Cucumber and bottle gourd, ginkgo and turnip.

Four plain vegetables in eight characters, with no verb between them. The rhapsody drops to bare naming for a line, which gives the ear a rest before the cooked dishes arrive.

Peeled aubergine done up as quail; hollowed winter melon under the name of fangdan.

Now the kitchen shows off. 鏇皮 is to pare the skin off in a turning cut, and the peeled aubergine is being served as a mock quail — vegetarian food imitating meat, which is the oldest game in Chinese temple cooking and still played today. The winter melon has been scooped out and given a fancy name, which is the same joke from the other end.

Taro stewed soft and tossed with sugar; white-boiled radish dressed with vinegar.

Two humble roots, two treatments, and the couplet balances sweet against sour. 著 is zhe, the tossing held in place, so the sugar is on the taro rather than being added to it.

Pepper and ginger, hot in every kind; salt and bland brought into harmony, even in every colour.

The rhapsody closes on seasoning, which is where a Chinese account of cooking properly ends. In 調 the reading is tiáo, to blend — and 調和 is the standard word for bringing flavours into balance, a phrase that carries a whiff of statecraft, since harmonising is what a good minister does too.