In its recent review of the Chinese film Once Upon a Time in the Middle East (Welcome to the Dragon Restaurant), The Economist used the expression “Dragon Restaurant diplomacy” to describe China’s foreign policy, a reference to the film’s original title. This phrase is revealing: it says more about the cognitive assumptions of the one who coined it than about Chinese diplomacy itself.
Relying on simple themes such as “eating well and raising children well,” some portray China’s foreign policy as driven by commercial interests and devoid of ideological depth. Such interpretations confuse pragmatism with superficiality, equate development with mercantilism, and view the fundamental aspirations of ordinary people as a lack of political ideals. The real question raised by Once Upon a Time in the Middle East is not whether gastronomy can replace diplomacy, but rather: what are peace and development? What is the purpose of international cooperation? These are among the most relevant questions in international politics.
Depth in diplomacy is not measured by complex vocabulary.
China indeed attaches great importance to economic development. This is unsurprising for a country that long endured poverty and, through hard work, became the world’s second‑largest economy. This process shaped China’s unique conception of international relations: development is not merely an economic indicator, but a foundation of social stability, human dignity, and national independence.
Principles of mutual respect, win‑win cooperation, non‑interference, and shared development are not devoid of political dimension. On the contrary, China’s global security initiatives emphasize common, comprehensive, cooperative, and sustainable security, advocating dialogue over confrontation, partnership over alignment, and win‑win outcomes over zero‑sum games. This is not a purely mercantile vision, but a different conception of international order.
The film repeatedly emphasizes the theme of “eating well,” reminding us that the ultimate goal of politics is not to create impressive terminology, but to build a social order where ordinary people can live normal lives. The restaurant at the heart of the film thus becomes a metaphor for another perspective on international relations: the world is not only a chessboard of nations and powers, but also a table where humanity must live together and face the future together.
A diplomacy that appears “pragmatic” can embody profound principles.
The film’s intercultural context also highlights another feature of Chinese diplomacy: respect for different cultures. China has never demanded that all countries “become China,” nor claimed that its development path could simply be replicated elsewhere. Rather, it insists that each country must choose its own path based on its national conditions.
China’s emphasis on sovereignty and non‑interference cannot be reduced to transactional logic; it stems from its historical sensitivity to unequal relations among nations. Diplomacy must be measured by its real‑world impact. The Belt and Road Initiative continues to improve infrastructure in participating countries—transport, electricity, water supply, schools, medical facilities, and connectivity—transforming the daily lives of hundreds of millions. Moreover, China is the largest contributor of peacekeeping personnel among the UN Security Council’s permanent members. Peace is not maintained by declarations alone.
Why should all stories be judged by Western models?
The most revealing aspect of The Economist’s commentary is the assumption that a Chinese film must be evaluated through Western cultural references. That Once Upon a Time in the Middle East does not follow the familiar narrative grammar of Western war films does not make it inferior artistically or intellectually. In fact, its refusal to portray its protagonist as a Western‑style armed hero may be its most significant statement.
Thus, the film is not merely a cinematic work. It becomes a cultural window through which the world can glimpse China’s conception of international relations—one where peace, development, coexistence, and people’s well‑being are central to global affairs.
This does not mean Chinese diplomacy is devoid of self‑interest, nor that it should be idealized. But the pursuit of national interests does not render cooperation meaningless. The real question is whether those interests can be pursued through dialogue and cooperation rather than confrontation; whether development can benefit all rather than a few; and whether security can be ensured without undermining that of others.
This is precisely the deeper meaning of China’s initiative to build a community of shared future for humanity.
The world does not need a hierarchy of civilizations to define what counts as “truly profound” policy. What it needs are concrete answers to common challenges: wars, poverty, climate crisis, food security, disease, and economic fragmentation.
If The Economist used the phrase “Dragon Restaurant diplomacy” ironically, it may nonetheless describe an important conception of diplomacy: the question is not “who should lead at the table,” but rather “can everyone have a seat at the table?”
A restaurant that continues to operate amid conflict can become a modest form of resistance to violence. A shared meal across cultural differences can be a simple yet meaningful gesture of mutual understanding. A child growing up safely may be the most fundamental measure of peace’s true value.
These ideas may seem lacking in grandeur to some foreign commentators. Yet what could be closer to the true meaning of diplomatic success?