How This Small Shandong Town Devours the Rustiest Seafood

If the sea could recall all the dishes

Do you know what Longkou vermicelli, Shouguang vegetables, Laiyang pears, Fushan cherries, Laoshan beer, Jimo yellow wine, Rongcheng sea cucumbers, and Rushan oysters have in common? Some might say they are all Shandong specialties. If asked further what these specialties share, some might notice their prefixes are all county-level units—these are the "little prides of small places."

The fully loaded "Zhanhua vessel" is brimming with seafood!

Among these coastal counties, there’s a place called Zhanhua. Here, the Tuhai River—one of the nine rivers dredged by Yu the Great and the second-largest river in Shandong—meets the Bohai Bay. The kaleidoscopic salt fields, spanning thousands of acres, are a legacy of Guan Zhong’s salt-boiling industry, bringing prosperity to the locals. Hundreds of millions of salt-pond shrimp from here end up on Shandong diners’ tables, and 75% of the nation’s jellyfish trade happens here… How many "delicious treasures of China" are hidden in this gem on the southern coast of Bohai?

Shandong’s "earthy seafood" that’s bolder than scallions

Just how stunning is Zhanhua shrimp paste?

To outsiders, Shandong people are either "scallion fanatics" or "pancake heroes." But among Shandong locals, there are only two categories: those who eat Zhanhua shrimp paste and those who don’t. For Shandong kids born in the 80s and 90s, bringing their own lunch to school is a shared memory. Having a few scallions in your desk might make you a "bronze-tier" classmate, but a jar of Zhanhua shrimp paste elevates you to "champion" status—its aroma ensures every textbook exudes the scent of the sea, literally immersing you in the "ocean of knowledge."

Zhanhua, on the southern coast of Bohai Bay, boasts a 170.5-kilometer coastline, with a tidal zone spanning over 10 kilometers between high and low tides. Fishermen drive wooden stakes into shallow waters, stretching long nets to trap tiny shrimp swept in by the tides. These shrimp, boiled in seawater and sun-dried, become dried shrimp, while those preserved through fermentation turn into shrimp paste.

Tiny shrimp from Bohai Bay, gather in my hands!

Making shrimp paste is an art of time and sunlight. Zhanhua fishing boats often carry large vats, stirring layers of tiny shrimp with salt using wooden paddles. The shrimp, low in "body fat" with crisp shells and thin flesh, gradually break down into a paste. Over 10 to 20 days, the shrimp transform from translucent white to pale pink, their flavor shifting from briny to rich—a vat of shrimp paste is complete.

Each vat of shrimp paste is the sea’s "palette."

Photo/Nattapong; Image/Adobe Stock

For shrimp paste enthusiasts, eating it raw is the bare minimum of respect. Dipping scallions into raw shrimp paste is a "double buff" of bold flavors. The scallion’s pungency cuts through the shrimp’s fishiness, its sweetness balances the paste’s saltiness, and its spice masks the fermented funk—a "hexagonal warrior" of land-and-sea umami, delivering a full-spectrum assault on the taste buds.

A gentler way to enjoy shrimp paste is steaming. Beat an egg into the paste, drizzle peanut oil, and steam for 15 minutes. The pale pink paste turns grayish-white under the heat, its fishiness mellowing while the umami of amino acids shines—perfect for devouring with steamed buns.

Steamed shrimp paste with eggs is a land-and-sea feast of amino acids.

Add shrimp paste to stewed tofu for a calcium-rich umami boost; stir-fry string beans with shrimp paste and wrap in thin pancakes for a ritualistic bite; stuffing shrimp paste into cornbread creates Zhanhua’s "seafood burger"—pair it with a scallion, and you’ll be the coolest kid on the block.

Shrimp paste stewed tofu: doubly delicious, doubly calcium-packed.

Discerning Zhanhua gourmands share an unspoken secret: during fermentation, a tiny amount of clear oil—shrimp paste oil—rises to the surface. A 300-pound vat yields only about half a pound of this oil, which must be stirred back in immediately. This oil is the paste’s natural "preservative"; skimming it off ruins the batch.

An incomplete guide to China’s shrimp paste—feel free to add more in the comments.

Tossing veggies with shrimp paste oil requires just a drizzle—no other seasonings needed—preserving the vegetables’ freshness while capturing the sea’s essence. One standout dish, exclusive to Zhanhua, is jellyfish and cabbage heart salad dressed with shrimp paste oil, starring Wang’erzhuang jellyfish.

Stir-fried water spinach with shrimp paste, crisp in my mouth, fresh in your heart.

The only product worthy of the title "aircraft carrier-grade" is Wang'Erzhuang jellyfish.

Zhanhua's Fengjia Town on the southern coast of Bohai Bay, known as the "land reclaimed from the sea," is crisscrossed with rivers and waterways. At the Wang'Erzhuang jellyfish factory, workers are busy sorting and packaging from dawn to dusk. Little known is that 45% of the world's and 75% of China's jellyfish are traded here, where you can buy nearly 40 varieties from around the globe! "A small jellyfish building a billion-yuan industrial aircraft carrier" has long been a local legend.

Outsiders visiting Wang'Erzhuang are surprised to find this tiny seaside village of just a few hundred households is actually Asia's largest jellyfish trading hub! From the Liaodong Peninsula to Southeast Asia, North Africa to Australia and North America, Wang'Erzhuang traders transport jellyfish everywhere.

Jellyfish with cabbage heart is a classic dish—drizzled with white vinegar, sesame oil, garlic paste, and sizzling hot chili oil, its cool crunch against fiery spice creates a "fire and ice" dance on the tongue, the ultimate rice companion. Eating jellyfish with beer makes even Zhanhua girls drop their reserve.

Jellyfish tossed with "tiger salad" delivers bold flavors head-on.

Jellyfish with shredded cucumber is common in Zhanhua, while pairing it with tiger salad creates a "soul connection" to Northeastern cold dishes. Tiger salad, a humble dish from warlord Zhang Zuolin's kitchen, combines just green peppers, scallions, and cilantro for a punchy taste. Adding Wang'Erzhuang jellyfish crowns this fierce "tiger head" with a "king" character—sour, crunchy, spicy... I want it all!

Jellyfish with cucumber, "agate and jade" on the tongue.

To hear the "clapper song of flavors,"

The Tuhai River, Zhanhua's mother river, flows through migrants' memories. Where it meets Bohai Bay, razor clams grow in muddy burrows, their twin rectangular shells revealing twin "flesh ropes" resembling Shandong clapper talk props. Locals call them "xiān," fishing them with special hooks for soups.

Zhanhua razor clams are larger and carry a sugarcane-like fragrance. Though muddy, fishermen never discard the blanching water—its milky broth preserves the essence. After settling sediment, the meat is stewed right in it.

Razor clams extend breathing tubes from mud, making harvests like "whack-a-mole."

This razor clam soup, with its creamy broth and sweet meat, warms like "flavorful clapper talk." Adding green radish and tofu makes an authentic Zhanhua farmhouse dish.

Loofah stewed with razor clams, where umami "threads perfectly."

"Reigning supreme" on Zhanhua palates

Coastal Zhanhua abounds with crabs—from "dūluzi" (yellow-eyed crabs) building burrows in reed marshes to three-spotted swimming crabs with dinosaur-skull-like shells.

Spring "dūluzi" are plump post-hibernation. Kids dig them from reeds to fry, making neighboring villages drool. Come summer rains, adults collect them in buckets for raw brine-curing with salt and peppercorns.

Dūluzi, the "fortress lords" of reed marshes.

Mid-autumn swimming crabs bulge with roe—steamed simply, their orange gold can be scooped by the spoonful, magnificently indulgent.

Steamed swimming crab, its freshness practically spills off the screen.

When the crab roe is "swept away like wind scattering clouds," what remains is the jade-white crab meat. Splitting the crab shell in half reveals pristine flesh, with garlic-clove-like meat shredded into strips that burst with fragrance in every bite. Paired with a pot of Jimo yellow wine—perfect! The amber-hued, aromatic brew is the only worthy companion to this "jade treasure among crabs."

Each bite of swimming crab roe is pure satisfaction.

There’s another way to enjoy swimming crab, similar to the drunken crab of Jiangnan, called "qiang crab"—also raw and marinated. The method isn’t overly refined but has its own rules. Live crabs are scrubbed clean, then soaked in brine made with two parts water to one part salt. Tap water must be used, not boiled, as locals in Zhanhua say cooled boiled water turns the meat black.

For qiang crab, live swimming crabs are stacked belly-up in layers inside a jar, submerged in brine. Those who prefer a lighter taste marinate for just a few hours, while others leave them for a full day. After removing, portion them into freezer bags—as long as the ice doesn’t melt, the meat stays black-free, allowing you to savor "365 Days of Missing You" on your tongue over a year.

The crab meat gleams like white jade, the roe like amber—qiang swimming crab is a work of art.

For Zhanhua locals, spring tastes of the "ice-smart" mullet.

In northern Shandong, there’s a sleek, silver-spindle-shaped fish with fine, chainmail-like scales called mullet. Zhanhua is its main habitat. When winter’s icy grip thaws and the Yellow River’s ice-run season arrives, the year’s first mullet, still crusted with sea ice, is hauled from Bohai Bay after Spring Festival.

After winter dormancy, the mullet, having fasted and shed its intestines (locals call it "clean-gut"), packs rich fat reserves. Its prime window—just ten days between Spring’s Start and Awakening of Insects—makes Zhanhua’s "first spring delicacy" a fleeting must-eat.

Spring’s first-caught mullet is northern Shandong’s seasonal highlight.

Photo courtesy of Yantai Culture and Tourism Bureau.

The mullet’s peak freshness mirrors the Yellow River’s ice-breaking spectacle. Under spring sun, the river, like a "violent drummer," cracks the sky with thunderous booms, charging ice floes toward Bohai Bay like stampeding steeds. Live mullets, darting past "ice mirrors," nibble at spring’s restlessness before landing on gourmet tables.

Fresh mullet shines in simple stews. Locals say "mullet head, carp waist." Scale the live fish, blanch to set its shape, score crosses on both sides, then stew with scallions, ginger, tofu, and coarse salt. Fifteen minutes over high heat yields firm, bouncy meat and silky broth. A sip of strong liquor ignites another "ice-breaking" in your mouth.

Stewed mullet tastes like spring itself.

For Zhanhua natives, nostalgia is the shrimp paste mom mailed in summer; the post-Spring Festival mullet stew craved from afar; the instant jellyfish eaten under a lonely moon in rented rooms; or the drunken "duluzi" crab cracked open with hometown friends. Graduates of this "ocean county school" charge ahead in life’s vast seas.

Graphics by Jiuyang, Fish One.

Expert consultation/review for this article—

Chen Baokui, Zhanhua native, Shaanxi provincial official.

Propaganda Department, Zhanhua District Committee, Binzhou City.

Header image | Mimi Zhuangzhu.

Cover | Tuchong Creative, photo by Lewis Tse Pui Lung.

This article is original content from [Didao Fengwu].