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etiquette of eating: we should wait until a Shifu, mentor, struck the bell before we began. We should refrain from making noise and from looking around. We should concentrate on our food, not take more than necessary, and eat all of it. We should clean our bowls and plates as well as we possibly could.
    A lot of rules for the first day. Did the monks and nuns ever break any of them?
    The monk went on to read the menu: steamed tofu with mushrooms, stir-fried lettuce with cashews and chestnuts, and soup with dried dates, seaweed, and lotus root.
    The Chinese call the taste of vegetarian dishes “widow’s taste”—like the numb feeling of having lost one’s beloved. My tongue felt dulled when I heard the menu, despite Yi Kong’s teaching that the killing of any sentient being results in very bad karma. You might end up eating your own mother, chewing on the intestines of your brother, sucking the bones of your grandfather, crunching the feet of your daughter, or swallowing the head of your son. Some close relative in a past life may now be a fish, a cow, a chicken, a sheep, a pig.
    The monk struck a small bell and we began to chant the “Five Reflections.”
    I was surprised to hear this frail-looking monk chant in a plummy, sonorous voice:
“I reflect on the work that brings this food before me, let me see from where this food comes.
I reflect on my imperfections, on whether I am deserving of this offering of food….”
    The group chanted more confidently as they continued:
“I take this food as an effective medicine to keep my body in good health.
I accept this food so that I will fulfill my task of enlightenment.”
    The chant ended in a crescendo, with everybody looking spirited; then another monk struck the bell to signal the beginning of lunch.
    Although we were not supposed to look around when eating, I still couldn’t help but scan the crowd when I lifted up my bowl to eat. Why not—weren’t rules made to be broken?
    A group of boys looked very cute as they hungrily shoved food into their mouths, forgetting not to smack their lips, nor slurp while drinking their water. The adults ate the mass-produced vegetarian dishes without enthusiasm—here in the renowned eating paradise of Hong Kong.
    While scraping rice into my mouth, I saw the American, Michael Fuller, in the front row opposite me. When would I have the chance to repay him the five hundred Hong Kong dollars? Being the only non-Chinese in the retreat, he had to be the doctor whom the nun had mentioned. To my surprise, he ate with a cheerful countenance and a lively rhythm, as if the bland, greasy dish were gourmet food. He manipulated the chopsticks perfectly. Like a conductor wielding his baton to conjure musical notes, he orchestrated the tofu, mushrooms, seaweed, and cashews smoothly into his mouth. Not only that, he also helped to put food into the bowl of the skinny boy beside him, who struggled nervously with his chopsticks.
    Fearing that he might look up and see me studying him, I finally looked away. Yet none of the other men opposite me seemed interesting, so I turned to study the children for a while before looking back at Michael Fuller. He ate his rice Japanese style, using the chopsticks to pick up the grains instead of scraping rice into his mouth from the bowl like most Chinese do.
    I sighed, impressed by his affection for the flavorless dish, while thinking of how Hong Kong’s rich people show off by eating shark’s fin soup for breakfast or feeding their children bird’s nest soup for supper. Michael Fuller looked up and our eyes met. I immediately looked away.
    I turned to watch the stern-faced nuns strolling between the rows to supervise and decided to perform some imaginary improvements to their faces. What if the thin one’s eyes were not so pinched—would they look less intimidating? What if the plump one’s lips were lifted to a forty-five degree angle instead of drooping like a capsized boat? What if the large mole on the