In the labyrinthine hutongs of Beijing—the city’s ancient, narrow alleyways where history is etched into gray brick—there is a scent that stops tourists in their tracks. It is a pungent, sulphurous aroma that some describe as rancid, others as reminiscent of stinky feet or spoiled milk. Here’s the olfactory calling card of douzhi, a traditional fermented mung bean drink that has existed for centuries but is currently experiencing a surreal, digitally driven renaissance.
For the uninitiated, a first sip of douzhi is less of a culinary experience and more of a sensory assault. The liquid is a pallid, military-green hue, delivering a sharp, sour punch that hits the palate almost instantly. While it has long been a staple for older generations of Beijingers, the drink has recently pivoted from a fading relic of working-class history to a viral challenge for the Douyin generation.
The catalyst for this resurgence is Pan Xianhua, a 60-year-old vendor who turned a negative attribute into a marketing masterstroke. After noticing that non-locals frequently spat out the drink in disgust, Pan decided to lean into the revulsion. He erected a sign advertising his concoction as “the worst-tasting Old Beijing douzhi.” The gamble paid off. The sign became a social media magnet, drawing crowds of young people eager to film their own theatrical reactions of gagging and spitting for online traction.
The Psychology of the ‘Worst-Tasting’ Trend
The rise of douzhi among Gen Z is less about flavor and more about the “dare” culture prevalent on platforms like Douyin (the Chinese version of TikTok). In an era of curated aesthetics, the raw, visceral reaction to something genuinely unpleasant offers a form of authenticity that resonates with young users. For many, the drink is a rite of passage—a way to interact with “Old Beijing” through a lens of irony and endurance.
Pan, who has sold the beverage outside his home for years, views the reactions with a mixture of amusement and pride. He maintains that the intensity of the smell and taste is a marker of authenticity. “It’s a normal reaction because my douzhi is authentic,” Pan explains. He further suggests that beyond the shock value, the fermented nature of the drink serves a practical purpose, aiding in digestion.
However, the viral fame has come with complications. Pan briefly attempted to move his operation to a formal shopfront, only to be shut down by local authorities. While the exact reasons for the closure remain unclear, Pan has alluded to disputes with a business partner. Currently, he has transitioned from selling the drink to handing it out for free, maintaining his presence in the hutongs even as his commercial status remains in limbo.
From Imperial Palaces to Commercial Hubs
Despite its current reputation as a “challenge” drink, douzhi has a storied pedigree. Its origins stretch back several hundred years, and during the Qing dynasty, the fermented beverage reportedly reached the heights of the imperial palace, enjoyed by royalty. For decades following, it remained a cheap, accessible source of nutrition for the city’s working class.
Today, the drink exists in two distinct forms: the artisanal, pungent versions found in residential alleys, and the commercialized iterations found in tourist hubs. A short walk from Pan’s home leads to the crowded Nanluoguxiang shopping street, where the store Yin San Douzhi has turned the beverage into a scalable business. Here, douzhi is sold in small, convenient bottles for 10 yuan (approximately $2), and the menu has expanded to include experimental offerings like douzhi ice cream.
This commercialization has created a rift between the “purists” and the “tourists.” At Yin San Douzhi, the mung beans are fermented outside the city to ensure consistency, with boiling and packaging handled in-house daily. The result is a milder, creamier profile that is more palatable to the average visitor, though it lacks the “diabolical” edge that locals crave.
| Feature | Traditional (Hutong Style) | Commercial (Shop Style) |
|---|---|---|
| Flavor Profile | Highly acidic, sulphurous, pungent | Milder, creamier, “pickled” taste |
| Primary Audience | Elderly locals, viral “dare” seekers | Tourists, casual snackers |
| Production | Small-batch, home-based fermentation | Industrial fermentation, franchised bottling |
| Price Point | Dirt-cheap or complimentary | Standardized (approx. 10 yuan/bottle) |
A Generational Divide in Taste
For the older generation of Beijingers, douzhi is not a trend or a challenge; it is a memory of a different city. Man Guoyu, 75, continues to drink a bottle every few days, noting that a hot douzhi is particularly effective for keeping the body warm during the harsh Beijing winters. To these residents, the drink represents a time when food options were limited and fermented staples were essential for survival.
However, this nostalgia is tinged with a sense of loss. Some elderly residents, including 64-year-old Zhang, argue that the commercialization of the drink has stripped it of its soul. They believe the dilution of the flavor to appeal to broader markets has rendered the drink unrecognizable to those whose palates were trained on the original, more astringent versions.
The stakeholders in this cultural shift are diverse:
- Traditional Vendors: Struggling to balance authenticity with modern urban regulations.
- Commercial Franchises: Leveraging the “weirdness” of the drink to drive tourist sales.
- Gen Z Consumers: Using the drink as social currency for digital content.
- Local Authorities: Managing the tension between unregulated street vending and the preservation of hutong culture.
Whether douzhi will maintain its popularity or fade as a fleeting internet meme remains to be seen. While the viral nature of the “worst-tasting drink” has brought a new wave of attention to the hutongs, the gap between the theatrical gagging of a 23-year-old student and the quiet contentment of a 75-year-old local highlights the complex evolution of Beijing’s culinary identity.
The immediate future of the trend may depend on the regulatory fate of independent vendors like Pan Xianhua. As Beijing continues to modernize its inner-city neighborhoods, the survival of these “unpleasant” traditions depends on whether the city values the raw, pungent authenticity of the past over the polished, milder versions of the present.
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