As usual, it was a gorgeous spread laid out by Dior. The guests were A-list: local tycoons, political heavyweights and celebrities galore with the likes of Natalie Portman and Zhang Ziyi in attendance. All guests were dressed in the latest season of Dior, hair coiffed, with a small Lady Dior perched on their arms. Everything was perfect, that is until five minutes after the main course was served. The Chinese guests politely picked at the main – prepared by a two-star Michelin chef flown in from Paris – and then left their seats in search of a photo opportunity with the celebrities.

I was at the head table with Natalie Portman when suddenly Natalie, her manager and myself were the only people still there. Zhang Ziyi had already been ushered away for pictures. ‘Is this normal?’ Natalie’s manager asked me. ‘It would be a bit rude if this happened at home.’

What can I say? It’s China. 

Most images of Chinese banquets show officials sitting stiffly around the dinner table. No one would run around looking for photo ops. But that is also because the host is probably a high-ranking government official.

The Chinese rich only let loose when no officials are around – they behave totally differently at Chinese official banquets. They are like primary-school students eating dinner with the school principle. They speak in turns, don’t budge from their seats and sometimes, even raise their hands to signal they have something to say. I once sat at a lunch with 12 tycoons and a party secretary. The party secretary had to leave due to an emergency; the tycoons just abandoned the half-eaten food and left. The waiters went to fetch a new course and came back to a empty dining room – I was the only one still there.

As time passes, this does not bother me any more. I no longer think it’s rude; it’s just how we party in this particular part of the world. 

For the past ten years, there has been a huge competition among Chinese corporations to see who can get A-list stars to make guest appearances at their annual corporate gatherings. I can deal with that, it’s just business. What is more difficult are the hours of Idol-like singing by employees through the crappiest speakers. If you happen to survive the karaoke competition, you will definitely die during the tycoon’s on-stage critique of your and your colleagues’ performances. It is not just a casual critique; it is also the time to distribute annual bonuses based on these very same performances.

I was at one such event hosted by the Chengdu Exhibition Corporation. The tycoon, Deng Hong, is the local partner for Intercontinental Hotels in Chengdu; he also commissioned Zaha Hadid to build a curvaceous new exhibition centre in the city. He is one of the richest men in Sichuan Province, and the biggest developer in Chengdu. At the end of his employees’ performances, he grabbed the microphone:

‘I want to compliment the duet by the doormen from Chengdu Intercontinental,’ he said. ‘I know it’s hard to find time to practise. You must have used your free time. I want to give you each a bonus of 50,000 yuan (a year’s wages for the doormen) to show you I liked your number!’

At this point, a woman with a rice sack came on stage, and the singers were called up. Deng Hong pulled out stacks of bills and handed the money to the singers. The crowd cheered – I was stupefied. 

When I told people about this afterwards, I was told this was quite normal and even ‘civilised’.

‘I know a tycoon who throws cash into the air and makes his employees scurry around trying to grab as much money as possible,’ one friend told me. ‘It was humiliating, but people loved it.’ 

I believe all Chinese tycoons have a ‘Mao Complex’, their childhood was so dominated by the dictator that it is has left a permanent imprint. Somewhere inside the capitalist entrepreneur, there is a little Mao dying to come out.

The worst behaviour by Chinese tycoons is towards women. I had dinner once with the CEO of the largest publishing house in China. It was a small dinner, and among the guests was his editor for fiction, a woman in her early thirties. During the course of the dinner, the tycoon berated her about her department’s financial performance:

‘Do this again,’ screamed the tycoon, ‘and I will sell you to a brothel.’

The female director winced but did not say anything. I was in shock. I objected to his crudeness.

‘What are you?’ he asked me, ‘Woman’s Lib or something?’

‘Yes, so what?’ I demanded.

‘Oh, that’s all crap,’ he said. ‘She would double her salary if she worked in a brothel. But she is over 30, so she would end up losing money for the brothel, too.’

All the men at the table laughed. And to my horror, the fiction director was laughing with them.