My friend Denise told me about this place and went with me. She’d been to see Dr. Zhang several times and gave me an idea of what to expect. “You tell him everything that’s wrong with you,” Denise said. “He writes it down in Chinese characters and hands the paper to a guy who goes in the back room and comes back with your powder,” she added, laughing at the simple and odd exchange. Dr. Zhang also doesn’t speak English very well, Denise mentioned, a fact that convinced us both that whatever he was going to prescribe was sure to work. But perhaps I should explain what lead me here in the first place.

You could say I’ve become a connoisseur of chemo concoctions: Carboplatin, Taxol, Cisplatin. And now I’ve got another to add to the list: Doxil. After my doctors found some residual cancer in my abdomen a month ago, I’ve spent time testing out this latest cocktail at the Memorial Sloan chemo suite, an exclusive spot in midtown Manhattan. It’s members only—the kind of place where everybody knows my name. And when I stop by, they already know what I’m having. Doxil, straight up. It’s a Cosmopolitan-martini-colored chemo that’s red on the way in and the way out. I spend an hour or two at “the Suite,” as it’s called by regulars,  and leave there feeling good. It’s the following days that are the problem. I get a nasty little hangover that makes me tired and lethargic. I figure the best way to combat that lies in the secrets of the Far East. Folks there have been healing people since before Jesus was born.

So that brings me back to Dr. Zhang.

Denise and I checked in with his assistant. She took my blood pressure, examined my tongue, and felt my pulse. “Dr. Zhang isn’t in today,” the assistant told us in near-perfect English. Denise and I looked at each other half defeated. No Dr. Zhang? No difficulty communicating with wise alternative-medicine practitioners? My mystical encounter was not turning out like I had hoped, but I figured I’d make the best of it.

After a quick consultation, Dr. Zhang’s assistant wrote out my prescription, which, thankfully, included Chinese characters and handed it to the man in the back. I was instructed to stay away from shrimp, crab, and peanuts. The logic here I know not, and I didn’t ask any questions. Within minutes, I had my loot—a $35 bag full of dusty-colored powder that smells organic and wholesome. The directions were easy: “Four spoonfuls mixed with three cups of water. Boil for five to 10 minutes. Drink one cup in the morning, one at night after meal.”

I left Dr. Zhang’s a little disenchanted by his absence but eager to brew my first batch of healing tea. The next morning, I got started. Other than the minerally grains that settle at the bottom of the cup, the tea isn’t awful.  I’ve been drinking  it twice a day ever since. I have absolutely no clue what I’m consuming, but I can already feel it working. Surely, this is my magic potion, the serum that will lead to good health going forward. Cause, honestly, I’m over the Suite. It’s so 2008. It’s time for me to find a new hangout.

… to be continued.