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Beijing: In the backstreets of the city’s ancient hutong alleyways, an enterprising Beijinger will sell you perhaps the most unpleasant drink you’ve ever tasted.
It’s called douzhi, a traditional drink in Beijing made from fermented mung beans.
It tastes a bit like it smells, which is to say pungently rancid. And Pan Xianhua’s concoction is the most diabolical of them all.
At least that is his marketing pitch.
For years, Pan, 60, has sold douzhi outside his home in the hutongs, the old inner-city neighbourhoods where you’ll find the Beijingers whose palates were trained on the fermented beverage as children.
Earlier this year, Pan put up a sign advertising his drink as “the worst-tasting Old Beijing douzhi”.
Someone saw it, posted it to social media, and before too long, Pan and his douzhi were a viral sensation, tapping into a surprising renaissance for the drink among the Douyin (Chinese TikTok) generation.
“When I first started to sell, I noticed most non-locals just kept spitting as soon as they took a sip. Then I thought, if so, why don’t I write that it’s the worst-tasting douzhi in Beijing,” he says.
Once a staple of working-class Beijingers’ diets, douzhi’s regular consumers typically skew towards older generations. The beverage’s origins date back several hundred years, reaching regal heights in the Qing dynasty when it was reportedly enjoyed by palace royalty.
‘It’s a little bit sour, even a little bit spoiled and stinky. It doesn’t taste good but is still acceptable.’
Song Kenan, the manager of a douzhi store
A pallid military-green colour, Pan’s douzhi tastes like a cross between stinky feet and rotten milk, launching a full assault on the taste buds about half a second after it passes the lips.
Some people love it. Many are revolted by it. Chinese social media is awash with videos of people trying it, only to theatrically gag and spit it out onto the street.
Pan is not offended.
“It’s a normal reaction because my douzhi is authentic. It’s sour and smelly. But after drinking it a few times, people will find they can get used to it. It helps your digestion,” he says.
As we speak outside his home, a steady stream of young people arrive to take photos with Pan and film themselves trying his douzhi. At the peak of his fame, he was selling hundreds of cans a day. Today, though, he is handing them out for free.
For a brief period, Pan relocated his business to a nearby shopfront, but he was shut down by authorities. It’s unclear what happened, or when he will be allowed to sell again, but he alludes to a falling out with a business partner.
You don’t have to go far to find more douzhi options. A short walk away is the crowded Nanluoguxiang shopping street, where snack shop Yin San Douzhi is slinging small bottles for 10 yuan ($2), alongside offerings including douzhi ice-cream.
This is a more commercialised operation (the shop has franchises across Beijing), using mung beans fermented outside the city. But the boiling and packaging are done in-house daily.
In the kitchen, cooks are funnelling the freshly brewed juice into bottles from large steaming vats. This particular store will sell up to 1000 bottles on a good day.
Outside, on the busy street, people are cracking open bottles and grimacing their way through their first sips.
“It tastes like pickled soup,” says Lucy Liu, 23, a student from Inner Mongolia province, who is visiting Beijing with friend Panzi Xuan for the May Day holidays.
They saw the trend on social media and wanted to try it for themselves.
“No, no, no, no, no,” she says when I ask if they will finish the bottle.
Song Kenan, the manager of Yin San Douzhi, says his staff are kept entertained by watching the daily parade of first-time tasters, as well as influencers who exaggerate their reactions for online traction.
“Some people could drink two to three bottles at once as a first-timer while others spit at first sip,” Song says.
“Many people have never tried it before. It’s a little bit sour, even a little bit spoiled and stinky. It doesn’t taste good but is still acceptable.”
‘When I was a child, it was a daily food because there was not much other food available. Not any more.’
Zhang, 64
Beijingers, he says, don’t bother with the fanfare or the small bottles. They quietly bring their own large containers and fill up directly from the vats.
On my way home, I pass by two older Beijingers sitting outside their homes, shooting the breeze. Do they drink it?
“It’s good to have a hot douzhi in winter to keep your body warm,” says Man Guoyu, 75, who keeps the faith and drinks a bottle every few days.
But the men say commercialisation has meant the drink is no longer the dirt-cheap beverage it once was, or as astringent as locals like it. The flavour is now milder to broaden its appeal.
“When I was a child, it was a daily food because there was not much other food available. Not any more,” says Zhang, 64.
“I never imagined this could be popular. It won’t last.”
Back at my apartment, I try Pan’s version again alongside a bottle from Yin San Douzhi. Pan’s is certainly “worse” – more sour and sulphurous than the store’s creamier version.
My palate is nowhere near up to the task and I pour the remainder down the sink before racing out the door. I’m off to Shanghai for a few days, shutting in the funk of fermented mung beans behind me.
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Lisa Visentin is the North Asia correspondent for The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age based in Beijing. She was previously a federal political correspondent based in Canberra.Connect via X or email.
