How Many Bowls of Lúzhǔ Huǒshāo Does It Take to Save the World in The Three-Body Problem?

Why can't Captain Shi put down that bowl of lu zhu?

Its faithful adaptation and reasonable reinterpretation of the original work have lived up to the years of anticipation from millions of sci-fi fans, delivering a carnival of imagination for the New Year.

Amid the heated discussions, there’s a group of viewers (like me) who scrutinize the show with a microscope—not just pondering "what lies at the end of the countdown," "whether the shooter and farmer exist," or "how far the Red Coast Base's signal has traveled in the universe," but also fixated on a crucial and urgent question:

Where on earth is that lu zhu restaurant Captain Shi always takes his team of ten?!

In fact, the scenes contain plenty of clues hinting at the location of the lu zhu spot.

Lu zhu is a common street snack in Beijing. The show also features a shot where, from the restaurant’s entrance, you can see red walls and golden-glazed rooftops. Combined with references to the electron-positron collider, the National Astronomical Observatory, and the Beijing Planetarium, it’s clear this part of the story takes place in Beijing—likely near Jingshan, behind the Forbidden City.

Unfortunately, since no suitable location was found during filming, the lu zhu restaurant was actually a set built in a studio, so any hopes of visiting the real place will have to wait.

What kind of delicacy is this lu zhu that Captain Shi can’t get enough of?

Photo/Tuchong Creative; Photographer/Dr. Xiaofeng

Seriously, why is Captain Shi always eating lu zhu? He eats it alone, with Wang Miao, with Wang Miao’s daughter, even with his superiors... Instead of ordering a few proper dishes or at least switching to zhajiangmian for variety, it’s always lu zhu! Is there really nothing else good to eat in Beijing? Is lu zhu the ultimate delicacy?

No, we must seriously investigate the mysterious force that makes Captain Shi cling to his bowl of lu zhu.

Why must Captain Shi eat lu zhu?

For those unfamiliar with this snack, let’s first explain what lu zhu actually is.

A steaming bowl of lu zhu, rich and hearty in flavor.

Photo/Tuchong Creative; Photographer/Lin Wanzi

Simply put, it’s a stew of pork offal simmered in a seasoned broth, typically including fatty intestines, lung, and pork belly, along with fried tofu. Occasionally, the pot might also feature premium cuts like "lu weir" (the end of the large intestine), "bao gair" (diaphragm), or liver for discerning customers.

The big pot at a lu zhu stall bubbles away from morning till night, with a rich broth made from pork bones and mushrooms. Just seeing the steaming pot is enough to whet your appetite.

As the broth simmers rhythmically, the anticipation among diners grows.

Order a "cai di'r" (just the meat, no bread), and watch as the server swiftly fishes out intestines and lung, chops them up, adds triangular chunks of fried tofu, tops it with slices of pork, ladles on the broth, and finishes with a garlic-fermented tofu sauce. The result? Tender intestines, slightly chewy lung, rich but not greasy, fragrant without any gaminess. After savoring the "cai di'r," add a bowl with huoshao (flatbread). These freshly baked wheat cakes, lined around the pot’s edge for hours, soak up the meaty flavors. Cut into pieces and soaked in the broth, each bite is chewy, satisfying, and deeply comforting.

The skill in making huoshao is also key—it must stay firm without turning mushy, yet absorb all the delicious flavors.

Photo/Tuchong Creative; Photography/Yexi

Like other famous Beijing snacks such as bao du (quick-boiled tripe), chao gan'er (fried liver), and douzhi'er (fermented mung bean juice), lu zhu is an unpretentious street food with a shared characteristic: they all originated during the peak of imperial power, originally made from offcuts of expensive dishes or as ultra-budget versions.

The predecessor of lu zhu was "Suzao Rou," a meticulously crafted dish made by a renowned chef from the Suzhou Weaving Office using over a dozen precious herbs and spices. This elaborate dish spread from the imperial court to the common folk, who drastically simplified and reinvented its ingredients, eventually turning it into the affordable and universally enjoyed dish it is today. Now, whenever "Beijing snacks" are mentioned, lu zhu comes to mind, while the name "Suzao Rou" has faded into obscurity.

In modern lu zhu, pork intestines are the main ingredient.

Photo/Tuchong Creative; Photography/Fan Xiaozhe

Now that we understand lu zhu, we can move on to the next question: In the original novel, how many bowls of lu zhu did Captain Shi actually eat?

The answer is zero. According to authoritative sources (me), throughout the first book of *The Three-Body Problem*, the only things explicitly consumed by Captain Shi were two jin of bao du and half a bottle (plus one glass) of erguotou liquor.

In the TV series, pairing Captain Shi with lu zhu makes perfect sense. Lu zhu is greasy, carb-heavy, convenient, affordable, and filling—among all Beijing snacks, it best suits the lifestyle of a busy, overworked veteran cop with high physical and mental demands.

How can you outwit criminals on an empty stomach?

Most importantly, it aligns with Captain Shi's personality. Lu zhu is delicious, but not everyone loves it—its bold offal flavors inevitably repel some. Only when devouring it heartily does one appreciate its value. Similarly, Captain Shi is unkempt, blunt, and seemingly unremarkable at first glance, even annoying upon closer inspection—yet in crises, his reliability shines.

A match made in heaven, isn’t it? Flawless, right? No more words needed, Captain Shi—down this bowl of lu zhu!

How did a humble lu zhu joint become the "Operations Center" in *The Three-Body Problem*?

There’s a classic dramatic theory: if a gun appears in a play, it must be fired, or the element is wasted. The *Three-Body* production team clearly understands this: since they painstakingly built a lu zhu shop set, they had to use it to the fullest.

In saving the world, lu zhu played a pivotal role.

The lu zhu shop’s first appearance carried the mission of "rescuing a broken scientist." Wang Miao, having just witnessed the universe flicker, was consumed by the thought that "natural laws could be arbitrarily manipulated," making even ordinary nightscapes seem terrifying. It was the shop’s earthly warmth that grounded him. The stars were distant, but bao du was close. Only after filling his stomach could he absorb Shi Qiang’s reassurance and brace himself against the "bizarre" enemy.

Captain Shi was sharp. While scientists fretted over incomprehensible forces, he knew it was "someone" sabotaging their morale. During their second visit to the lu zhu shop, he pulled out a homemade countdown timer, offering Wang Miao the simplest reassurance: "If you zero out, I’ll zero out with you."

"If you reset to zero, I’ll reset with you."

Look—Wang Miao, who initially dismissed Shi Qiang, volunteered for undercover work after just two meals. Was it Shi’s charisma or lu zhu’s?

Over lu zhu with Wang Miao, we saw a carefree yet dependable Captain Shi; with Wang’s daughter, we saw a gentle uncle and a weary father. The moment she spoke, he bought her ice cream, took her roller-skating, and stubbed out his barely-smoked cigarette without hesitation—had it been his own son, he might not have been so patient.

Start lu zhu young, and quit smoking early too.

The stewed offal eatery was not just a place for the protagonists to fill their stomachs, but also a crucial "secondary operations center." While the repurposed museum operations center was heavily guarded, it was around the small square tables of this humble eatery that true confidants gathered. Over bowls of stew and drinks, Ye Wenjie's suspicions were analyzed, and battle strategies were devised. That said, Captain Shi was indeed General Chang Weisi's trusted comrade—a brother forged in life-and-death battles. Otherwise, the scene would have been unthinkable: the captain sitting while the general stood, eating while the general watched, even urging him to hurry up without lifting a finger to help peel garlic!

This stewed offal shop witnessed too much during the mission to save the world. Once the crisis was over, it deserved to be turned into a tourist attraction—with tickets priced no lower than ten yuan.

General Chang, care to share your garlic-peeling technique?

General Chang, Captain Shi, and Professor Wang sat in the most unremarkable street-side eatery, eating the most unremarkable stewed offal. Yet, greatness often emerges from such ordinary moments. The battle for the survival of human civilization began in this very unassuming place.

Could human civilization send its first audible cry into the cosmos?

The crisis was urgent—somewhere in the vast darkness of space, "someone" was eyeing our world with hostility.

No one had seen them, but their power was undeniable. Humanity had struggled for millennia without leaving a footprint beyond the solar system, yet they could launch an expedition across interstellar space with ease. They didn’t even need to appear in person to effortlessly "lock" Earth's technology.

Worse, they could shatter humanity’s faith on a psychological level. Particle accelerators stopped working, the laws of physics were altered, and scientists collapsed in despair one after another. After centuries of climbing the summit of science, humanity realized its pride in intelligence was no better than a turkey’s on a farm—its hard-won scientific laws mere playthings for the "farmers" to twist at will.

Could turkeys enjoying a peaceful life foresee Thanksgiving?

Faced with such overwhelming power, who wouldn’t panic?

Take Sha Ruishan, for example. As an astrophysics Ph.D., he understood better than Wang Miao just how impossible the flickering cosmic microwave background radiation was. Yet after a brief shock, he erupted in glee—finally, material for a paper!—and even began enthusiastically brainstorming how to launch a 300,000-kilometer-long light strip into space.

The massive astronomical telescope was humanity’s eye gazing into the vast universe.

Wang Miao didn’t back down either. At the center of the storm, watching scientists perish one after another and grappling with mind-shattering phenomena, he still rose from despair to plant the seeds of science in children’s minds, turning his lab into a battlefield against an unknown enemy.

And General Chang Weisi? While others remained oblivious, he clearly understood that the survival of human civilization was a stroke of luck—that their peaceful world had already stumbled into an existential catastrophe. The battlefield lay centuries away, yet the journey had to begin under his feet. Facing an endless road, he never wavered in his duty.

Then there was Shi Qiang. With no formal scientific education, his mind—honed sharper than a blade through battles with criminals—cut through illusions and exposed the cowardly magician behind the curtain.

The "stewed offal" crew might not understand games, but they sure as hell wouldn’t lose to the Trisolarans.

Humanity was weak, but were the enemies truly invincible? If they could manipulate the fundamental laws of physics, why only scare a few scientists? Something so absurd had to be a trick. Behind the bluster, there must be a trembling coward.

When the Trisolarans looked down on humanity as turkeys and insects, their arrogance sealed their fate.

History has taught us time and again: the exquisite, the grand, the seemingly invincible crumble under hubris, while wisdom, courage, cunning resourcefulness, and vigilance born of hardship allow the weak to survive against all odds.

Just take a look at this bowl of stewed offal.

The most inconspicuous little shops can endure for over a hundred years.

When the exquisite "Suzhou-style braised pork" was first created, it was by no means the most luxurious dish in the imperial court. The bustling capital gathered renowned chefs from all directions, where "the finer the food, the better" was merely the most basic requirement. Times have changed—where have the grand feasts recorded in the "Qing Dynasty Statutes" gone? What about the Manchu-Han Imperial Feast documented in the "Yangzhou Pleasure Boats"?

Stewed offal, quick-fried tripe, and fermented mung bean juice—these humble, unassuming scraps and leftovers—have tenaciously, steadfastly, and step by step taken root in the lives of ordinary people. They possess a vitality far surpassing any luxury, unexpectedly forming the most ordinary yet resilient gustatory memories of this city.

The cheapest ingredients create the most enduring anchors of memory.

Weakness and ignorance are not barriers to survival; complacency in strength leads to decline.

Across a vast distance of 276,363.507 astronomical units, the weak and ignorant human civilization has never lost the courage to face formidable adversaries.