With Ghost Month just over a month away, let’s delve into the ghost stories of Beijing—where folklore and food merge in the most chilling of ways.
It always begins similarly: late at night, a steaming table by the window, the last call from a sleepy waitress, and that subtle change in the atmosphere, as if someone is observing you—or has already taken a seat.
In Beijing, ghost stories are said to flourish where food is present—or so the urban legends suggest. These narratives focus less on facts and more on the spooky allure of local traditions. Perhaps it’s the dumpling shop in Dongzhimen that continuously delivers to Room 404, even though no one has resided there for years. Or the midnight noodle stall in Shichahai, where a ghostly woman silently slurps noodles and never settles her tab—the owner insists she always disappears before he can count out the change. Then there’s the baozi seller in a specific hutong who only shows up on foggy mornings, offering buns that are suspiciously hot, perfectly round, and surrounded by silence. His cart lacks a license plate, and no one recalls where he originated. Yet, the buns evoke a sense of nostalgia.
Then there’s the notorious Houhai ghost hotpot—a lakeside eatery that seems to never close. Some claim delivery drivers have received orders from alleys that aren’t found on any map. One chef insists he once served broth into a metal pot only to witness it vanish—not bubble or steam, but simply disappear, as if someone was already enjoying their meal. The table bore no number, and the receipt was blank.
Why food? Why ghosts?
Perhaps it’s because food is warm, communal, and alive—everything a ghost is not. A bubbling pot shared among friends is a ritual of connection and comfort. Yet, in a city like Beijing, with its layers of forgotten courtyards, historical debris, and ancient streets that lead nowhere, the past doesn’t always remain hidden. Every jianbing cart is parked over lost histories. Every late-night chuan'r stall serves as a beacon for more than just the living.
Timing plays a role too. Many of Beijing’s signature food traditions—hotpot, plum juice, barbecue skewers—flourish after dark. In traditional Chinese culture, the hours following midnight belong to the yin—representing coldness, secrecy, and the unseen. It’s during this time that the barrier thins, making it possible to share a bowl of broth with someone unexpected.
Dining is also intimate. We lower our defenses, lift our bowls, converse quietly, and share the experience. Ghost stories mingle with our meals—part flavor, part superstition. During traditional celebrations such as the Hungry Ghost Festival (中元节 zhōngyuán jié), offerings are burned and food is left for wandering spirits. On suburban balconies and at temple steps, plates of mooncakes or pears quietly await invisible visitors. Even now, many locals avoid placing chopsticks upright in rice, as it resembles incense and seems like an invitation.
A saying among night-shift taxi drivers goes: The later the meal, the longer the shadows. Many of them choose not to eat alone after 3 am.
Most of these stories are merely tales—late-night chatter flavored with baijiu and tedium. However, the next time you find yourself in a nearly deserted hotpot restaurant after midnight, and the steam swirls peculiarly, and the seat across from you shifts slightly…
Don’t panic. Perhaps it’s just a draft. Or maybe, someone is hungry.
Just remember to do one thing before you start eating: Count the chopsticks. You should see only two.
In Beijing, ghost stories often accumulate in places where food is served.
