China Food & Drinks
The ‘China-chic Girl’ Image and the Realities of China’s Competitive Food Delivery Market
How did the trendy and cute “China Chic” cartoon image come to symbolize questionable takeout food in China?
FROM THE WEIBO WATCH PREMIUM NEWSLETTER
“What should we order for dinner?” is a daily dilemma for millions of Chinese consumers in one of the world’s largest food delivery markets. With numerous platforms, cuisines, menus, and discount options, choosing the right takeout—one that is tasty, affordable, and safe—can feel like a daunting task.
But these days, many Chinese people follow a simple rule to identify bad takeout: if your delivery comes in packaging featuring a playful young woman wearing sunglasses, a traditional Peking opera headdress, and holding a fan—often with the bold trendy character “潮” (cháo, meaning “trend”)—it’s likely to be an unhealthy meal with potential food safety risks.
As one netizen joked, “I was so excited for my takeout, only to see this lady on the package and feel my heart sink.” Why does this seemingly cheerful cartoon figure evoke so much distrust and dislike from so many?
China-chic Girl
In 2020, digital illustrator @YUMI created the “China-chic Girl” image in response to a client’s request for a design that embodied the “China-chic” (国潮, guócháo) aesthetic.
China-chic, or guócháo—literally meaning “national tide”—refers to the rise of Chinese domestic (fashion) brands that often incorporate culturally Chinese elements into contemporary designs. This trend emerged as a reflection of growing nationalist sentiment in China, offering a Chinese counterpart to popular Japanese or Korean-inspired styles. From fashion and makeup to milk tea, ‘China-chic’ quickly became a defining element of China’s consumer culture (read more here).
Vlogger @花小雕 dressed up as the “China-chic” girl for Halloween.
However, when YUMI’s client failed to pay, she chose to release the design for free public use. YUMI’s creation—a blend of traditional Peking opera elements and modern sunglasses—struck a chord with its simple yet iconic charm. Its accessibility made it even more appealing, and the China-chic Girl soon became the go-to design for restaurants looking for affordable, visually striking takeout packaging.
On China’s wholesale website 1688, you can find a wide range of cheap takeout packaging with the “China-chic girl” on it.
The China-chic Girl was all the rage, until last fall.
Starting in September, some delivery drivers began exposing filthy kitchen conditions on social media, warning customers to avoid takeout from certain restaurants after witnessing food safety issues and kitchen hazards while waiting for orders.
Over time, people began noticing a pattern: the dirtiest kitchens were often small, non-chain establishments with no physical storefronts—just cramped spaces dedicated solely to takeout. Operating on tight budgets, these businesses often chose the inexpensive China-chic girl packaging to cut costs, unintentionally associating the China-chic girl with unsanitary and unsafe food practices.
As a result, netizens—especially young people who heavily rely on food delivery—started compiling guides to help each other avoid sketchy takeout options. The warning signs? Restaurants offering “cashback for good reviews” or those that lack a proper storefront, often listing only food items instead of a real restaurant name. These red flags point to private kitchens, poorly managed spaces, or even unregulated food safety practices. Additionally, many of these ‘China-chic takeouts’ thrive within the “group-buying” model on food delivery platforms.
No Such Thing As a Free Lunch
The “group-buying” model, popularized by platforms like Temu and its Chinese counterpart Pinduoduo (拼多多), allows users to invite friends, family, or colleagues to purchase a product together at a discounted price.
This strategy has since evolved into a pseudo-group-buying model, where even without inviting others, the group-buying discount is still applied. These discounts are carefully calculated by platforms to ensure that, even at reduced prices, profits can still be made due to the high sales volume.
Both Meituan (美团) and Eleme (饿了么)—the two largest food delivery platforms in China—have adopted this approach by introducing budget-friendly services such as Pinhaofan (拼好饭) and Pintuan (拼团) to target lower-tier markets.
For example, a typical 30 RMB ($4.15) takeout might cost only half that price through these services, with additional platform coupons and new user discounts making it almost irresistibly affordable.
A meal for 7.45 yuan ($1), but how fresh and safe is it?
But, of course, there’s no such thing as a free lunch. As many users have discovered, getting a full meal for under 10 RMB ($1.40) often comes at the expense of quality. These Pinhaofan takeouts commonly feature pre-made dishes with indistinguishable ingredients, flimsy utensils that can’t even scoop rice, a box of suspicious juice full of artificial coloring, low-grade packaging, and, of course, that cheap, once-iconic China-chic design.
A Meme Culture of “Bad Food”
Despite widespread awareness of these issues, the cheap Pinhaofan orders remain incredibly popular. According to Meituan’s second-quarter earnings report, the Pinhaofan service is booming, with order volumes reaching a record high of over 8 million orders per day. Why do people continue to order these potentially unsafe meals despite knowing the risks?
“Low price” has been the keyword for Meituan and the Chinese food delivery market for a long time. In the face of a sluggish economy and rising youth unemployment, online discussions are dominated by concerns over “consumption downgrades” (消费降级), “middle-class poverty” (中产返贫), “youth unemployment” (青年失业率), and “deflation” (通缩).
More and more people are turning to affordable takeout as a quick fix for their everyday struggles, even if the quality leaves much to be desired.
China Chic Girl Takeout
“I’m not stupid; I don’t expect a gourmet feast for 10 yuan ($1.4),” is a common attitude. As wallets run dry and work hours grow longer, health often becomes an afterthought.
This harsh reality, combined with the “lie-flat” mentality embraced by many young people, has turned ‘China-chic takeout’ and ‘Pinhaofan’ into online memes.
These meals have become symbols of resignation and self-deprecating humor among Chinese youth. When someone dares to express dissent or outrage about unchangeable realities—whether personal struggles or broader national policies—they’re often met with tongue-in-cheek pessimistic remarks like, “Have a couple of Pinhaofan meals and you’ll calm down” (“吃两顿拼好饭就老实了”).
Comparing take-out food: how bad is it actually? There’s a meme culture around Pinhaofan takeout food.
This phenomenon reflects a psychological defense mechanism. For young people who know they cannot change their circumstances, who find themselves at the bottom of society enduring immense hardship—even exploitation—they no longer confront failure directly or refer to themselves using the once-common “diaosi” (屌丝, loser).
Instead, they say things like, “Eating Pinhaofan every day makes me feel like I’ve won in life.” Perhaps it’s a bittersweet acceptance, but it’s not defeat.
No One Benefits—Except the Platforms
While memes can be entertaining, the real-world impact of Pinhaofan is far from positive for most involved—except for the platform giants. According to a report by Zhiwei Editorial Department (@知危编辑部), the Pinhaofan service significantly cuts into restaurant owners’ profit margins. Unlike regular takeout orders, where businesses pay a commission based on the final price, Pinhaofan offers a fixed, much lower payout per order, determined by the platform’s pricing categories. This often leaves restaurants with a meager profit margin of just 2-3 RMB ($0.3-$0.4) per order.
To stay afloat, restaurants are forced to cut corners—replacing fresh meats with frozen ones, opting for cheaper ingredients, and, of course, using the cheapest packaging, often taking the “China Chic” route.
So why do restaurants stick with this model?
The answer is simple: survival. On food delivery platforms, restaurant rankings are usually heavily influenced by factors like operational experience and longevity, giving older, established businesses a visibility advantage. This creates a cycle where newcomers struggle to compete.
The Pinhaofan model changes this dynamic by ranking individual dishes rather than entire restaurants. A single hit dish can boost a restaurant’s overall visibility and sales. In China’s highly competitive food delivery market, platform exposure is everything. Platforms often encourage struggling new restaurants to join Pinhaofan, positioning it as an opportunity to gain visibility. Faced with relentless competition and aggressive price wars, restaurants feel they have no choice but to participate, even if it means compromising on quality and profit.
Pinhaofan model: rankings ar based per dish, instead of per restaurant.
For delivery drivers, Pinhaofan presents its own set of challenges. To accommodate its group-order nature, Meituan introduced a “Changpao” (畅跑, or “smooth running”) mode for couriers. Under this system, couriers are assigned multiple Pinhaofan orders—often bundled with regular orders from the same restaurant along the same route—in a single trip, enabling them to deliver 2-3 times the usual number of orders in one go. The promise of “more work, more pay” draws couriers in, but the reality is far less rosy.
As explained by one Chinese blogger (@黑夜之晴天滚雪球), couriers’ per-order income under Changpao is nearly 50% lower than in regular modes. Even with a higher delivery volume, their overall earnings see little improvement. Worse still, regular (non-Pinhaofan) orders included in these bundled deliveries are also paid at the lower Changpao rate.
Couriers have vented their frustrations on social media, labeling Pinhaofan and Changpao as “exploitative.” One courier shared that a single Pinhaofan order earned them just 2.5 RMB ($0.35), and when group discounts were factored in, their earnings dropped to less than 1 RMB ($0.14) per order.
While couriers direct their grievances toward the system, customers are increasingly dissatisfied with the service. Complaints about couriers refusing to deliver Pinhaofan orders upstairs are growing. In some cases, couriers have reportedly even tampered with food to express their anger in a system where resistance feels futile.
For full-time couriers, the situation is even more grueling. Many work seven-day weeks, with at least two mandatory days spent on Changpao mode, leaving them with little choice but to comply with the system’s demands.
Shiba inu having China Chic takeout food. Meme video.
The “China chic girl” has gone from being a playful symbol of pride in domestic products to representing the problems of China’s fast and cheap takeout industry. What once celebrated affordability now highlights cost-cutting, poor quality, and exploitation.
It’s unclear if the memes and discussions around Pinhaofan will eventually bring real change to the situation at hand. But one thing is certain: the once-cute packaging now serves as a reminder of the sacrifices made by customers, restaurants, and delivery drivers in a system that eventually benefits only the platforms.
By Ruixin Zhang
Independently covering digital China for over a decade. Like what we do? Support us and get the story behind the hashtag by subscribing:
edited for clarity by Manya Koetse
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China Animals
China Faces Unprecedented Donkey Shortage Crisis
“We have plenty of cattle and horses in China now — just not enough donkeys” (“目前我国牛马都不缺，就缺驴”).
China is facing a serious donkey shortage. China’s donkey population is far below market demand, and the prices of donkey-related products continue to rise.
Recently, this issue went trending on Weibo under hashtags such as “China Currently Faces a Donkey Crisis” (#我国正面临缺驴危机#).
The Donkey Branch of China’s Livestock Association (中国畜牧业协会驴业分会) addressed this issue in Chinese media earlier last week, telling China News Weekly (中国新闻周刊): “We have plenty of cattle and horses in China now — just not enough donkeys” (“目前我国牛马都不缺，就缺驴”).
China’s donkey population has plummeted by nearly 90% over the past decades, from 11.2 million in 1990 to just 1.46 million in 2023.
The massive drop is related to the modernization of China’s agricultural industry, in which the traditional role of donkeys as farming helpers — “tractors” — has diminished. As agricultural machines took over, donkeys lost their role in Chinese villages and were “laid off.”
Donkeys also reproduce slowly, and breeding them is less profitable than pigs or sheep, partly due to their small body size.
Since 2008, Africa has surpassed Asia as the world’s largest donkey-producing region. Over the years, China has increasingly relied on imports to meet its demand for donkey products, with only about 20–30% of the donkey meat on the market coming from domestic sources.
China’s demand for donkeys mostly consists of meat and hides. As for the meat — donkey meat is both popular and culturally relevant in China, especially in northern provinces, where you’ll find many donkey meat dishes, from burgers to soups to donkey meat hotpot (驴肉火锅).
However, the main driver of donkey demand is the need for hides used to produce Ejiao (阿胶) — a traditional Chinese medicine made by stewing and concentrating donkey skin. Demand for Ejiao has surged in recent years, fueling a booming industry.
China’s dwindling donkey population has contributed to widespread overhunting and illegal killings across Africa. In response, the African Union imposed a 15-year ban on donkey skin exports in February 2023 to protect the continent’s remaining donkey population.
As a result of China’s ongoing “donkey crisis,” you’ll see increased prices for donkey hides and Ejiao products, and oh, those “donkey meat burgers” you order in China might actually be horse meat nowadays. Many vendors have switched — some secretly so (although that is officially illegal).
Efforts are underway to reverse the trend, including breeding incentives in Gansu and large-scale farms in Inner Mongolia and Xinjiang.
China is also cooperating with Pakistan, one of the world’s top donkey-producing nations, and will invest $37 million in donkey breeding.
However, experts say the shortage is unlikely to be resolved in the short term.
The quote that was featured by China News Weekly — “We have cows and horses, but no donkeys” (“牛马有的是，就缺驴”) — has sparked viral discussion online, not just because of the actual crisis but also due to some wordplay in Chinese, with “cows and horses” (“牛马”) often referring to hardworking, obedient workers, while “donkey” (“驴”) is used to describe more stubborn and less willing-to-comply individuals.
Not only is this quote making the shortage a metaphor for modern workplace dynamics in China, it also reflects on the state media editor who dared to feature this as the main header for the article. One Weibo user wrote: “It’s easy to be a cow or a horse. But being a donkey takes courage.”
By Manya Koetse
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China Food & Drinks
China’s Prefab Storm Explained: Luo Yonghao vs. Xibei & the Great Yùzhìcài Debate
A big debate over yùzhìcài — pre-made food — has boiled over on Chinese social media after a Xibei food review by Luo Yonghao pushed the issue into the spotlight.
A major discussion that first broke out on Chinese social media two years ago is being picked up again this month – and it’s completely blown up.
It is all about “yùzhìcài” (预制菜), ‘pre-fabricated meals’ or ‘pre-made food.’
From School Cafeterias to Restaurants
Back in 2023, there was widespread discussion over prefab meals when the new school season started and parents discovered that their children’s school cafeterias had transitioned from freshly prepared meals to ready-made ones.
Although the shift to “yùzhìcài” is part of a broader trend in China that has gained more attention over recent years, there has also been significant resistance to this change due to concerns over the meals lacking nutrition, containing too many additives, and not being safe enough. These issues become especially relevant when it’s about the meals being served to kids, and many people called for more legislation on the issue.
Now, in 2025, the resurfaced prefab food discussion is more focused on the restaurant industry than campus cafeteria.
This ‘prefab storm’ started when well-known entrepreneur and influencer Luo Yonghao (罗永浩) went out for dinner on September 10 with some friends at Xibei (西贝), a major Chinese restaurant chain specializing in northwestern Chinese cuisine.
Example of Xibei dishes (not by Luo, but by a Xiaohongshu user).
On his Weibo account (@罗永浩的十字路口), he wrote about the disappointing experience:
His post immediately set off a nationwide storm of discussions.
What Is Yùzhìcài?
A large party of the online discussion was about what exactly counts as yùzhìcài.
After all, the entire process of making tofu, for example, from soybean to final product, is a form of pre-processing that’s been part of Chinese cuisine for centuries.
According to China’s State Administration for Market Regulation, the term “yùzhìcài” applies to food that’s been prepped in advance using large-scale methods such as marinating, stir-frying, steaming, and then packaged for transport and sale to consumers or use in restaurant service. They’re not ready to eat as-is and must be heated or cooked before serving.
Examples of yuzhicai, pre-made food.
Still, many netizens wonder: does using a central kitchen qualify as yùzhìcài? Do frozen ingredients or factory-processed foods fall into the same category?
Many people aren’t necessarily opposed to pre-made dishes — some even associate them with better hygiene, especially when produced in regulated facilities, compared to meals prepared in smaller restaurant kitchens. At the same time, however, many object to pre-made food, assuming it is less healthy, or even unhealthy.
The “Pre-made War”
Luo’s criticism also wasn’t mainly about pre-made food in general, but about the high price and lack of disclosure about what’s being served.
Like one comment said: “I don’t mind pre-made food, but I do mind when the price doesn’t match.”
What made Luo’s comments particularly explosive was his choice of words — calling it “truly disgusting.”
When Chinese media contacted Xibei for comment, a spokesperson denied their food was pre-made and stressed that stir-fried dishes are cooked on-site, noodles are hand-kneaded, and beef marrow bones are freshly boiled each morning (#西贝回应被吐槽是预制菜#).
In response, Luo jokingly wrote: “…and their plastic bags are freshly cut, the microwave freshly opened, their prepared scripts freshly read…”
Xibei chairman Jia Guolong (贾国龙) clearly was not amused.
Xibei’s founder, Jia Guolong, was emotional about the controversy, which deeply affected the Xibei brand.
On September 11, he made a statement, saying:
Jia not only announced plans to sue Luo Yonghao, he even promised to launch a special “Luo Yonghao Menu” (罗永浩菜单) in Xibei restaurants.
Again, Luo responded:
But he didn’t leave it at that — the “pre-made war” was on. Luo even offered a RMB 100,000 ($14,000) reward for proof that Xibei uses pre-made food (an offer he later admitted was “impulsive”).
He also livestreamed, highlighting how Xibei’s children’s meals used frozen broccoli with a shelf life of up to two years, questioning whether such ingredients can be considered fresh, and criticizing the practice of selling “pre-made” vegetables at fresh food prices.
Luo’s livestream.
He further showed images of packaged sea bass used in Xibei kitchens, noting that the ingredients list included food additives sodium tripolyphosphate and sodium hexametaphosphate, and that the fish had a shelf life of up to 18 months.
Xibei Apologizes
Xibei, meanwhile, experienced what they called the largest external crisis since the founding of their company, with daily revenues dropping dramatically.
Trying to win back consumer trust, Xibei announced that all stores nationwide would open their kitchens to customer visits, actually launched their “Luo Yonghao Menu,” and made a promise: “If it doesn’t taste good, you don’t pay.”
But so far, Xibei hasn’t been able to fully win back the public’s favor. After all, it turns out that Xibei does use a central kitchen where food is prepared (meat is cut, vegetables washed), but because Chinese regulations do not count central kitchens making semi-finished or finished dishes for their own restaurants as yùzhìcài, many feel Jia Guolong is making use of a loophole.
Most people don’t care about the legal definition of yùzhìcài. What they care about is that the food is free of additives, fairly priced, tasty, and above all — fresh. Some argue that central kitchens and factories that make prefab food follow almost identical processes in essence.
In hopes of calming the PR crisis, Xibei also issued a public apology on September 15 in which they expressed regret for not meeting customer expectations and announced some changes to their company, including ensuring that more meals — including children’s meals — would be fully made in-store.
The Xibei Controversy: Consequences & Takeaways
The heated confrontation between Luo and Xibei has far-reaching consequences.
▪️ Legal Consequences
One of those consequences is a legal one. Although already underway, the public attention on prefab food might have quickened the process of regulation.
On September 13, the National Health Commission announced a draft law of the National Food Safety Standard for Pre-Made Dishes (预制菜食品安全国家标准). Once finalized, China will have a unified definition of “prefab food,” and for the first time, restaurants will be required to disclose whether and how they use it.
Luo Yonghao applauded the move, and while cheering for the upcoming regulations, he also said that the Xibei matter could be put to rest for now — after all, he suggested that legal clarity was one of his main goals.
▪️ Industry-Wide Impact
Seeing the dramatic impact this controversy has had on Xibei, other Chinese restaurant brands have begun to anticipate the yùzhìcài issue.
The Green Tea Restaurant quietly removed its signs saying all of its food is freshly made.
The Chinese dining chain Green Tea Restaurant (绿茶餐厅), for example, apparently wanted to avoid a PR crisis of its own and quietly removed its storefront sign that read: “No pre-made food, all dishes freshly made.” On their delivery packaging, they also blacked out the “no pre-made food” sentence, according to some media.
Livestreaming from the kitchen as a way to build consumer trust.
The controversy is also being used to the advantage of some restaurants, which have now begun live broadcasting their kitchens to show dishes being prepared in real time (后厨现炒, 后厨直播) — something that many Chinese restaurants, like Haidilao (海底捞), already did previously, and which is now being promoted as another way to build consumer trust.
▪️ A Win for Consumers
For consumers, the controversy has brought much more awareness about food preparation processes, with more people demanding transparency about the food they are served.
“Prefab Food Transparency” (预制菜透明化) has become a buzzword of the week, along with “Freshly Cooked, Freshly Stir-Fried” (现制现炒) as a way to win over diners.
Notably, there is one Chinese restaurant chain that is not being scrutinized this week.
Saizeriya (萨莉亚), a popular Japanese chain selling “Italian” food, is known as the “king of pre-made food.”
The reason Saizeriya has avoided public backlash despite being known for its yùzhìcài is because it is very affordable, and it has never pretended to be a “freshly made” restaurant — what you see is what you get.
That transparency, in the end, is what consumers are looking for — preferring consistency, honesty, and affordability over a more high-end restaurant like Xibei that presents itself as fresh while secretly using frozen ingredients.
In the end, that’s perhaps the lesson that can be learned from this whole ordeal for other restaurant chains: don’t pretend to be freshly made if you’re not, don’t be vague about your use of yùzhìcài, don’t mess with children’s food, and remember that in China’s dining culture and online environment, consumer trust is hard-won, and easily lost.
By Manya Koetse
Thanks to Miranda Barnes
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