The banquet is one of the joys, and mysteries, of living in China, and we have experienced many; some in our honour, particularly when starting a new job, some to celebrate a special occasion and some to greet distinguished visitors. Generally the events we attend are not ultra-formal affairs but the culture and etiquette are still baffling to me. 
The rational for the number and range of dishes eludes me but in Zhànjiāng seafood features strongly. Frequently we’re served a whole fish, prawns and crabs if they are in season, sea cucumber with western broccoli, sea worms either battered or steamed on a bed of clear noodles, and shellfish. There will usually be a roast chicken or duck, chopped across the bone, maybe a beef or pork dish, generally only one vegetable dish or two if you count steamed sweet potato and corn, and noodles, dumplings or steamed bread. I swear there is always something to scare the foreigners such as the sea worms or duck’s feet, though I think these are genuine favourites here, and once we were served dog which, now that I have tried it, I’ll never touch again.
The banquet is often, by Western standards, a speedy affair; the first few dishes arrive from the kitchen within about 10 minutes and the rest of the food follows soon after. The platters are squeezed onto the ‘lazy Susan’ and swung around to sit in front of the host, who is sitting facing the door, or a special guest. The host will ask everyone to start eating or get things going by serving some of the “best bits” to a special guest, usually the pieces I am least keen to eat. The soup, and there has to be soup, will arrive early in meal, while towards the end, when I am too full to consider it, rice, or rice porridge, is ordered and consumed at speed. The signal to conclude the meal eludes me. The arrival of rice and a fruit platter may give some indication, but I often find I’ve just worked out which dishes I like and am settling down to eat properly when everyone is standing up and it is all over.
Sometimes, if there is serious drinking to be done, the banquet is more drawn out. This opens up a new set of problems as I struggle through the etiquette of toasting. In Zhànjiāng we are usually served a tall glass of green tea and then might be offered red wine, báijiǔ or both. The báijiǔ, a clear spirit, is served in thimble sized glasses, for which I am very thankful as it is usually tastes like rocket fuel and is just as powerful. A tiny amount of red wine is poured into brandy balloons and, as with all alcohol, only drunk with other people in a toast, often a gānbēi requiring the glass to be drained. A local variant is to start the meal with 3 gānbēi toasts following which you can just take a sip, assuming there isn’t a faction in the group determined to get the foreigner drunk. I am yet to work out when I should stand to toast, who I should toast, who I should toast first, what is an appropriate reason for a toast (I suspect any reason will do), and how low on the other person’s glass I should clink my glass (the lower the glass touches, the more deference you are showing). I also have to remember to hold my glass with both hands and, once finished, show the glass to the group to prove I have in fact done my duty and emptied it. 
The banquet can be a confusing affair and just when I’m feeling more comfortable with it I discover a new layer or a new variant; we’ll just have to keep practicing!
The arrangements are often made late in the day so I find myself scurrying to get ready. I never quite know what to wear. My instincts tell me to dress up, yet I know the other guests and host will be quite casual, though we will be greeted at the doors of the restaurant by beautiful women attired in full-length brocade dresses, with fur capes in colder weather. They’ll escort us to a private room with the curtains drawn shut to focus us on the occasion. There may be easy chairs set round a coffee table and an individual bathroom, while on the wall, close to the round dinning table, will be a huge, and loud, TV.
Ordering involves an extended discussion between the waitress and the host, a senior company member or, if we are travelling, the driver. This process usually doesn’t involve a menu but rather a dialogue between the two, sometimes held over the fish tanks and racks that hold the fresh produce, about what we might want, the options available, and the balance of the meal.
Ordering involves an extended discussion between the waitress and the host, a senior company member or, if we are travelling, the driver. This process usually doesn’t involve a menu but rather a dialogue between the two, sometimes held over the fish tanks and racks that hold the fresh produce, about what we might want, the options available, and the balance of the meal.
The rational for the number and range of dishes eludes me but in Zhànjiāng seafood features strongly. Frequently we’re served a whole fish, prawns and crabs if they are in season, sea cucumber with western broccoli, sea worms either battered or steamed on a bed of clear noodles, and shellfish. There will usually be a roast chicken or duck, chopped across the bone, maybe a beef or pork dish, generally only one vegetable dish or two if you count steamed sweet potato and corn, and noodles, dumplings or steamed bread. I swear there is always something to scare the foreigners such as the sea worms or duck’s feet, though I think these are genuine favourites here, and once we were served dog which, now that I have tried it, I’ll never touch again.
The banquet is often, by Western standards, a speedy affair; the first few dishes arrive from the kitchen within about 10 minutes and the rest of the food follows soon after. The platters are squeezed onto the ‘lazy Susan’ and swung around to sit in front of the host, who is sitting facing the door, or a special guest. The host will ask everyone to start eating or get things going by serving some of the “best bits” to a special guest, usually the pieces I am least keen to eat. The soup, and there has to be soup, will arrive early in meal, while towards the end, when I am too full to consider it, rice, or rice porridge, is ordered and consumed at speed. The signal to conclude the meal eludes me. The arrival of rice and a fruit platter may give some indication, but I often find I’ve just worked out which dishes I like and am settling down to eat properly when everyone is standing up and it is all over.
Sometimes, if there is serious drinking to be done, the banquet is more drawn out. This opens up a new set of problems as I struggle through the etiquette of toasting. In Zhànjiāng we are usually served a tall glass of green tea and then might be offered red wine, báijiǔ or both. The báijiǔ, a clear spirit, is served in thimble sized glasses, for which I am very thankful as it is usually tastes like rocket fuel and is just as powerful. A tiny amount of red wine is poured into brandy balloons and, as with all alcohol, only drunk with other people in a toast, often a gānbēi requiring the glass to be drained. A local variant is to start the meal with 3 gānbēi toasts following which you can just take a sip, assuming there isn’t a faction in the group determined to get the foreigner drunk. I am yet to work out when I should stand to toast, who I should toast, who I should toast first, what is an appropriate reason for a toast (I suspect any reason will do), and how low on the other person’s glass I should clink my glass (the lower the glass touches, the more deference you are showing). I also have to remember to hold my glass with both hands and, once finished, show the glass to the group to prove I have in fact done my duty and emptied it. 
The banquet can be a confusing affair and just when I’m feeling more comfortable with it I discover a new layer or a new variant; we’ll just have to keep practicing!
