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Three days before the feast, at the famous Grand Hotel in Taipei, a batch of rare and expensive shark’s fin is rinsing in a stream of ice water. A heap of abalone, equally expensive, is rinsing too, and dozens of fresh garoupa have just arrived from Australia. “Garoupa from Australia are bigger and tastier,” explains Andy Lian, the food and beverage manager.

Andy has invited us backstage, writer and photographer, for a behind-the-scenes look at the makings of a Chinese banquet. This is no ordinary dinner — it is a formal state banquet, in a city known for its excellent Chinese food. “The guests are expecting something special,” says Andy. For the privilege, each one will pay US$150.

Three hours before the guests arrive, we return to the hotel to sip tea with Andy Lian and Chef Liu, and ask them questions about the impending feast. What if a dish doesn’t turn out? This question draws a withering look from Chef Liu, who is in charge of all preparations. Of course every dish will turn out, he says. He is supremely confident.

Chef Liu’s biggest problem, apparently, is us. He doesn’t want journalists in the kitchen, asking questions, taking photos, and getting in the way. He and Andy have a heated discussion, but Andy wins. We are allowed into the kitchen. Still, the message is clear: stay out of the way.

What is their biggest worry? Accidents, says Andy. “If food drops on a guest, we are very embarrassed.” If that happens, Andy must rush over and apologise.

What is the most difficult dish to prepare? The shark’s fin soup, says Chef Liu. It must be kept dry until three days before the dinner. Then it is boiled for eight hours, and rinsed in cold running water, to take out the fishy smell. Then it is cooked again with ginger and scallion, and placed in stock made from Yunnan ham, pork, and chicken.

The abalone is almost as fussy as the shark’s fin. If overcooked, says Andy, it will taste like chewing gum. The lobster, meanwhile, must be steamed in a sauce of fish and lobster-head just a few seconds before it is served.

Those three dishes - lobster, shark’s fin and abalone — are the crowning jewels of the feast, the most time consuming and troublesome to prepare. But they are not the most expensive - that distinction belongs to the bird’s nest soup, made from the saliva of Asian cave swallows. The bird spit alone is worth US$20 per gram, twice the price of pure gold, and each bowl contains at least a gram of saliva.

The other seven dishes are not as labour intensive, but still present a variety of challenges and a lot of work: assorted cold platter, steam dumpling, mixed vegetable with bamboo hearts, garoupa in cream sauce, crisp honey pork cake, lotus seed paste dumpling, and fresh fruit platter. Chef Liu’s top assistant will look after ‘plating’ - transferring the food from vats to plates. This is done upstairs, just out of sight of the diners.

Finally, the questions are finished. Forty-five waiters and 20 cooks stand ready. This is the ‘A’ team, the most polished and experienced staff in Taipei. Two hours before the banquet, twenty cooks are busy. One chops broccoli and bok choy, another bakes and cools the lotus cakes, a couple more roll and wrap the steam dumplings, and others watch the shark’s fin. Vats of oil stand ready, along with an array of spices and condiments: oyster and hoisin sauce, corn starch, bean paste, salt, pepper, sesame oil - all the tools of a Cantonese kitchen.

Elsewhere in the kitchen, other cooks cut and plate the cold meats - duck, chicken, pork and jelly fish. Others do the same for the fruit.

At 5:00 pm, an hour before the guests arrive, the pressure is on. In the banquet hall upstairs, everything is made ready: napkins, chopsticks, China, plates, glasses, arranged just so. The performers arrive, and head for the changing rooms, soon to emerge as Qing Dynasty waiters and waitresses.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, it’s garoupa time. One chef fillets the fish, and another dips the clear, firm slices into a rich yellow batter. He is working fast, up to his elbows in the yellow sauce. The pace quickens. More lotus cakes are thrust into the oven, where they are joined by a giant tray of crispy honey pork cakes. Another chef boils bamboo hearts, and another prepares a huge vat of egg and cream sauce, for the garoupa. He tosses in corn starch, the sauce bubbles and thickens, and he pulls it off the flame.

At 5:55, five minutes before the guests arrive, the staff have been transformed. The ordinary Taiwanese girls are now Qing Dynasty lovelies in green, red, and yellow silk uniforms. The boys, unluckily, have become eunuchs. “Back then, all the girls were for the emperor,” notes Andy.

An expectant hush falls over the banquet hall. The napkins lie folded, the chopsticks and china decorate the tables, and the floor is strewn with fragrant rose petals. The menu is written on elegant scrolls, one for each guest. The chopsticks won’t touch a single steamed dumpling — they are in carry-home souvenir boxes. A second set is supplied for actual eating.

Down below, the kitchen has none of the calm precision of the dining hall. Just the opposite — the kitchen is controlled chaos. Fire bellows from under the woks, smoke pours forth from the giant ovens, and blasts of steam fills every nook and cranny. There is no safe place to stand. Chef Liu drags a great vat of shark’s fin soup straight at us, veering off at the last minute. Finally, the cold cuts are cut, and the steam dumplings rolled and stuffed. Two massive trays of lotus seed paste dumpling, the last two, have just been plunged into the ovens.

At 6:00 o’clock sharp, atop the red carpeted lobby staircase, the gong resounds. The Qing waitresses descend the staircase one by one, to escort the guests to the banquet room, as flash bulbs pop and video cameras whirr. It makes a dramatic entrance.

Once upstairs, the guests gaze at the night lights of Taipei, and sip a delicate punch of orange, pineapple and lemon juice, flavoured with white wine. The dining room is spacious and quiet. They finish their punch and take their seats. The plum wine is poured, the candles lit, the musicians seated. Acrobats jump and tumble onto the stage.

In the plating room - adjacent to the banquet room, out of sight - the cold cuts are almost ready. The chicken and beef are put on plates, and hoisin sauce is dapped on the pork. The jellyfish quivers. Suddenly, it’s showtime. The doors swing open and two by two the waiters issue forth, platters aloft. The first course is served.

The waiters march forth again, and again the dishes return, empty. The first trolley of dishes rattles by, headed for the scullery. The phalanx re-forms. The shark’s fin soup is next. It took three days to prepare, but the guests consume it in less than 10 minutes. Next come the dumplings, and the pattern is repeated. Plated, served, and retrieved. The first of many bottles of Taiwan beer are brought forth, and the empties soon return. The noise level picks up, as the diners respond to the relaxing atmosphere.

Meanwhile the kitchen is a beehive of smoke and steam and flame as the cooks continue with the banquet. At the same time, they pump out a variety of dishes for the hotel’s Cantonese restaurant: beef with green pepper, steamed vegetables, stir fried squid, steamed fish. The kitchen is everything the banquet hall is not: hot and fiery, crampled and noisy.

At 8:00 o’clock a big moment arrives — lobster time. The platers arrange the broccoli florettes, and pour on the ‘superior sauce’. The crustaceans prove a big hit, but the next offering, abalone and bok choy, is even more popular. Every plate comes back empty.

Next the garoupa make their final journey, from deep fryer to trolley to plating room, where the cream sauce (“pure butter cream - no egg,” says Andy) is ladled on. At 8:30 the vegetable and bamboo pith are plated and served, and five minutes later, the first giant samovar of coffee rolls off the elevator.

On stage, the lion and dragon show continues. A woman spins a barrel, then a table, on her feet. She is replaced by a man who stacks chairs, one atop another, and then climbs to the pinnacle. It’s a dangerous game, and he proves popular. By now, many of the diners are red-faced and relaxed. They are transfixed by the chair-man.

Suddenly, like a Greek drama, the evening’s climax has come and gone. The signature seafood dishes have all been served. Sensing this, Andy decides to combine the honey pork cake and the lotus dumplings together, onto the same plate. “The banquet depends on feeling, not on plate count,” he says. At 9:20, comes the bird’s nest soup, and at 9:30, the last course: fruit platter.

The diners, satisfied by the bird’s nest, pick and nibble at the fruit. The show winds down, toasts are offered, a speech is made, and the satisfied customers disappear into the night. In the kitchen, a few cooks clean up. In the dining room, staff clear the dishes, pull off the tablecloths, and vacuum the carpets. Just like that, the banquet is over.

Slumped in a corner is Andy Lian, and sitting with him is the hotel’s public relations manager. Andy looks tired. “I’ve just talked to Andy,” says the PR man. “We’ve decided we can only do this state banquet once a month - it’s so much work.”

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