wrong,” Chen echoed, finding that the pork tasted quite good.

The climax of the banquet came in-a caged monkey with its head sticking out, its skull shaven, and its limbs fixed. A waiter put the cage down for them to inspect, holding a steel knife and a small brass ladle, smiling, and waiting for the signal. Chen had heard of the special course before. The monkey’s skull was to be sawed off, so the diners could enjoy the live brain, so fresh and bloody.

But Chen was suddenly unnerved, sweating, almost like he had been that morning. Perhaps he hadn’t recovered yet.

“What’s wrong, Master Chen?” Pei inquired.

“I am fine, Manager Pei,” Chen said, wiping the sweat on his forehead with a napkin. “The pork is so good, reminding me of what my mother cooked for me in my childhood. She is a devoted Buddhist. So I would like to make a proposal on her behalf. Please release the monkey. In the Buddhist belief, it’s called fangsheng-release a life.”

“Fangsheng-” Pei was not prepared for it at all, but he was quick coming around. “Yes, Master Chen is a filial son. So we will do what he wants.”

The others agreed. The waiter carried out the cage, promising to release the monkey into the hills. Chen thanked him, though wondering whether the waiter would keep his word.

Pei was such a warm, gracious host that soon Chen forgot all about the monkey episode. Outside the window, the evening spread out like a scroll of a traditional Chinese landscape, presenting a winter panorama against the distant horizon. At this altitude, the light remained longer. The peaks had never appeared more fantastic, as if sporting their beauty as a last plea to remain in the glow of the day.

He was warmed with a sense of well-being, holding a cup. The bu banquet worked, if only psychologically.

When he got back to his room later that night, he felt almost like a recharged battery in a TV commercial.

He also felt relaxed. Reclining against the soft-cushioned headboard, he indulged in a wave of pleasant drowsiness. In the city, he had had trouble falling asleep. But he didn’t have to worry tonight. Could that be because of the dinner? The boost to yin, or to yang, to which his body had already responded.

In the midst of his wandering thoughts, he fell asleep.

And he slept on. He must have woken up a couple of times, but with the curtains shutting out the daylight, with no city traffic noise coming from below, and with a feeling of laziness enveloping him, he didn’t get up. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t even check the clock on the nightstand. It was a rare, inexplicable experience, but good for his recovery, he thought.

He fell asleep again, losing track of time.