青瓷盘中，雪白的鱼片如初春新雪般层层叠叠，每一片都薄得能透光。

翠绿的藤椒粒缀在鱼肉纹理间，像山涧突然惊起的萤火，热油浇淋时迸发的麻香，恍若川江雾气漫过味蕾。

鱼肉入口的刹那，先是花椒的电流在舌尖跳舞，而后是鱼肉的清甜如月光破云而出，最后残留的麻意，像三峡两岸忽远忽近的船工号子。

In the celadon dish, the snow-white fish slices are layered like fresh snow in early spring, with each slice so thin that it allows light to pass through.

The emerald green vine pepper grains are intertwined with the texture of the fish meat, like fireflies suddenly startled in a mountain stream, and the numbing aroma burst out when hot oil is poured, as if the mist of the Sichuan River has permeated the taste buds.

At the moment when the fish enters the mouth, first the electric current of Sichuan peppercorns dances on the tip of the tongue, then the sweetness of the fish breaks through the clouds like moonlight, and finally the lingering numbness, like the boatman's chant on both sides of the Three Gorges.