There’s a popular Chinese idiom that goes back to the Han Dynasty: “民以食为天,” or, “Before everything else, the people want food.” But in today’s China, a dinner plate can carry political peril. From banquets laced with bottles of Moutai to humble noodle shops near local party offices, where and what officials eat has become a political minefield.
As part of a sweeping crackdown on what’s been deemed improper dining by Communist Party leaders—lavish, inappropriate dining and drinking, especially on the public dime—civil servants across China are under scrutiny for even modest gatherings. In some provinces, officials are warned not to dine in groups larger than three.
There’s a popular Chinese idiom that goes back to the Han Dynasty: “民以食为天,” or, “Before everything else, the people want food.” But in today’s China, a dinner plate can carry political peril. From banquets laced with bottles of Moutai to humble noodle shops near local party offices, where and what officials eat has become a political minefield.
As part of a sweeping crackdown on what’s been deemed improper dining by Communist Party leaders—lavish, inappropriate dining and drinking, especially on the public dime—civil servants across China are under scrutiny for even modest gatherings. In some provinces, officials are warned not to dine in groups larger than three.
Elsewhere, they face daily breathalyzer tests, are instructed to go straight home after work, or are required to study lists of 20 “dangerous” dining configurations—such as meals with colleagues from other departments, dinners held at upscale private clubs, banquets hosted by businesses or subordinate agencies, or even reunions framed as classmate or hometown association gatherings that carry the whiff of factional politics. In Wuhan, one state-owned enterprise reportedly told employees that even a low-cost meal in the workplace canteen with a colleague from another department is off-limits.
This seemingly absurd level of control is rooted in President Xi Jinping’s long-running campaign to “self-cleanse” the Communist Party. As Xi began his rule in 2012, he launched a sweeping anti-corruption initiative targeting “tigers and flies” alike—both elite officials and grassroots cadres. State media framed this as “an inward-facing revolution with the blade pointed at oneself.” Reform, in this vision, meant slicing into the party’s own flesh. Specifically, his eight-point regulation, introduced that same year, directly targeted bureaucratic excess, making lavish official banquets one of the first visible casualties. These meals had long been central to how business was done in the Chinese bureaucracy: They served as ritualized spaces for forging relationships, exchanging favors, and building informal networks of influence.
Chinese men toast while drinking baijiu at a dinner in Maotai, China, on Sept. 23, 2016.Kevin Frayer/Getty Images
Yet despite the sweeping nature of the reforms, and even more than a decade into their implementation, it remained common in many places for local officials to rack up huge unpaid restaurant bills—often covered by public funds or disguised as supposed entertainment expenses. In practice, banquets frequently functioned as gateways to deeper corrupt practices, reinforcing public perceptions of privilege, opacity, and impunity within officialdom.
The latest iteration of these crackdowns, introduced in May, marked a clear intensification of the campaign. Among the most notable changes was a formal ban on alcohol at all official functions—a move that immediately rattled markets. But this policy tightening didn’t occur in a vacuum. Momentum began to build after a high-profile incident in March, when a cadre died following a banquet organized by local officials in Henan province—an event held just one day after a political education session. The gathering involved 10 party and government officials who drank heavily at a private restaurant; four bottles of baijiu, a colorless liquor that clocks in between 35 and 60 percent ABV, were consumed between five attendees.
One official died that afternoon, and other people present attempted to conceal the role of alcohol in the death and quietly compensated the family, including with money borrowed from individuals under their jurisdiction. The incident reinforced Beijing’s belief that the culture of banquet diplomacy remains dangerously entrenched—and provided political license for a more aggressive and highly visible enforcement push.
But what began as a popular effort to eliminate elite corruption at the start of his rule is now metastasizing into something broader and more economically consequential. Technically, the challenge is to distinguish politically toxic banquets from the healthy rhythm of daily consumption. But in practice, the result has been confusion, overcorrection, and unintended harm—especially to China’s already fragile service sector.
In one county, all government-affiliated canteens were shut down, forcing night-shift medical staff to rely on instant noodles; in another city, a blanket ban on all gatherings involving party members disrupted local investment talks and business negotiations. A policy tool meant to root out graft is now at risk of becoming a blunt instrument of top-down governance that chokes the very growth Beijing is eager to revive.
Even party mouthpieces are pushing back. A widely circulated article from People’s Daily Online criticized this overreach, warning that equating all dining with corruption smacks of lazy governance and “formalism”—a favorite term of Xi’s that means, in Communist Party jargon, adhering to the form of regulations without understanding their spirit.
People gather for a banquet to celebrate the founding of the People’s Republic of China at the Great Hall of the People in Beijing on Sept. 30, 2009. Feng Li/AFP via Getty Images
This moral rigor—or its ostensible form—comes at an economic cost. On May 19, the day after the new regulations were released, major baijiu stocks fell, as investors feared a replay of the post-2012 slump triggered by the original eight-point regulation. China’s food and beverage sector is vast: In 2024, it generated over $775 billion and employed more than 20 million people. Restaurants—especially the humble, street-corner kind—represent one of the key engines of domestic demand.
The problem is not just that officials are eating out less. Business banquets, receptions, and social meals lubricate not only business relations but also local economies. When low-level cadres stop dining out, the chilling effects are real. It’s not just about their extended social networks—it’s also about the political signal sent to the business community. The anti-graft scalpel seems to have become a sledgehammer, flattening demand far beyond its intended target.
By late May, after the sweeping alcohol ban was rolled out in several pilot regions, restaurants reliant on official or business entertaining began to feel the freeze. In Gansu’s Qingcheng County and Menyuan in Qinghai, some high-end venues reported revenue plunges by as much as 70 percent that month. In first-tier cities like Beijing, the atmosphere around large-scale dining has clearly cooled, with some restaurants reporting single-store sales falling roughly 20 percent year-over-year. A fine-dining brand operating in East China also saw overall revenues decline by 60 to 70 percent between May and June.
At its core, the “dinner table dilemma” reveals a deeper structural contradiction within China’s political economy. Beijing wants a clean, disciplined bureaucracy—but also vibrant consumption and a confident middle class. It wants cadres who obey orders, but also who nurture business, cut red tape, and drive local growth. These imperatives are not only in tension—they often directly contradict one another.
The contradiction is worsened by the political logic of overcompliance: China’s bureaucratic system is hyper-hierarchical, with limited space for local discretion or institutional feedback loops. This tendency has intensified under Xi’s push for stricter party discipline and centralized oversight. While the pre-Xi era allowed more localized flexibility—sometimes at the cost of enabling corruption—it also gave officials more room to adapt policy to on-the-ground realities. Today, when vague rules are paired with harsh enforcement, the rational response from local officials is overcorrection; better to be safe than politically sorry.
So while Beijing seeks to stimulate consumption, it must contend with the reality that local bureaucrats’ incentives are frequently misaligned with its own. In this case, when the political cost of being perceived as corrupt outweighs the economic cost of over-enforcement, local officials know exactly which path to choose.
This phenomenon is not new in China. It emerged during the zero-COVID years, when cities imposed extreme lockdowns even in the absence of clear central mandates. It has surfaced in property sector tightening, education crackdowns, and data security enforcement. In each instance, fear of political missteps led to excessive—and economically damaging—responses. Where previous crackdowns focused on speculative capital or private industry, this one strikes at the social rituals that bind Chinese society. Once again, China’s economy cannot escape the gravitational pull of its political constraints.
In an effort to manage this tension, party media has tried to draw a line between “improper dining” and “normal dining.” But the implementation gap remains vast. What exactly counts as “normal” in a system where informal boundaries are defined not by law, but by shifting political winds?
The deeper issue is that resolving this tension requires a fundamental retooling of how authority is delegated and how accountability is enforced. Unless local officials are granted real room to interpret and implement policy with discretion—without fear of political reprisal—the cycle of overcorrection will continue.
Ironically, the eating-and-drinking saga could have been an opportunity. If implemented with nuance, the crackdown might have spurred genuine public sector reform—channeling official hospitality into more transparent, regulated avenues, while also clarifying policies for the business sector, whose appetite for investment remains in limbo. Instead, it has become yet another example of how China’s political nervous system—reflexively tight, risk-averse, and vertically rigid—undermines its own economic ambitions.
Chinese President Xi Jinping drinks wine after making a toast during a banquet in Hong Kong on June 30, 2017. Dale de la Rey/AFP via Getty Images
Powerful as Xi is, he still faces an institutional challenge: How to build a system where local incentives are better aligned with Beijing’s—where policies are carried out with both discipline and discretion, and where the private sector trusts that tomorrow’s rules will be the same as today’s. Until then, empty restaurants will continue to symbolize something larger: a bureaucracy caught between the imperative to spend and the command to behave; a private sector ossified by fear of political fallout; and an uneven path to economic reform, suspended between the need to toe political lines and the urgency of unleashing economic vitality.
As long as Beijing remains trapped in this contradiction, not even the most fragrant meal will revive the appetite for real economic transformation.
