This Chinese Province Reigns Supreme in Cilantro Consumption – Second Place Doesn't Even Come Close!

When the tender buds on branches, the ginger by the river, and the old sprouts in the fields begin to sprout, the appetites of Henan people awaken from the dullness of winter, invigorated by a breath of spring breeze.

Jingjie, coriander, shixiang herb, sesame leaves, mountain ginger... These young sprouts, arriving with the spring breeze and carrying the scent of dew, naturally become the highlight of Henan's dining tables.

These uniquely fragrant young grass shoots emerge in spring and flourish in summer. The people of Henan seamlessly incorporate them into their daily meals, with subtle touches of green quietly marking the passage of time at the table. It’s no exaggeration to say this is both an innovation in cuisine and a testament to Henan people’s wisdom in adapting to their environment.

How did Henan’s vegetables become seasonings?

Henan people have bold tastes—a single bowl of spicy soup can contain over a dozen spices. With each sip, the warm, nourishing broth swirls on the palate, leaving a lingering, domineering aftertaste. Once the flavor fades, it’s time for another bowl. Henan people have a knack for seasoning; though spices make up 50% of the soup, the flavors of other ingredients aren’t overshadowed but instead enhanced.

Beyond satisfying local tastes, Henan has also produced seasonings like Lotus MSG, Nande Spicy Fresh, and Wang Shouyi Thirteen Spices, dominating kitchens across China.

Cuisine often reflects a region’s essence—why are Henan people so fond of these peculiar aromas?

Henan is inherently an agricultural powerhouse. For millennia, the Yellow River, carrying fervent love and unrestrained passion, has carved fertile plains south of its banks, nurturing the cradle of Chinese civilization. Plants thrive here too—the soft, brown soil, like chocolate cake, allows even the most delicate flowers to take root.

Henan people’s lives are inseparable from jingjie.

Common herbs in Henan cuisine, like coriander, fennel, and cumin, originated in Europe. They traveled the Silk Road to the Central Plains, settling as familiar greenery in Henan’s countryside.

Most Henan dishes rely on coriander.

Growing on the same land, these plants, like the people, are humble and resilient—rooting deep and reaching high. They sprout in spring, bloom in summer, spreading endlessly across fields and riverbanks, often mistaken for weeds and uprooted.

Rarely the star, they nonetheless elevate flavors with their unique aromas, enriching dining tables across Henan and beyond.

Henan people: No coriander, no flavor!

In wheat-waving Henan, the air carries the scent of grain.

This is a kingdom of wheat-based foods. While noodles and steamed buns offer a hint of malt sweetness, eating them plain is dull. So, Henan people turn to the green sprouts in their yards and fields. With coriander and jingjie, simple staples gain depth.

Fresh, deodorizing—the finishing touch.

Coriander, known as "xiangcai" to most, features heavily in Henan meals. Tossing a handful into noodles, salads, or soups is a common practice.

Garlic-noodle dishes in Henan always include jingjie.

In Henan, all ingredients complement each other. Like the spices in spicy soup, they don’t overpower but transform. They’re never just garnish—swap the ratios, and coriander, jingjie, and fennel become the stars.

Steamed coriander is a common dish in Henan. In late spring and early summer, the coriander in a corner of the yard grows lush, and one can effortlessly pluck a handful. After a quick rinse by the well, water droplets cling to the leaves, reflecting a vibrant green hue under the sunlight.

In Henan, everything can be steamed—even steamed schizonepeta.

The washed coriander, after being cut and drained, is lightly coated with a thin layer of flour. Once the flour adheres evenly, it’s placed directly into the steamer. In no time, the unique aroma of coriander pierces through the lid, testing the diner’s dwindling patience.

Once steamed, the coriander is thinly coated with flour, giving it an amber-like translucence. The freshness of the coriander bursts through the flour, quickly dominating the taste buds, while the mildness of the flour fills the aftertaste, creating a perfect harmony between teeth and tongue. At this moment, it is both a dish and a meal.

Henan-style steamed dishes can be enjoyed at home,

or found as staples in local restaurants.

Without these dishes, how would Henan people survive?

Beyond common coriander and schizonepeta, Henan boasts many uniquely fragrant herbs. Like how schizonepeta is often mistaken for basil, shixiang herb (a type of spearmint) is frequently confused with mint.

Known locally as shixiang or shixiang herb, its scientific name is Mentha spicata. While it resembles mint, its leaves are darker and its scent is fresher, lacking mint’s slight pungency.

In southern Henan, shixiang is a true summer specialty. On scorching days, a bowl of shixiang garlic noodles is a Henan native’s ultimate identity card.

Shixiang is best picked fresh—its leaves are crushed with garlic and ginger, then drizzled with sesame oil and a pinch of salt, making the perfect topping for cold noodles. The herb lends a faint minty aroma, yet the taste is refreshingly cool, like a breeze after a summer storm.

While shixiang shines cold, sesame leaves demand heat. To Henan people, every part of the sesame plant is precious—not just its seeds, but also its leaves.

Summer is when sesame leaves taste best. Unlike schizonepeta or shixiang, they must be blanched first. This removes their natural astringency, leaving a slight bitterness with an inexplicable richness that keeps you chewing.

But Henan people usually cook sesame leaves before eating.

Sesame leaf noodle soup is a classic preparation, ideally with hand-pulled noodles. The leaves, grayish-brown and intertwined with noodles, resemble preserved mustard greens, thickening the broth.

Another iconic dish is "sesame leaf salty porridge." After sautéing aromatics, water is added, and the leaves are boiled with tofu, beans, and tomatoes. A final stir of flour paste turns it into a hearty, family-gathering meal.

Henan people handle herbs in two ways: eating them fresh or pickling them. Mountain galangal falls into the latter category.

Growing by streams, mountain galangal carries the scent of wilderness and spring. Biting into its crisp flesh releases sweet juice. Each summer, Henan people bring it home, preserving its natural sweetness with just sugar, liquor, soy sauce, and salt.

These wild flavors, from field to table, reflect Henan’s exploration of life and reverence for the land.