Free Mr. China by Tim Clissold Page A

down the road together with the Germans. It was colossal; about a mile long. Although it was only half-built at the time,
it was already impressive. The assembly lines were being set up; there were automatic welding machines and electronic sensors everywhere and, at the side, workers tore open huge wooden crates with
more equipment shipped in from Germany. They were obviously gearing up to make thousands and thousands of passenger cars; the investment must have been enormous.
    That afternoon, we saw several components factories in the town. They made simple parts – electrical connectors, switches and the like – but the one that caught my interest was a
factory that made ignition coils. It was run by a Madame Tan who was only in her late-thirties. She seemed knowledgeable about her business and she had just won the contract to supply ignition
coils to the huge factory that we had seen in the morning. With demand about to go through the roof, she was looking for some money for expansion. As we left through the factory gates, I told her
that I’d come back for another look.
    On the way back, the officials told us that we had been invited to dinner at six by the Mayor of Changchun. That was a good sign: Mayor Huang was the top official in the Municipal Government.
With support from him, I felt sure that we’d soon be in business.
    We met the Mayor in the hotel that evening. Pat gave a brief description of the day’s visits, sitting rather stiffly on the familiar old sofas in a drafty meeting room,
and told Mayor Huang that he’d been impressed with the factories that we’d seen. The Mayor was pleased; he was one of the younger generation of leaders promoted after Deng’s
Southern Tour. He seemed smart and came back with quick comments, speaking with animation about how he hoped to bring foreign investment into Changchun. He had only been in Changchun for six months
or so, and the transfer from Yangzhou, at the mouth of the Yangtse in the gentler climate near Shanghai, must have been a shock. Nevertheless, the Mayor seemed to have found his feet quickly. He
appeared to be firmly in charge and determined to improve the city.
    Mayor Huang was totally different from the plodding cadres we had been more used to in Beijing, and he had long abandoned the traditional Mao jacket for a snappy Western suit and tie. I liked
him. He was alert, interested and supportive of what we were trying to do. He was in his early forties: a shortish man with neat features, thick hair, sparkling eyes and teeth whose whiteness was
accentuated by the clean, slightly tanned look of the southern Chinese. As he listened intently to Pat’s explanation of the recent excitement about China in the financial markets, I sensed
that he was wondering how he could get his hands on his share of the spoils.
    Soon it was time for dinner, so we trooped out of the meeting room, through cavernous hallways with thick dusty carpets and followed the Mayor into a private room. There was a huge circular
dinner table with a glass turntable in the middle placed at the centre of the room under an enormous chandelier.
    ‘Qing zuo; said the Mayor, ‘Please sit,’ as he gestured towards his right.
    I looked at the expanse of white tablecloth in front of me, the perfectly aligned plates and the flowers and elaborately carved vegetables on the circular glass stand in the centre. I leaned
back in my chair and breathed in slowly. ‘This’, I thought resignedly, ‘promises to be an epic’
    The food eaten in ordinary homes, factory canteens and local restaurants in China is tasty, diverse and healthy. Within reason, you can stuff as much down as you like without getting fat. It
bears no resemblance at all to some of the glutinous, oily Chinese food served up in restaurants in Britain. But banquet food is quite another matter. The whole purpose is to impress. Chefs compete
to create the most elaborate and obscure dishes. Excess, both in the amount and the