China’s Two Liquors
How baijiu rose to power and why huangjiu might rise to pleasure
If you only know one Chinese drink, it’s probably baijiu 白酒: the clear, ferociously aromatic spirit that fuels business banquets and “ganbei” toasts. But the older story of Chinese alcohol is actually amber, not clear.
For most of Chinese history, when people said jiu (酒), they meant huangjiu 黄酒: rice or grain-based, fermented, usually 14–20% ABV, and often served warm. Think more sherry or sake than vodka. The tough outlaw Wu Song in Water Margin didn’t pound shots of a spirit; he drained bowls of something closer to heated rice wine. Distilled baijiu arrived much later, and only in the People’s Republic did it become the country’s official drink of power. The swap from yellow (huangjiu) to white (baijiu) shaped not just tastes, but social rituals. And it may be reversible.
Opening a jar of huangjiu
The amber origin story
Archaeology gives China one of the world’s oldest drinking pedigrees. Residues from Neolithic jars at Jiahu (贾湖) in Henan show a mixed fermented beverage of rice, honey, and fruit dating to the 7th millennium BCE. It’s a proof that alcohol culture began millennia before distillation.
The technology that made those ancient drinks special was qū (曲): compact bricks of molds and yeasts that convert starch to sugar while fermenting it into alcohol. That two-step magic is what makes grain wines possible without malting, and it remains the beating heart of huangjiu and even baijiu today.
By the classical era, jiu was an everyday word. It flavored sacrifices, poetry, and weddings. The semantic issue for English speakers is that jiu was a category broader than “wine” but gentler than “hard liquor.” It meant the stuff in the clay jar on the table, fermented, often low-to-mid ABV, and, crucially, delicious warm. Even now, mainstream guides describe huangjiu as 14–20% alcohol and typically enjoyed warmed, closer to sake service than to ice-cold shots.
When “wine” turned into “white”
So where did the white stuff come from? The consensus is that large-scale production of distilled spirits took off comparatively late, around the Yuan and Ming dynasties (14-16th centuries), after the technique moved across Eurasia. Ming pharmacologist Li Shizhen wrote in the Compendium of Materia Medica that shaojiu 烧酒(burnt wine, distilled spirits) was “not ancient” and “first created in the Yuan dynasty.” In other words: the classic, warm, brownish “wine” of earlier literature wasn’t baijiu. Baijiu is the upstart.
By the late imperial period, the technology had matured and styles diversified. But the decisive plot twist came after 1949. In the early 1950s, the new government consolidated key distilleries, standardized categories, and crowned national “famous liquors.” The most powerful symbol was Kweichow Moutai (贵州茅台, SSE: 600519) in 1951, local authorities merged three distilleries: Chengyi, Ronghe, and Hengxing, into a state-owned Moutai plant. Soon it topped the national liquor lists and became a fixture of official hospitality. Baijiu wasn’t just alcohol; it was a diplomatic prop and a state brand.
That symbolism traveled well. In February 1972, when President Richard Nixon met Zhou Enlai in Beijing, the world saw televised toasts in the Great Hall of the People. History poured into tiny stemmed glasses. Those banquets ended up in archives and textbooks; the image of American and Chinese leaders clinking cups helped cement baijiu as the taste of high politics.
The domestic script evolved too. As China marketized, the banquet table became a workplace: contracts were nudged along by ganbei (literally “dry the cup”) rituals that rewarded stamina as much as taste. The myth of Wu Song, the solitary hero crushing bowls of “wine”, was replaced by the modern office hero draining shot after shot of baijiu to honor clients and bosses. The drink mapped neatly onto hierarchies: the higher your status, the pricier the bottle presented to you.
A state level reverse
In late 2012, Beijing launched a sweeping anti-extravagance, anti-corruption drive. Overnight, lavish official banquets and heavy drinking became political liabilities. Military and government organs formalized bans on alcohol at official functions; provinces trial-ballooned even stricter rules. High-end baijiu, which had feasted on gift-giving and public banquets, suddenly faced a demand shock.
The state was un-making a piece of the drinking economy it had helped build. The austerity theme has returned in 2025, with renewed curbs on group dining for civil servants banquet culture. Baijiu had become a language of hierarchy. Change the grammar, and people speak differently at dinner.
The youth don’t want to prove anything
There’s another force at work: taste. Younger drinkers are choosing lower-ABV, “no/low” options—lighter cocktails, spritzes, natural wines, sessionable beers. Less ceremony, more flavor; less proving, more pleasure.
Chinese brands are experimenting. Moutai has tried to “de-banquet” itself with Moutai ice cream and a co-branded Moutai-flavored latte with Luckin Coffee, a headline that would have been unthinkable a decade ago. It’s not huangjiu, but it is a sign that Chinese alcohol is wrestling with new occasions and palates.
Meanwhile, a lot of young Chinese drinkers are flirting with lighter East Asian styles: Korean soju highballs, Japanese sake and umeshu, local rice wines, because they’re tasty, mixable, and social without the performance. That doesn’t mean baijiu disappears. It does mean the center of gravity can move from compliance to conviviality.
Huangjiu, misrecognized
There’s a strange irony here: the “new” low-pressure, food-friendly drinking culture that the younger Chinese want has been hiding in plain sight for centuries. Huangjiu, especially Shaoxing styles, is already mid-strength, complex, and forgiving with food. It’s lovely warmed on a rainy night, lively with a chill in summer, and magical with ginger, shellfish, poultry, mushrooms, and cheese. If it were invented in Napa or Emilia-Romagna, we’d call it a cross between madeira and sake and be paying $40 for a 300ml bottle.
So why isn’t huangjiu already booming?
Three reasons. First, branding: for two generations, “Chinese liquor” in English has meant baijiu. Second, occasions: huangjiu was domestic and seasonal, the taste of winter kitchens and wedding soups; it never got the diplomatic pedestal. Third, language: “yellow wine” undersells it abroad (and sometimes suggests sweetness only), while jiu in Chinese lumps huangjiu and baijiu together, blurring what international consumers actually want.
A playbook for a yellow renaissance
Huangjiu offers an experience centered on comfort and craft, positioning it as an ideal everyday companion for both food and conversation. While Baijiu often evokes status and potency, Huangjiu appeals as a nurturing, flavor-driven beverage. To fully enjoy it, embrace the role of temperature: Huangjiu can be served lightly chilled for fresher styles or gently warmed (never boiled) to bring out deeper notes, making the preparation part of the pleasure.
Huangjiu is a complex yet approachable drink, easily described using familiar flavor analogies. Imagine the nutty richness of Oloroso sherry, the savory umami of aged sake, or subtle notes of soy and orange peel. It isn’t a mystery; it’s a familiar and unjustly overlooked wine. To help international audiences explore, Huangjiu can be broadly categorized into three styles, each with distinct serving suggestions:
Fresh & Food-Friendly (10–15% ABV): These are lightly aged, delicate styles best served cool. They pair beautifully with light fare like oysters, roast chicken, or grilled zucchini.
Amber & Savory (15–18% ABV): Representing the classic Shaoxing style, these are traditionally served warm and shine alongside rich, savory dishes such as ginger-scallion clams, soy-braised pork, ramen, or mushroom pasta.
Dark & Contemplative (16–20% ABV): The long-aged or sweeter varieties, perfect for enjoying alongside blue cheese, chocolate torte, or while sipping during a communal hot pot meal.
Move beyond the traditional tiny hot cups by reinventing the vessel, try using a small white-wine stem to gather the aroma, or a ceramic tumbler to hold the warmth. The ritual can be built around the thoughtful preparation of temperature, such as a small water bath for gentle warming, rather than a focus on rapid consumption. Furthermore, Huangjiu’s rich umami profile makes it a stellar base for cocktails, fitting neatly into the global trend for lighter, longer drinks. Simple recipes are best, such as a refreshing Ginger Highball (Huangjiu topped with dry ginger ale and lemon peel) or a warm Winter Hot Toddy (Huangjiu with ginger, honey, and hot water).
From Tests to Tastes
None of this requires trashing baijiu. In fact, a healthy drinking culture in China should include both wines. Baijiu can stay where it shines: as a small-pour, slow-sniff spirit, closer to mezcal than vodka. The problem was never baijiu’s existence; it was how we used it, as a test rather than a taste.
Huangjiu, conversely, is built for permission: permission to slow down, to warm up, to eat, to talk. It doesn’t need a hierarchy to make sense. It needs a menu.
Baijiu spoiled many a good meal for me over the years, I can tell you that. 😂 I just can't get used to it, much less find it enjoyable in any context. SO GLAD to hear there is a more historically and culturally relevant alternative!
My personal evaluation. the ice cream and the coffee are both WORSE for adding the Baijiu...