On a humid evening in a provincial Chinese city, a salesman in a wrinkled suit pushed aside the curtain of a small restaurant tucked behind a factory. The cloth was greasy to the touch, and inside, the smell of smoke clung to everything. The walls were streaked with oil, the wooden chairs wobbled as if on their last legs, and an ashtray, brimming with cigarette butts, sat like a permanent fixture on the table.
The salesman ordered chicken soup and boiled dumplings. He had heard the rumors: this place was one of the last to insist on cooking with open flames.
“Is there a manager here?” he called toward the kitchen.
A white-haired man appeared, clutching a wok blackened with years of use.
“Manager? You mean me?”
“I work for a cooking equipment manufacturer,” the salesman began, taking out a folder. “Have you considered switching to induction cooktops? It’s safer, more efficient. And with pre-cooked frozen foods, you can save time and money. I can provide a full setup—equipment, ventilation, everything.”
The old man gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re the third salesman this month. No fire? No.”
The salesman glanced into the kitchen again. There was no refrigerator, no sign of an exhaust system. Only raw meat and vegetables stacked in baskets, ready for the wok. “But look around you,” he insisted. “The walls are sticky, the air is damp. Without proper disposal or modern methods, everything feels… unhealthy.”
The owner’s laughter deepened. “Do you want to know why I still cook over fire?”
“Tell me.”
The old man raised his wok. “Because I don’t want to lie.”
His words hung in the air, heavier than the smoke.
Outside, on Weibo, the battle over Chinese kitchens was raging. Earlier this month, entrepreneur Luo Yonghao accused Xibei, one of the country’s best-known restaurant chains, of passing off expensive pre-made meals as freshly cooked dishes. Xibei’s founder, Jia Guolong, denied the claims and even threatened to sue. But when the company flung open its kitchens nationwide to prove its innocence, the gamble backfired. Cameras caught chefs slicing open vacuum-sealed packs of marinated fish, ladling soup concentrate with year-long shelf lives, and pan-frying frozen vegetables marketed as “healthy meals.”
The revelation was not only about food—it was about trust. Diners began to ask whether the promise of “home-style” and “fresh” in glossy ads was anything more than packaging.
Back in the grimy little restaurant by the factory, the salesman adjusted his tie, suddenly unsure of what to say. The chicken soup arrived, steaming in a chipped bowl. It was uneven, salty in places, and the dumplings were misshapen. But when he tasted them, he realized they were exactly what they claimed to be: raw ingredients, cooked over fire, nothing hidden.
The old man poured himself a cup of tea and sat opposite the salesman. “People think fire is old-fashioned,” he said quietly. “But fire doesn’t lie. It shows you everything—the smoke, the oil, the mess. You may not like it. But at least you know what you’re eating.”
The salesman put away his brochure. The debate outside would continue—between efficiency and tradition, technology and authenticity, packaging and truth. But in this shabby kitchen, there was no debate. Only fire.
The Xibei Case: Understanding China’s Great Restaurant Debate
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