Oh, the Sichuan hot pot I ate for dinner. There are 2 pots of boiling broth in the center of your table. One is a "burn-your-testy-satchel-off chili sauce," which both looks and tastes like the fiery pits of hell. The other, more benign broth has 500 grams of soft shell crab boiling in it. This is a broth you'd expect to see a matzo ball floating in, compared to the spicy menstruation-looking ordeal, out of which you'd expect to ladle the devil's wife's tampon. The Jewy broth is your voice of reason. You know, for bathroom purposes mainly, that you should favor this one, as to avoid the inevitable Sichuan hot butt you'll endure if you keep up this daring urge. But the lava keeps calling your name, and for whatever reason, your chopsticks can't avoid it. So, like the indoor girl with AIDS, you keep shtooping it. Mongolian beef, dip. Bamboo root, dip. Golden fried shrimp, dip twice. You'll pay dearly. I know I did.