I got divorced during COVID.
She was in Brazil. I was in Shanghai. It was one of those lockdown breakups where you don't even fight — you just fade out across time zones and VPNs. By the time I got out of quarantine, I'd been single, isolated, and mildly depressed for what felt like forever. So, I did what a lot of people do: I downloaded Tinder.
I matched with this girl — pretty but not unreal, if that makes sense. The pictures looked real enough. Normal girl. Cute smile. Nothing too filtered. I don't even remember what we talked about. Probably nothing meaningful. She said, "Let's grab a drink," and I was like, "Sure. How about this place?" She said, "No, I know a better one," and gave me a location near People's Square.
That should've been a red flag. But I had been married for nine years. I was emotionally rusty, freshly back in the world, and just happy to have a reason to put on real clothes. So I went.
She didn't look like her photos. Not in a catfish, different-gender kind of way — just enough to notice. I'm pretty sure it was a different person entirely. But I still sat down.
We were in one of those slick-looking "lounges" that feel like someone Googled "expensive bar" and built it in a lab. Low lighting, mirrored walls, laminated menus — the kind of place that's obviously fake if you're paying attention. I wasn't.
From the moment we sat down, she was on her phone. Not just texting. She was locked in. I tried to make small talk. "Where are you from?" "How long have you been in Shanghai?" Basic stuff. She gave one-word answers, didn't ask me anything back.
Then she started ordering. Not asking, not suggesting. Just waving the waitress over and rattling off stuff in Chinese I couldn't understand.
I looked at the menu and saw a small dish — like a plate of peanuts or something — for 50 RMB. I knew this wasn't going to be a cheap night. But I didn't expect a giant crab, several small plates, a full bottle of what looked like champagne (maybe sparkling wine?), and at least two rounds of shots. She drank more than I did. Way more. And fast.
When the bill came, it was 8,000 RMB.
That's when it finally clicked.
I said I'd pay for half. She said no — in China, "the man pays." Something about culture, honor, being a gentleman. I told her, "There's no way I'm paying for all of this."
She started crying. Like, proper crying. "I don't have this money," she said. "I'll have to call a friend."
At that point, I realized everyone in the place was in on it. The staff didn't say a word. No threats. No thugs. They just accepted when I paid my half — about 4,000 RMB — and watched her fake a WeChat transfer of maybe 2,000. The rest, she said, her "friend" would sort out.
I walked out. Never saw her again.
Outside, it had started raining — because of course it had. I remember standing on the curb, looking at my phone, wondering if I should report her. But I didn't. I just stood there, watching DiDi prices surge, trying to decide which was worse — the scam, or the fact that I saw it coming and went along with it anyway.
On the way home, I ordered McDonald's. Spent 42 kuai. Best meal I had all week.
A year later, it almost happened again.
Matched with another girl — different profile, same energy. She insisted on her own "favorite bar." I said, "Let's go to one of these three places instead." She unmatched instantly.
That's when I realized it's a full system. Scripted. Polished. Scaled.
I've heard similar stories since. A Brazilian guy I barely knew got hit in his first three days in Shanghai — crab, shots, 3,000 RMB. Same playbook.
Would I still use Tinder? Yeah. I just pick the bar now. And I never, ever trust anyone who orders seafood on a first date.
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Editor's Note: Names and identifying details have been changed.
This particular scam — often called the "Tinder Bar Scam" or also the "Tea House Scam"— is sadly very common in Shanghai. Louis got off light. We've heard of cases involving bills upwards of 15,000 RMB, and situations where people were threatened with violence if they refused to pay.
Our recommendation: only meet people at restaurants or bars you know — ideally ones listed in the SmartShanghai directory. If someone insists on a specific, unfamiliar place and won't meet you elsewhere, walk away.
We Asked the Lawyer
Can restaurants legally overcharge you like this in China?
Short answer: not exactly — but also, sort of.
China's Consumer Protection Law prohibits businesses from using fraudulent, misleading, or deceptive pricing practices, especially when targeting consumers who are at a disadvantage (like tourists or non-Chinese speakers). Restaurants are required to clearly display prices for food and services, and not to conceal or misrepresent costs.
But here's the catch:
The law doesn't define a hard limit — like "you can't charge more than 3x the market rate." There's no Chinese equivalent of Germany's "Wucher" law, which clearly sets caps on excessive pricing.
So if a shady bar shows you a menu — even if it's overpriced or entirely in Chinese — and you order from it, they're technically covered, unless you can prove fraud or manipulation (e.g. switching menus, hiding prices, inflating the bill after the fact).
Have the scammers gotten smarter?
Probably. We've heard older stories of people getting hit with 15,000+ RMB bills and physically intimidated when they protested. That kind of drama draws attention.
Now, the scam is more refined:
- Smaller, less reportable amounts (3–8k RMB)
- No violence or threats
- Menus shown upfront (though unreadable)
- Fake tears and WeChat "transfers" to make it all look semi-legit
They're walking right up to the legal line — and staying just under it.
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Have a legal question or need help from an English speaking Shanghai based lawyer? Check SmartShanghai's directory here.
