Chinese Foot Massage

A warm sensation surrounds my feet and an aroma of herbal oil fills my nose as she sets to work on my Chinese foot massage. I look down at my feet marinading in what looks like a muddy version of the Mongolian bean curd soup we had for lunch, but one in which Chef, having a bad day, had somewhat overdone the ginseng. Lie back and relax, it feels nice anyway.

Sudden, violent karate chopping to my legs and knee-caps disturb me from the brief relaxation and I make a quick check that my masseuse is not a covert IRA sympathizer. As she returns to washing my feet, a lovely warm burn remains in my legs.

Cream being rubbed in to my aching shins and achilles and between my toes gives pure relief to my terracotta feet. The ‘cha’ lady arrives with a Jasmine top-up as my clean feet are given a rub down with the China Life.

The next phase starts with some manipulation of my plates of meat. Mid-way through the process, water melon is offered as an unsuccessful distraction to what had started out as gentle foot banging and has rapidly become a two falls or a submission bout of wrestling à la pied. For a small girl she packs some muscles – perhaps she is focusing her qi at me.

A dramatic round of chopping applause in the next booth gives way as quickly as it started as the lady with the typically American 120 decibel voice takes a pummelling. That shut her up, briefly. She didn’t think that was “so neat”.

Meanwhile a scientific exploration of my left foot is underway. With the survey complete, strategic pressure can be applied to remove all traces of discomfort and distress. I notice the chart behind my pummeller, a kind of underground map with station names in Mandarin, connecting regions of the foot with areas of ailment. I wonder which part of the foot you press, and how hard, to rid the pain of noisy Americans?

The right foot is now wrapped tightly in a hot towel. A strange thought crosses my mind. Is this a prelude to painful foot binding to make my feet more petite and dainty, like they used to do to young girls? Thankfully, I remember that’s a Japanese tradition so I am probably safe.

I think she’s found a problem. She's working hard with needle-like probing – this little piggy doesn’t know what’s hit him. For the finale she sets off with what appears to be some bass drum mallets, beating out some kind of Imperial military tattoo on the underside of my feet.

And it's all finished. I can still feel my feet.

As we leave, we are each handed one of the drum mallet instruments of torture as a souvenir of the experience.

Definitely Recommended.