The Most Underrated City in Zhejiang: Its Spicy Cuisine is Rocking the Entire Free-Shipping Region!

Quzhou cuisine, the "stealthy chili assassin" of the culinary world.

Usually, this small city hides among the rich, soy-sauce-heavy or mild and light dishes of Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Shanghai, keeping a low profile. But once you sit at a Quzhou dining table, it’s like "the six major sects besieging Bright Peak"—you transform into Zhang Wuji, facing off against the spicy cuisine champions of various provinces:

Never underestimate Quzhou dishes—they can blow your taste buds away in seconds.

Pictured: "Three Heads and One Paw" (fish head, rabbit head, duck head, and duck feet).

The fish head in Quzhou’s "Three Heads and One Paw" rivals the spiciness of Hunan’s chopped chili fish head; Quzhou’s wok-fried rice noodles are as fiery as Jiangxi’s proud stir-fried noodles; the duck and rabbit heads found everywhere on the streets are as fiercely spicy as Chengdu’s "rabbit skulls." No wonder every diner who "stumbles" into this spicy capital can’t help but exclaim:

"What? Who said Zhejiang cuisine isn’t spicy at all?"

Loaded with an excessive amount of chili in tea eggs?

Quzhou locals say this is just standard practice.

Photo / Tuchong Creativity · Photographer / Yizhi Miduo

Far from the heart of the "free shipping zone," Quzhou is like a "Little Chengdu of Zhejiang" nestled in the southwestern mountains. Here, the sea breeze and vast plains are absent; instead, hidden among the stunning landscapes is a fiery, bold culinary style. Its existence shatters the world’s stereotypical view of Zhejiang flavors.

The stealthy chili assassin—spicy without warning.

Just like the city’s slogan, "Southern Confucius Holy Land, Quzhou’s Courtesy," Quzhou’s spiciness is also polite—subtle yet potent, restrained but explosive.

Fragrant "jizi guo," a crispy pancake filled with egg liquid—

Don’t worry, this one isn’t spicy, but the real surprise comes later…

The "number one" stealthy chili assassin hides in Quzhou’s steaming, peaceful breakfast stalls:

At first glance, these words might make you think this classic Longyou breakfast is mild—like northern flower rolls, with a faint scallion aroma and the fluffy texture of dough, paired with a bowl of warm plain congee for a cozy, simple meal?

Quzhou’s "scallion steamed buns" are actually stuffed buns,

They look refined and gentle, but…

Then, you confidently take a big bite—only to be hit by a scorching wave of spiciness rivaling bird’s eye chilies, shooting straight to your skull. Even in the dead of winter, you’ll suddenly sweat as if plunged into Zhejiang’s 43°C summer heat, your tongue feeling like it’s rubbing against asphalt hot enough to slow-cook a steak.

The dough for scallion steamed buns is fermented with rice wine, giving it a slight sweetness,

But this is no match for the power of the "pepper assassin filling"...

Photo / Tuchong Creative Photography / Yizhi Miduo

That's right—this mantou (which, in the southern context, is equivalent to baozi)—is stuffed with enticing dried bamboo shoot flakes, shredded radish, and minced fresh pork, then stealthily mixed with Quzhou's "Longyou small peppers" and a generous handful of locally produced chili powder. Once the fluffy, wine-scented bun is packed full and steamed, the umami of the bamboo shoots, the dried fragrance of the radish, the richness of the pork, and the razor-sharp spiciness all permeate the dough.

The true pepper assassin, hidden beneath the guise of an innocent bun, appears harmless but delivers a knockout blow with a single bite.

Quzhou baked cakes come in two sizes, oily and fragrant,

and of course, they're also a playground for chili!

Photo / Tuchong Creative Photography / Lin Xiaomian

But scallion mantou is merely an "everyday assassin." Quzhou's spiciness also excels at festive occasions—for example, during the Dragon Boat Festival, the ultimate arbiter of the north-south sweet vs. savory debate: the carb and chili godfather, lard-making machine, king of zongzi, the Quzhou taro zongzi! makes its grand appearance.

Bet you didn't expect it—even Quzhou's zongzi are spicy.

Pictured: Quzhou pickled vegetable zongzi, spicy spicy spicy.

Without flashy ingredients, Quzhou zongzi fillings are simple: a large chunk of fatty pork, locally grown soft and powdery taro, and chili, chili, and more chili. This zongzi emphasizes a unified experience—

The taro turns mushy, blending seamlessly with the glutinous rice under high heat, creating a rich, layered texture from two different carbs; the fatty pork melts halfway during steaming, seeping into the gaps between the rice and taro. To preserve this luscious mouthfeel, Quzhou locals use locally ground chili powder for seasoning, subtly (and spicily) enhancing the dish.

The people of Quzhou have their own "fresh and spicy mastery."

Pictured: Pepper assassin no. 2: fried guo and stinky tofu.

Photo / Tuchong Creative Photography / Yizhi Miduo

Thus, the zongzi first delivers a lingering, tender embrace—the chewiness of the glutinous rice, the softness of the taro, the fragrance of the lard—drawing you into a prolonged state of bliss. Suddenly, a tingling sensation strikes the tongue, electric and numbing, as the pungent spiciness surges forth, swiftly conquering every taste bud. You're left both exhilarated by the deliciousness and unsure whether the tears streaming down your face are from emotion or the spice.

Sharing a similar charm is the peculiarly shaped Quzhou Beixiang tangyuan, which "sports a little braid."

Beixiang locals make these tangyuan not for the Lantern Festival but for the Zhongyuan Festival on the 15th day of the seventh lunar month and the Winter Solstice. The tangyuan are enormous, as large as the taichi balls spun by Beijing uncles, and topped with a tiny braid. Inside lies a world of flavors—shredded radish, diced tofu, and a massive amount of homemade chopped chili paste.

Kaihua steamed cake—you'd think cakes are sweet and sticky, right?

Sorry, it's spicy too, albeit mildly...

Photo / Tuchong Creativity Photographer / Yizhi Miduo

Glutinous rice balls served on the table, four are enough to fill you up. The outer skin of Beixiang glutinous rice balls is made from a local "seven-day powder"—glutinous rice must be soaked for seven days, dried for seven days, and then ground into flour, giving it excellent elasticity that can hold a massive amount of filling (yes, mainly to accommodate chili). The chopped chili sauce in the filling is slightly sour, and a sprinkle of chili powder on the outside enhances the flavor. This inside-out collaboration is how Quzhou locals enjoy it to the fullest.

Quzhou fish head shares a similar charm with Hunan's chopped chili fish head.

Photo / Tuchong Creativity Photographer / cloud

Compared to Sichuan rabbit heads drowning in chili, Quzhou's "Three Heads and One Paw"—duck heads, rabbit heads, fish heads, and duck feet—appear much more low-key and easygoing. The marinade for duck and rabbit heads is a pitch-black bucket exuding a medicinal aroma, like a large pot of herbal tea brewing in a traditional Chinese medicine shop. You might think it's cooling and detoxifying—but no, the secret herbal essence in every household serves only one purpose: to amplify the spiciness.

"Three Heads and One Paw," renowned far and wide.

The spiciness of Quzhou duck heads isn't an upfront assault but a slow burn. The first bite feels fragrant and silky, giving the illusion of "I can handle this," encouraging you to suck further. Yet, with the next bite, that herbal-infused heat spreads from the tip of the tongue to its entirety, lingering persistently. Even downing three cans of ice-cold cola can't quell it.

Quzhou duck necks can make even Hubei natives cry from the heat.

Photo / Tuchong Creativity Photographer / Joanna789

Duck feet are even fiercer than duck or rabbit heads. While the latter are torn apart and nibbled bit by bit, duck feet require thorough sucking, much like how Hunan people eat snails. The act of sucking engages both taste and smell, splitting the spiciness into two paths: one charging into the stomach, fiery and scalding, and the other galloping straight to the crown of the head, hitting you hard.

The Spicy Capital of the Southeast: How Can One City Embrace Four Provinces?

Quzhou boasts an extremely complex and diverse local flavor. Even though its chili-infused dishes are already rich and full of tricks, this is just the tip of the iceberg in its culinary scene.

Stinky tofu stuffed in baked cakes and fried dough—Quzhou has a unique taste all its own.

Photo / Tuchong Creativity Photographer / Yizhi Miduo

This small city in western Zhejiang lies at the junction of Zhejiang, Jiangxi, Anhui, and Fujian, making it a true "hub of four provinces and crossroads of five routes."

"Where all roads meet is called 'Qu'." Covering 8,844.79 square kilometers, Quzhou resembles an irregular triangle extending into different cultural regions—bordering ancient Huizhou (now Huangshan in Anhui and Wuyuan in Jiangxi) to the north, connecting with Nanping in northern Fujian to the south, following the Qu River eastward into the heart of Zhejiang, while its long western "side" opens wide to Jiangxi.

Longyou fermented rice cake is easy to make and portable,

a "caravan food" passed down to this day.

Its unique geographical location has allowed flavors from all directions to flow into Quzhou with the movement of people, turning the city into a "culinary mosaic." First, if we were to trace the origins of Quzhou's spiciness, it likely stems from the influence of Jiangxi cuisine, where no dish is complete without chili. One clear piece of evidence is the stir-fried rice noodles that Quzhou locals consume daily—one bowl per person on average.

This bowl of stir-fried rice noodles is brimming with the soul of Jiangxi.

Photo / Tuchong Creativity · Photography / Yizhi Miduo

The fen gān (rice noodles) of Quzhou are entirely different from the Wenzhou-style fen gān popular in most parts of Zhejiang (also called "mi mian" in some areas). Wenzhou fen gān is primarily thin and delicate, as fine as hair, translucent, resembling a southern version of "dragon's beard noodles." Stir-frying Wenzhou fen gān requires a large wok, high heat, and long chopsticks, cooked until slightly charred at the bottom, exuding a rich, smoky aroma.

Quzhou fen gān, on the other hand, is thicker and chewier. Fellow Jiangxi natives would immediately recognize it—isn’t this the same as the rice noodles we eat daily in Jiangxi? Whether it’s Nanchang’s mixed noodles, Jiujiang’s stir-fried noodles, Fuzhou’s soaked noodles, or Shangrao’s Yanshan boiled noodles... in terms of texture, Quzhou fen gān is practically identical.

The spiciness of Quzhou cuisine is backed by meticulous refinement.

Can you spot where the chili is hidden in this bowl of noodle soup?

Photo / Tuchong Creativity · Photography / Yizhi Miduo

When it comes to the spiciness of stir-fried fen gān, Quzhou locals are almost on par with their Jiangxi friends. Beyond tossing in plenty of fresh chilies during high-heat stir-frying, Quzhou people have a unique trick: ladling a spoonful of the fiery leftover braising broth from duck heads or feet into the stir-fried noodles. That’s the authentic Quzhou flavor.

Suzhuang chui fen—where the flour wraps everything.

In Suzhuang Town, Kaihua County, Quzhou—bordering Jiangxi’s Wuyuan to the north and Dexing to the west—locals have not only mastered the fresh-spicy essence of Jiangxi cuisine but also adapted the cooking method of Jiangxi’s famous steamed pork with rice flour into countless local variations.

In Suzhuang, "chui fen" (steamed flour dishes) is the most popular cooking method, with locals claiming "no dish can’t be steamed." The process involves drying and grinding early-harvest rice into flour, mixing it with chicken, duck, fish, meat, vegetables, or even snails, clams, shrimp, and crab, then steaming it in a bamboo basket.

Bet you didn’t expect chili peppers could make "dumplings"!

Among all the "chui" dishes, the most stunning is the "steamed chili dumpling." The chilies must be thick-skinned, firm-fleshed, and just fully red—split open, deseeded, brushed with oil, then stuffed with a filling of dried shrimp, pumpkin, ham, and rice flour, seasoned with local "robber grass" (Potentilla kleiniana), perilla, and Chinese leek. The steamed chili dumplings gleam red and translucent, visually whetting the appetite, while the first bite delivers a crisp, spicy, and fragrant punch, leaving you sweating profusely.

Majin tofu, using "tofu vinegar" instead of brine, boasts a unique flavor.

Quzhou’s artistry with noodles mirrors Jiangxi’s, while its tofu techniques rival Anhui’s finesse.

Anhui’s famed "hairy tofu" also exists in Quzhou’s Majin. The local "Majin tofu" is made uniquely with water from the Qianjiang River source and local soybeans. After forming the slurry, a special "tofu vinegar" replaces brine for coagulation, giving it a distinctive taste.

Cured tofu looks like a Chinese version of vegetarian cheese.

The most peculiar is the so-called "cured tofu"—dried tofu is placed in a jar with plant ash made from bean pods, sesame, and indocalamus leaves, much like preserving salted duck eggs. The finished product has a gray-blue exterior but cuts open to reveal jade-white flesh. Chen Xiaoqing calls it China’s version of "blue cheese."

Quzhou Longyou meatballs, also called shan fen guo,

are made from sweet potatoes, brimming with Fujian-style flavors.

Photo / Tuchong Creativity · Photography / Yizhi Miduo

The people of Tongcun Town in southern Kaihua are mostly descendants of immigrants from southern Fujian. It is said that when the song "Love Fight Will Win" swept the nation, Tongcun locals would always request this Minnan song whenever they visited karaoke bars. The local "Three-Layer Dish" of Tongcun features bamboo shoots at the bottom, specially made sweet potato starch in the middle, and is topped with pork liver and sliced meat, carrying the lingering charm of Fujian cuisine.

Quzhou paper-thin wontons require the wrappers to be rolled for two hours.

Small in size, soft, sticky, and mild in flavor—this is so Zhejiang.

Photo / Tuchong Creative · Photographer / Yizhi Miduo

Of course, despite its fiery flavors, Quzhou cuisine remains a major player in Zhejiang cuisine, with an increasingly profound influence across the entire province.

Quzhou cuisine, the "final piece of the puzzle" in Zhejiang cuisine.

Once, I asked a Sichuanese friend living in Hangzhou whether he could adapt to Zhejiang's food. In response, he gave me an incredibly complicated look: "Don’t even ask. It’s all tears. Now, I can only survive by eating at Quzhou restaurants."

Kaihua clear-water snails—even Hunanese people drool over them.

Indeed, outsiders often perceive Zhejiang cuisine as mild, largely because Hangzhou-style dishes are so well-known. In the northern Hangjiahu Plain, the food is not only light but also slightly sweet; around Ningbo and Shaoxing, the flavors intensify, featuring saltiness, fermented tastes, and pungency; while in coastal Wenzhou and Taizhou, seafood takes center stage.

But in Quzhou, in western Zhejiang, spiciness permeates every corner—so much so that even qingtuan (green rice cakes), tangyuan (glutinous rice balls), and zongzi (sticky rice dumplings) can include chili peppers, and stir-fried greens are seasoned with chopped chili paste.

Adorable Qingming fruit, a type of qingtuan.

Spicy or not, it’s up to Quzhou people to decide.

Quzhou enriches the layered flavors of Zhejiang’s culinary repertoire. Located at the "tail end" of the province, Quzhou cuisine is like the resounding final note of a musical piece, invigorating both the spirit and the taste buds.

As Zhejiang is a province with a large migrant population—including many from spicy-food-loving regions like Guizhou, Sichuan, Hunan, and Jiangxi, as well as northerners with relatively heavier tastes—Quzhou restaurants stand out prominently in this generally mild-flavored province. Consequently, they have gradually flourished across Zhejiang, earning widespread acclaim.

Qiuchuan tofu stew—chili peppers are a must.

Photo / Tuchong Creative · Photographer / Yizhi Miduo

But those with the deepest affection for Quzhou cuisine are undoubtedly its natives. Like many Quzhou natives living away from home, actress Zhou Xun, who hails from Quzhou, said that even after years away, what she misses most is still the small baked buns from Quzhou—hot, spicy, and fragrant, like memories of her homeland.

Quzhou baked buns—Zhou Xun’s certified hometown flavor.

Photo / Tuchong Creative · Photographer / Bai Xiaowan

I once hosted a fellow Quzhou native at a Beijing restaurant touted as the spiciest Hunan eatery on a review platform. After a few drinks and bites, I saw tears welling up in his eyes. Just as I was about to teasingly remark that years away had dulled his spice tolerance, he suddenly looked up and said:

Article cover image | Tuchong Creative

Cover photo by | Joanna789