No cilantro! No cilantro! No cilantro!

The loves, hates, and passions of 1.4 billion Chinese people

It's World Coriander Hate Day again. Coriander, a food that can spark heated debates among 1.4 billion Chinese at the dining table.

For those who hate coriander, even a single leaf appearing at any stage can ruin an entire meal. Its flavor stands out like nothing else—like the faint stench of a crushed stink bug in a stuffy room, the complex taste of accidentally ingesting hand soap, or the moldy, peeling walls during the rainy season. Each association is enough to make one cringe and grit their teeth.

For many Cantonese who avoid coriander,

the coriander on white-cut chicken is just decoration.

The first thing they do when the dish is served is toss the coriander away.

But in the eyes of coriander lovers, its umami is beyond words—a flavor so distinct it stands out even among lavish feasts, unmatched by any fresh fruit or vegetable. It’s an obsession that declares, "Coriander is coriander, unrivaled across nations and through time," a love so deep it feels like life or death.

When it comes to coriander, there are only two options: uncontrollable love or sworn hatred. It rejects ambiguity, forbids indifference, and specializes in curing "whatever" attitudes.

Is it really a genetic "defect"?

Many coriander lovers often tell haters a long-circulated online line: "You dislike coriander because of a genetic defect!" But in truth, on the path of culinary taste, there are no "defects"—only diverse and beautiful differences among people.

This coriander-related difference, according to research, stems from the olfactory gene OR6A2. A variation in a nearby nucleotide affects sensitivity to aldehydes—the very compounds responsible for coriander’s unmistakably pungent flavor. So whether you’re Team Coriander or the Anti-Coriander Alliance, the love or disgust likely comes down to the same chemicals.

For some, even the smell of chopped coriander

is overwhelming. These flavor compounds are aggressively potent—no matter how deeply buried in bold dishes, aldehydes always fight their way to your nose. Their "contagion" is unmatched: a cutting board or knife used for coriander an hour earlier can still trigger a hater’s gag reflex.

Even wilder, since some soaps, hand washes, and stink bugs share similar aldehydes, the Anti-Coriander Alliance has a rallying cry: coriander tastes like "bugs and soap."

There are all kinds of "World Anti-Coriander Alliances" globally,

"No Coriander" posters in various languages,

and "No Coriander" HD wallpapers ready to download.

This bizarre conclusion dates back millennia—the earliest record of coriander consumption is 9,000-year-old seeds found in a cave on an Aegean island. The Greeks named it; today’s "coriander" comes from "Koris," meaning "bug."

But coriander’s associations aren’t all negative. A Shandong friend once shared how, in his poorer youth, he’d mimic lamb soup with flour broth, coriander, pepper, and salt—a humble comfort when the real thing was out of reach.

The soul of lamb soup lies in the handfuls of coriander on top.

So, does disliking cilantro seem to be predestined from birth?

Many media outlets have reported it this way, even concluding that "not liking cilantro is a genetic issue." But the paper that raised this point actually concluded that the relevant nucleotides only influence about 8.7% of whether people like cilantro. In plain terms: it has an effect, but not a big one.

Cilantro roots, cilantro stir-fried with everything...

The Chinese people's mixed feelings about cilantro are evident even in its naming.

In the linguistic systems across China, cilantro is also known as yánsuī cài, yánsuīzi, yánsuīr, yán (yuán) xī... In Hainan, where "fāng" means "fragrant," it's called "fāng cài"; in a few places (like Zhouning in Fujian, Rucheng in Hunan, and Jianli and Gong'an in Hubei), people are brutally honest and simply call it "stinky vegetable." But the most widely used name nationwide is still its scientific name, yánsuī.

Chinese people have many names for cilantro.

According to incomplete statistics from the Language Resources Protection Project's recording platform,

56.4% of regions call it yánsuī.

Beyond individual differences, preferences for cilantro also vary by region.

Generally, in the north, where beef and lamb are widely consumed, cilantro—which helps remove gaminess and enhance freshness—appears more frequently. In the southwest, where heavy spices and oils dominate, and tolerance for various herbal seasonings (like fish mint) is high, cilantro is no big deal. Only the southeastern and southern coastal residents, who prefer the original flavors of ingredients, seem indifferent to cilantro.

When dining in Beijing, a common dish in local restaurants is yánbào sǎndān—a name so awkwardly pronounced it deters many diners. In plain terms, it's stir-fried lamb tripe with cilantro. Flash-fried over high heat for just seconds, the barely cooked cilantro, with its fresh and rich juices, perfectly masks the faint lamb gaminess, while the blanched tripe remains crisp, producing a satisfying crunch with every bite.

This dish, a point of pride for Beijingers, actually originates from Shandong cuisine techniques. Yánbào, a traditional skill of Shandong chefs, is a cooking method where cilantro is the soul. Here, "yán" refers to yánsuī (cilantro). In Shandong, besides tripe, shredded chicken, shredded stomach, shredded fish, shredded pork tenderloin, and even conch can all be yánbào—truly, "cilantro is the constant, while the ingredients vary."

The dish yánbào revolves around the word "stir-fry."

Moreover, in this cooking method, cilantro is the absolute star. To minimize stir-frying time, all ingredients for yánbào are pre-blanched or pre-fried—all to preserve the cilantro's fresh, juicy texture. Surprisingly, Shandong chefs even skip thickening the sauce in yánbào dishes—despite Shandong's reputation for thickening even stir-fried broccoli! Again, it's all to maintain the cilantro's crispness.

Northeast dipping vegetables, the original "light meal" for urban professionals. In the dipping sauce universe of Northeasterners, there's a standout dish: dried tofu rolls with cilantro—washed cilantro (roots and leaves included) wrapped in locally made dried tofu, then dipped in local bean sauce. The dried tofu acts like a veil for the cilantro, slightly masking it until the first bite, when the cilantro flavor bursts forth and rushes straight to your brain—the true essence of this dish.

Anyone who's had a hangover in Northeast China or Xinjiang will remember the legendary drinking snack: "tiger salad." True to its name, this dish is bold, fierce, straightforward, and intense. Made only with onions, chili peppers, and cilantro, these three intensely flavorful herbs combine to deliver a nuclear-level assault on the taste buds. The generous amount of cilantro leaves, amid the spiciness of chili and onions, adds an extra layer of refreshing sharpness.

Tiger salad, the most impactful and cheapest drinking snack in the Northeast. Photo/VCG

In Shenyang, Liaoning, cilantro is also the soulmate of Shenyang-style chicken skeletons—boiled in water with simple spices, the chicken skeletons have little inherent flavor, so they're served with chili oil, pickled vegetables, and handfuls of cilantro leaves. The leftover crisp and chewy cilantro roots are even specially picked out to make cold dishes, offering the most concentrated cilantro flavor—perfect for the most hardcore cilantro enthusiasts.

Cilantro, the indispensable seasoning in mixed chicken skeletons. Photo/Tuchong Creative

Only when you reach the southwest do you realize the vastness of the spice universe.

If you have the privilege of being a guest in certain households in Guizhou or Yunnan, a cold dish on the dining table is bound to leave you astonished—cilantro, fermented black beans, and fishy herb salad. The most extreme flavors often bear the simplest names: cilantro, fermented black beans, and fishy herb—three spices that alone can send shivers down one’s spine—gather harmoniously on the dining tables of Yunnan, Guizhou, and Sichuan.

Fishy herb with cilantro: China’s ultimate flavor shock. Photo / Tuchong Creative

Leaving aside the "refreshingly unique" fermented taste of the black beans, the combination of cilantro and fishy herb alone evokes vast landscapes—imagine squashing a stink bug in a damp, chilly wooden shack while wearing rubber boots still smeared with dead fish scales from a morning trip to the seafood market. Instantly, the grassy aroma of cilantro and the fishy stench of the herb clash, leaving no time to react.

Wang Zengqi once confessed: "I used to avoid cilantro, thinking it smelled like bedbugs." But after mustering the courage to try it, he miraculously "started eating cilantro. Since coming north, I always sprinkle generous amounts of cilantro into my hotpot dipping sauce."

Humanity’s complex stance toward cilantro is shaped by both genetics and regional culinary traditions, spanning millennia and continents, weaving a tale of flavor evolution.

You’re not the first to love cilantro.

The Chinese love affair with cilantro dates back to 119 BCE, when the nearly 50-year-old Zhang Qian, stripped of his nobility, embarked on another westward journey. This time, his returns were unprecedentedly bountiful, revolutionizing Chinese palates. The *Records of the Investigation of Things* from the Western Jin Dynasty notes: "Zhang Qian’s missions to the Western Regions brought back garlic... sand leeks, alfalfa, and coriander (i.e., cilantro)." (Even if debated, cilantro’s introduction is undeniably tied to the Silk Road’s opening, with Zhang Qian playing a pivotal role.)

During the Wei, Jin, and Northern and Southern Dynasties, the famously handsome Pan An was a devoted cilantro enthusiast, expressing his love in *Ode to a Leisurely Life*: "Violets and water chestnuts are sweet; knotweed and cilantro are fragrant."

Fresh cilantro: adored by some, loathed by others.

Cilantro’s pungency demands subtlety. Thus, since ancient times, the Chinese have tamed its boldness through seasoning—

In the *Qimin Yaoshu* from 1,500 years ago, Jia Sixie taught how to pickle cilantro: blanching it in boiling water, then mixing it with salt and vinegar to render it "fragrant and sweet, not bitter"—likely Jia’s secret to cold cilantro salad. Gao Lian’s *Eight Treatises on Living* from the Ming Dynasty records a recipe for stir-fried kidney with cilantro, akin to today’s Shandong-style "cilantro-blasted" dishes, using cilantro’s intensity to overpower the kidney’s odor. A Yuan Dynasty text describes "Tutuma Shi," where finely chopped lamb is stir-fried, bathed in broth over noodles, and crowned with a sprinkle of soul-stirring cilantro—essentially an authentic lamb noodle bowl.

Not only masking gaminess but adding a touch of freshness.

Yet some approaches are less restrained, even wild. Take the Ming Dynasty’s *The Plum in the Golden Vase* (Chapter 75), which documents an outrageous cilantro tea: "Sister Shen, Auntie, Eldest Sister, three nuns, and Jade Flute sat in the main room, sipping cilantro-sesame tea." Cilantro and sesame brewed as tea? The audacity practically leaps off the page.

Thus, China’s love-hate relationship with cilantro spans ages. Shifting from hate to love is common; the reverse is unheard of. Friends who once recoiled at cilantro may one day have an epiphany and become die-hard fans. This dance between aversion and adoration is cilantro’s unique charm.

Header image / Cover | Tuchong Creative

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