Aquatic financing in Beijing

Towards the end of my most recent visit to a now post-Olympic Beijing, I am struck yet again by the ceremony with which all business proceeds here. We meet people only briefly in offices. Mostly, it is in the Beijing Tea Houses. One is escorted to a private room with traditional decoration, and attended by girls in traditional outfits who execute elaborate rituals and procedures to produce tiny cups of tea, constantly refilled, so that they are in constant motion. Meanwhile, the rest of us sit on the stuffy couches and talk, carrying on our discussions for as long as it takes, punctuated only by the need to visit the loo every so often as the tea washes through. Very stylised and in fact quite civilised. A senior civil servant explained to me that it was easier for him to meet foreigners in a tea house than to receive them at the Ministry, where official written meeting request requirements and security hassles meant that visits not arranged weeks in advance were effectively impossible.

By way of example, this morning we visited a potential partner of one of our ventures, a quasi-official organisation in the fishery sector. Stumbling around in a nondescript apartment building in the Beijing suburbs we finally found a corridor on the 4th floor labelled “Aquatic Industry” and a door marked meeting room. Within, a mass of people are milling around a huge table with cheap boardroom furniture. A red and white banner on the wall proclaims, bilingually and alarmingly, “Beijing Acquatic Production Chamber of Commerce and Holland-Financial Access Services BV – Financing Co-operation Fair”. Unaware that we were attending a “Fair” of any description, I had no prepared remarks for the assembled two dozen dignitaries, complete with photographers and translators. Great show was made of posing, posturing, and introductory remarks. Everyone clapped at each pause, even for themselves. Old fellows in suits chain-smoked, whilst younger officials chain-smoked and wore T-shirts or other more informal apparel. We are assured afterwards, on the way to a tour of the wholesale fish market, that we have made an excellent impression: professional looking in our suits and saying sensible things.

Or, if we visit an office, this always adjourns after some time to a restaurant, for the traditional Chinese banquet at a huge round table with swinging dolly with intriguing dishes rolling past your face. This afternoon we were at a restaurant renowned for its duck, with some possible new clients. This meant a dizzying array of duck-based dishes, and not only the pancake-centred Peking Duck with plum sauce with which most westerners are familiar. This time, at a certain point, plastic painter’s gloves were distributed, and a pile of rubbery-looking meaty things appeared, dripping in oil and red peppers. These were meant to be eaten by hand- hence the gloves. On close inspection, and to the great amusement of our Chinese colleagues, the rubbery flaps turn out to be duck heads, complete with beak and eyes, and the idea is to crack these open and eat the brains out. Now, it emerges that heavily spiced duck brains are (a) reasonably tasty, but (b) quite limited in volume. This means a lot of messy work for little reward. I am reminded of Chesapeake Bay crabs where one bashes away with hammers and drinks gallons of beer against little meat. I wondered what the ratio of thought-to-reward must have been for the unfortunate ducks. Let alone quacks: another plate involved tongues only, but that went too far for me beyond the initial taste to prove my mettle (duck tongues are boney). Happily, my prospective clients seemed less loquacious and more understanding. They were happy to move on to whiskey soon enough.

Beijing, September 2008