I have a horrible feeling I know what’s going to happen next.
“Just a moment,” says my pal Boon Hee, who lays down his chopsticks, jumps up from the table and scuttles through the packed Imperial Herbal Restaurant here in Singapore. I’m left nervously making small talk with Mrs. Wang Tee Eng, the restaurant owner, in between mouthfuls of quick- fried shredded fish with yam.
My worst fears are confirmed when Boon returns waving two branchlike objects. “This one bull penis; this one deer penis!” he announces triumphantly.
Curious diners watch my expression as Boon and Mrs. Wang explain the aphrodisiac properties of the two organs, and how they’re boiled, dried and sliced to make into curative, or “tonic,” soups and wines. Mrs. Wang is especially explicit. The dainty Singaporean Chinese restaurateur points to the shriveled testicles and rejoices, “That’s where all the hormones are!”
I sit there with an aghast look on my face. I wish someone would beam me up to an overflying 747 that would whisk me stateside, where lunch companions are not in the habit of brandishing mammal members at me in public places.
Mercifully, Boon returns the offending objects to the kitchen, and we resume one of the most interesting-albeit peculiar-meals I’ve ever eaten.
The Imperial Herbal Restaurant-located on Seah Street just blocks from the legendary Raffles Hotel in the heart of “Old Singapore”-is, according to Mrs. Wang, the world’s only restaurant serving a full gamut of dishes expressly intended to remedy conditions ranging from arthritis to low sexual appetite (that’s what the bull and deer you-know-whats are for).
The restaurant’s runaway success in Singapore may be attributed to the Chinese conviction that you truly “are what you eat.” It was inspired by southern China’s “tonic soup” cafes-eateries specializing in soups made with ingredients said to possess curative powers. Patrons of these establishments believe their “yin” and “yang” can be calibrated through judicious consumption of these soups. Tonic soups, according to Boon, are familiar to Singaporeans-most of whom have roots in southern China-because they are a staple of doting mothers who are thrown into a tizzy if one of their offspring looks even slightly off-color (where it comes to mollycoddling, Jewish mothers can’t hold a candle to their Chinese counterparts).
During a visit to southern China in 1986, it occurred to Mrs. Wang-freshly graduated from business school in Canada-that she could take the tonic soup concept a step further in Singapore, whose population is 78 percent Chinese, prosperous and food-obsessed.
She opened the Imperial Herbal Restaurant in 1988. In contrast to the down-home ambience of the traditional tonic soup cafes in southern China, Singapore’s Imperial Herbal Restaurant is decidedly upscale, replete with rosewood furniture and fittings and antique silk wall hangings. The restaurant seats 160, and the day I was there, it was crowded with tables filled with tonic-wine-chugging housewives, yuppies scarfing dishes intended to reduce their stress levels, ginseng-gobbling tourists from Hong Kong, Taiwan and Japan, and even a few bemused qweilo (white devils-like me).
On Mrs. Wang’s payroll from the beginning has been Li Lian Xing, a famous Chinese herbalist from Tianjin, China. Mr. Li worked with a master chef from China, Shi Lian Yong, to concoct a myriad of health-enhancing recipes. Not only did the dishes have to have curative powers, they also had to be delicious .
This is Chinese cuisine at its most sophisticated-as different in style and substance from your local Chinese takeout as nouvelle cuisine is from Burger King. It is the caliber of fare one would expect from a kitchen overseen by a former winner of China’s National Culinary Competition, as Mr. Shi is. Before leaving China, Mr. Shi was the winner of more awards, competitions and medals than any other chef in that country.
Take, for instance, my shredded fish with yams. The fresh steamed fish was firm but tender and served in a pungent garlic sauce that was sweet, savory and spicy all at once-superb to the taste.
But that’s only half the story. According to Mrs. Wang, the yams will help strengthen my spleen and stomach, thus improving my digestive system, and tone up my lungs and kidneys.
And that’s not all. The dish also purports to reduce blood sugar and remedy mild forms of diabetes.
As for the double-boiled chicken soup with ginseng and Chinese wolfberry, the hearty dark broth allegedly improves blood circulation, lowers cholesterol, improves eyesight and helps control diabetes. The chickens they use for this dish, incidentally, are “black chickens,” a different breed of fowl whose flesh is as dark as slate.
The Singaporean Chinese believe this breed of chicken is more nutritious than your run-of-the-mill white-fleshed variety.
Double-boiling, as Mrs. Wang explains, is the process of cooking soup in a container that is then placed in yet another cauldron filled with boiling water. There is no direct contact with the heat, so it cooks slowly and steadily. There is no likelihood that the soup will get burned and the very low evaporation rate insures that most of the nutrients remain. Tonic soups are usually double-boiled for at least three hours.
Warming to the subject, I ask Mrs. Wang to recommend something for the after-effects of a 24-hour transcontinental, trans-Pacific marathon flight from Boston. She doesn’t miss a beat. “Coming from a cold, dry climate to Singapore, which is hot and humid, requires your lungs to be moistened,” she says. “And for that I recommend dishes using the bulb of lily flowers.”
And jet lag itself? “Ginseng!” blurts Boon, and Mrs. Wang nods sagely.
“Ginseng in tea, in soup, in main dishes-always restorative,” she intones.
Flipping through the menu, I encounter dishes far more exotic than the ones Boon has ordered for us: monkey-head mushroom with milk vetch root (“improves complexion; enhances memory and all mental functions; sedative prevention of cancer, especially stomach cancer”); stewed shin beef with plygonum multiflorum soup (“prevents premature graying; promotes longevity”); freshwater fish with American ginseng (“prevents spontaneous perspiration, fatigue, shortness of breath”); the whip soup (“aphrodisiac”); gui fei soup (“a lady’s tonic soup for a youthful and beautiful complexion”); multiflorum jelly (“preserves the original color of the hair”).
Some dishes have as their main ingredient scorpions and ants, which are first marinated in Chinese rice wine and deep-fried in a lightly spiced batter until they are a crispy golden brown. Ants, a group of esteemed Chinese scientists recently reported, act against rheumatism, hepatitis B and other “immunity disorders.”
I’m skeptical. But Mrs. Wang points to China’s millennia-long herbalist tradition, part of Chinese medicine’s “four pillars” (the other three are acupuncture, manipulation and foot therapy).
She correctly observes that Western medicine has for years been co-opting tenets of its much older Chinese counterpart. AIDS researchers are particularly aggressive in their pursuit of Chinese herbalist cures.
Among sophisticated Singaporeans, one of the Imperial Herbal Restaurant’s selling points is Mr. Li’s ability to get his hands on China’s finest herbs, many of which the Chinese government restricts from being exported. This is thanks to the restaurant’s being a joint venture with the Chinese government-an anomaly that is testament to Mrs. Wang’s proficiency in the art of the deal (for their part, the Chinese government welcomes the foreign currency).
Another draw is Mr. Li. The trained herbalist (he’s also a qualified physician) mans a traditional-looking Chinese herbal medicine counter close to the elegant restaurant’s entranceway, a sight that is as incongruous as a prescription counter at Morton’s.
By request, Mr. Li will check your pulse and examine your tongue, provide a diagnosis of your health and recommend dishes you should order. He may also prescribe a package of herbs for you to steep in hot water and drink. These packaged herbs range in price from $4-$15 (U.S.).
A woman might choose a remedy for female sexual ennui, a mixture of herbs appropriately named for Qin Fei Yin, a reputedly insatiable imperial courtesan.
Or how about an herb mixture that promises to preserve the recipient’s “youth and longevity”?
Mrs. Wang has astutely tapped into the Singaporean Chinese fascination with food and its relationship to health.
Her regulars include many top politicians, including Lee Kuan Yew himself, prime minister for 25 years and now the nation’s senior minister.
Part of the restaurant’s appeal lies in its competitive prices.
Set lunches for two begin at about $43 (U.S.). An excellent dinner for two can be had for $60 (U.S.).
Bear in mind, the more of you there are, the lower the price and the greater the variety of dishes you can sample.
And yes, it’s easy to find items on the menu that won’t deter the faint of heart and the timid of palate.
Most of the dishes feature quite familiar ingredients-seafood, poultry, beef and vegetables. It’s only the presence of the oddly named curative herbs that is potentially off-putting.
Of course, bolder gourmands can venture off the menu’s beaten path toward the deep-fried ants and bull penises.
Mrs. Wang tells me she has begun a trend; herbal restaurants are in the works elsewhere in Southeast Asia.
However, she’s quick to point out that so far, none of those restaurants has the same special arrangement she does with the Chinese government.
Slowly the restaurant starts to empty. Boon and I finish our dessert of menthol jelly with honeysuckle flower (“good for sore throat”), which frankly makes me feel a little peculiar. Although it has the look and texture of lime gelatin, the menthol has the same effect on the lungs that old-fashioned mentholated chest rubs do.
I sit back in my seat, waiting for a wave of well-being to wash over me, sweeping away in its path the detritus of jet lag and an overindulgent night on the town, not to mention the heebie-jeebies from the four cups of coffee needed to get me going this morning.
Nothing. I wait a little longer. Still nothing.
“It’s not like Western drugs,” Mrs. Wang says admonishingly. “You must live healthily and eat herbal meals regularly. No quick-fix solutions.”
Well, at least my “original hair color” has been preserved.
