The Republic of Wine

chair, raising his fist to proclaim solemnly, 'I'm going to fuck every pretty girl in Liquorland!'

Bursting with excitement, and grinning from ear to ear, he keeps his arm in the air for a long, long time. I can tell that the oars in his head are churning the waters of his mind, and that the ship of consciousness is being tossed about on the white-capped waves of his spirit. I hold my breath, for fear that I might shatter his reveries.

Finally he relaxes, tosses me a cigarette and asks genially, ‘Know her?’

‘Who?’ I reply.

‘The woman who just left.’

‘No… although there was something familiar about her…’

‘The TV hostess.’

‘Oh, her.’ I smack myself on the forehead, now that it’s come to me. She stands there, microphone in hand, a sweet smile on her face, talking to us but saying little.

‘This is the third!’ he spits out savagely. ‘The third…’ Suddenly his voice turns husky and the light goes out of his eyes. In an instant, wrinkles cover a face that, up till then, had been babied until it was soft and lustrous as precious jade, and a body that was tiny to begin with shrinks even smaller. He sags into his throne-like chair.

In agony, I smoke my cigarette and watch this odd friend of mine, momentarily stumped for anything to say.

‘I want to show all you…’ His murmurs break the oppressive silence. He raises his head. ‘Did you want to see me about something?’ he asks.

‘I brought some friends along, in the Grape Room…’ I’m somewhat flustered. ‘A bunch of poor scholars…’

He picks up the telephone and jabbers something. After hanging up, he turns back and says, ‘Since we’re old friends, I’ve arranged for an all-donkey banquet.’

Friends, talk about gourmet luck! An all-donkey banquet! Moved to the depths of my soul, I bow deeply. Perking up a bit, he goes from sitting to squatting, and the light comes back into his eyes. ‘So you’re a writer now, is that right?’ he asks.

‘Just some dog-fart essays.’ I say, gripped by terror. ‘Not worth mentioning. A little extra income for the family.’

‘My dear Doctor,’ he says, let’s you and me do a little business.’

‘What kind of business?’ I ask.

‘You ghost-write my autobiography,’ he says, ‘and I’ll give you twenty-thousand cash.’

I am so excited my heart thumps wildly, but all I say is, ‘I’m afraid my meager talents are inadequate for such an important task.’

Waving off my disclaimer, he says, ‘Don’t give me any of that false modesty. It’s settled. You’ll come here every Tuesday night and I’ll relate my experiences to you.’

‘Revered elder brother, money or not, as your inferior, it would be an honor to memorialize the life of such an extraordinary man. Money or not…’

‘Can the hypocrisy, jerk,’ he sneers. ‘Money makes the devil turn the millstone. There may be people in this world who don’t love money, but I’ve never met any. Which is why I can announce that I’m going to fuck every pretty girl in Liquorland!’

‘Elder brother’s charm has a lot to do with it.’

‘Pah!' he blurts out. ‘Up your old lady’s you-know-what! Chairman Mao said, “It’s critical to recognize one’s own limitations.” I’ve had enough of your bullshit, so get out of my sight.’

He takes a carton of Marlboros out of his desk drawer and tosses it to me. Holding the cigarettes in my hand, I thank him profusely, then get my ass back to the Grape Room, where I join you, friends, ladies and gentlemen, at the table.

Several dwarfs come up to pour tea and alcoholic beverages and to set the table with plates and chopsticks. They whirl around the table as if they were on wheels. The tea is Oolong, the liquor Maotai; no local flavor, but easily state-banquet quality. First to be served are twelve cold delicacies arranged in the shape of a lotus flower: donkey stomach, donkey liver, donkey heart, donkey intestines, donkey lungs, donkey tongue, and donkey lips… all donkey stuff. Friends, sample these delicacies sparingly and leave room for what follows, for experience tells me that the best is yet to come. Take note, friends, here come the hot dishes. You, the lady over there, be careful, don’t burn yourself! A dwarf all in red – painted red lips and rouged cheeks, red shoes and a red cap, red from head to toe, like a red candle – rolls up to the table carrying a steaming platter of food. She opens her mouth, and out spills a flurry of words, falling like pearls: ‘Braised donkey ear. Enjoy!’ ‘Steamed donkey brains, for your dining pleasure!’ ‘Pearled donkey eyes, for your dining pleasure!’ The donkey eyes, in beautifully contrasting black and white, lay pooled on a large platter. Go ahead, friends, dig in. Don’t be afraid. They might appear to be alive, but they are, after all, just food. But, hold on, there are only two eyes but ten of us. How do we divide them up fairly. Will you help us out here, miss? The red candle girl smiles and picks up a steel fork. Two gentle pokes, and the black pearls pop, filling the platter with a gelatinous liquid. Use your spoons, comrades, scoop it up, one spoonful at a time. It may not be a pretty dish, but it tastes wonderful. I know there’s another dish for which Yichi Tavern is famous. It’s called Black Dragon Sporting with Pearls. The main ingredients are a donkey dick and a pair of donkey eyes. Today, however, the chef has used the eyes to make Pearled Donkey Eyes, so it looks like there’ll be no sporting by the donkey dick this time. Who knows, maybe we’re eating a female donkey.

Don’t be shy, brothers and sisters. Loosen your belts, let your bellies hang out, eat till you burst. There’ll be no toasting, since we’re all family. Just drink to your hearts’ content. And don’t worry about the bill. Today you can bleed me. ‘Donkey ribs in wine, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Donkey tongue in brine, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Braised donkey tendons, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Pear and lotus root donkey throat, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Golden whip donkey tail, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Steamed and fried donkey intestines, for your dining pleasure.’ ‘Stewed donkey hooves with sea cucumbers, for your dining pleasure.’

‘Five-spice donkey liver, for your dining pleasure.’… and so on…

A medley of donkey dishes flows onto our table, filling stomachs that are now stretched taut as drums, and drawing rumbling belches out of the diners. Our faces are covered with a film of donkey grease, through which weariness shows, like donkeys worn out from turning a millstone. Comrades, you must be exhausted by now. I stop an attendant and ask, ‘How many more dishes are there?’

‘Twenty or so, I guess,’ she replies. 'I'm not exactly sure. I just bring out what they give me.’

I point to the friends around the table. ‘They’re nearly full. Can’t we skip some of the dishes?’

With a show of reluctance, she says, ‘You ordered a whole donkey, and you’ve barely made a dent in it.’

‘But we’re stuffed,’ I plead. ‘Dear young lady, won’t you please ask the kitchen to just bring out the best and forget the rest.’

The lady says, ‘You disappoint me, but, OK, I’ll talk to them.’

She is successful. Out comes the final dish.

‘Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together, for your dining pleasure. Enjoy!’

She wants us to enjoy the sight of the dish before beginning our dining pleasure.

One of our group, a sourpuss of a woman – and not very smart, either – asks the attendant, ‘Which part of the donkey is this made of?’

Without hesitation, she answers, ‘It’s the donkey’s sex organ.’

The woman blushes, but, unable to control her curiosity, asks, ‘We only ordered one donkey, so how could there be…’ She puckers up her lips to point at the ‘dragon’ and ‘phoenix’ on the plate.

‘The chef felt terrible that you missed over a dozen dishes,’ the waitress replies, ‘so he added a set of female donkey’s genitalia to create this dish.’

Please dig in, ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, don’t be shy. These are the donkeys’ jewels, as delicious as they are ugly. If you don’t eat, it’s your loss. If you do, it’s still your loss, sooner or later, if you know what I mean. Come on, dig in, give it a try, eat eat eat Dragon and Phoenix Lucky Together.

As everyone wavers, their chopsticks raised, my old friend Yu Yichi saunters into the dining room. I jump to my feet to introduce him to you:

This is the famous Mr Yu Yichi, manager of Yichi Tavern, standing member of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference, standing member of the Board of Governors of the Metropolitan Entrepreneurs Association, provincial model worker, and candidate for national model worker. He is hosting today’s banquet.’

All smiles, he walks around the table shaking hands and passing out perfumed business cards cramped with