In Mrs. Wang's kitchen from the beginning has been a famous Chinese herbalist/physician from Yianjin, China, Li Lian Xing. Mr. Li worked with a master chef from China to concoct a myriad of health-enhancing recipes. They created dishes that were not only curative -- but savory as well. 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 a mix of sweet and spicy. Superb to the taste. 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. The dish is also supposed to reduce blood sugar and remedy mild forms of diabetes. As for the Double-Boiled Chicken Soup with Ginseng and Chinese Wolfberry that I ate, the hearty dark broth allegedly improves blood circulation, lowers cholesterol and improves eyesight. The chicken they use for this dish, incidentally, is "black chicken," 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. I'm warming to the subject and ask Mrs. Wang to recommend something for the after-affects 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. While 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"). Scorpions and ants are also served, after being 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." For those who are faint of heart, it's easy to find less adventurous items on the menu as well. 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. I'm skeptical about all this talk of curative powers. But Mrs. Wang points to 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 the 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 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 its part, the Chinese government welcomes the foreign currency). Another draw is Mr. Li himself. 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 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 $15 to $25. You 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 your "youth and longevity"? A gift of 20 Singapore dollars (about $15), presented in a traditional red envelope (available at most stationary stores), is a customary -- though entirely optional -- gesture of appreciation for Mr. Li's consultation. The Imperial Herbal Restaurant has astutely tapped into the Singaporean Chinese fascination with food and its relationship to health. Its regulars include many top politicians, including Lee Kuan Yew, the nation's senior minister who served as the prime minister for 25 years. Mrs. Wang tells me she's begun a trend. Herbal restaurants are in the works elsewhere in Southeast Asia. However, she's quick to point out that none of these restaurants has the same special arrangement she does with the Chinese government. Boon and I finish our dessert of "Menthol Jelly With Honeysuckle Flower" ("Good for sore throat"), which frankly makes me feel a little peculiar, as the restaurant slowly starts to empty. Although the dish has the look and feel of lime Jell-O, the menthol has the same effect on the lungs that old-fashioned mentholated chest-rubs do. I sit back in my chair, 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 I needed to get me going this morning. 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.