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Chou En-lai and the Dinner of the Pig
Back in China, White found himself more and more frequently in touch with another of the larger-than-life figures thrust up by the 20th century. His friendship with Chou Enlai, who headed the minuscule Communist liaison headquarters in Chungking, ripened over a memorable meal:
Having been tugged too often by friendship and affection for men I have reported, I am now as wary of friendship with the great as a reformed drunkard of the taste of alcohol. But Chou En-lai was, along with Joseph Stilwell and John F. Kennedy, one of the three great men I met and knew in whose presence I had near-total suspension of disbelief or questioning judgment. In all three cases I would now behave otherwise, but most of all in the case of Chou En-lai—a man as brilliant and ruthless as any the Communist movement has thrown up in this century, yet one capable of warm kindness, irrepressible humanity and silken courtesy. He had a way of entrancing people, and I cannot deny that he won my affection completely.
Perhaps the best way of getting at the twinkling character of the man and his charm is to describe what I remember as the dinner of the pig.
Chou had much time then, for the six-or seven-man staff of the Chinese Communist headquarters in Chungking were a lonesome group; and the visit of a malleable young American reporter gave them an opportunity, as they saw it, of influencing TIME magazine. After a year of growing friendship, Chou En-lai invited me to a banquet in my honor. We went to the finest restaurant in Chungking, the Kuan Sun Yuan, to dine—Chou, the Communist headquarters staff and myself, the only Westerner.
The reader must remember now how far I had come from my Jewish home. I knew I had been for months eating nonkosher food, but always tried to delude myself that the meats I ate were lamb, beef, or chicken. I was still so pinned to Jewish tradition that to eat pig outright seemed a profanation. At Chou En-lai's banquet, however, the main course was unmistakably pig, a golden-brown, crackle-skinned roast suckling pig.
"Ch 'ing, ch 'ing, "said Chou Enlai, the host. "Please, please," gesturing with his chopsticks at the pig, inviting the guest to break the crackle first. For a moment I held on to my past. I put my chopsticks down and explained as best I could in Chinese that I was Jewish and that Jews were not allowed to eat any kind of pig meat. The group, all friends of mine by then, sat downcast and silent, for I was their guest, and they had done wrong.
Then Chou himself took over. He lifted his chopsticks once more, repeated, "ch 'ing, ch 'ing, "pointed the chopsticks at the suckling pig and, grinning, explained—"Teddy," he said, "this is China. Look again. See. Look. It looks to you like pig. But in China, this is not a pig —this is a duck." I burst out laughing, for I could not help it; he laughed, the table laughed, I plunged my chopsticks in, broke the, crackle, ate my first mouthful of certified pig, and have eaten of pig ever since, for which I hope my ancestors will forgive me.
But Chou was that kind of man—he could make one believe that pig was duck, because one wanted to believe him,