QUICK FIX

HATTY LIU

Can China save its struggling fast-food industry？

眾口难调：中式快餐能成为下一个肯德基、麦当劳吗？

Mr. Lee， the fast-food chain formerly known as “California Beef Noodle King，” is a source of annual bemusement for my overseas relatives on their visits home. “What do beef noodles have to do with California？” my father or uncle ask， without fail， each time they encounter the restaurants signs in a Chinese train station and airport lounge.

The answer—quite a lot. Mr. Lee， which calls itself Chinas oldest domestic fast-food brand， has its roots in a Los Angeles beef noodle restaurant founded in 1972 by P. C. Lee， a Chinese-American businessman born in Chongqing. Corporate lore claims that an unnamed “major American fast food chain” approached Lee in the 1980s， when he already had a small empire of seven shops with top reviews in the Los Angeles Times， and asked him to be its partner in China， the emerging market already being eyed by industry juggernauts like McDonalds and KFC.

Instead， Mr. Lee decided to move his entire business， head office and all， to China. According to one customers reminisces on Weibo， the 1988 opening of the first “California Beef Noodle King USA” in Beijing drew lines comparable to the citys first KFC， which launched the year before. Despite its unremarkable food， already available at hundreds of thousands of mom-and-pops and ordinary homes， the restaurant seduced diners with its sleek interior and Western cachet—the name， the machine-like efficiency of its preparation system， and its claim to be the first Chinese restaurant in the country to offer canned soft drinks.

Today， though， the noodle king—since renamed “Mr. Lee” in memory of its founder， who passed away in 2008—is firmly classified among domestic Chinese brands， whose inability to achieve international recognition on a par with foreign chains like Panda Express and Taco Bell is bemoaned regularly by industry experts. Having opened around 800 locations， after 30 years in the business， Mr. Lee is the most prolific of the national chains. The next biggest is Zhen Gong Fu， “Real Kung Fu，” founded in Guangdong province in 1997， with 600 shops.

By comparison， there are over 5，000 KFC locations on the mainland alone， making it Chinas biggest restaurant chain. McDonalds follows， with 2，500 locations， even though it arrived in China two years after Mr. Lee. For further contrast， the American burger franchise had over 1，000 restaurants in its home country by 1968， after just 13 years in business； by 1978， McDonalds surpassed 5，000 outlets and has barely stopped growing.

Restaurant owners are wondering where Chinese chains went wrong. A much-publicized food scandal， in which a Shanghai supplier was found to be repacking expired meat for several US fast food chains in 2014， was tipped as a possible turning point in the fortunes of domestic chains， but those hopes have since petered out—if anything， Chinese brands seem even less competitive than before. According to a 2017 study by Caiyinren Bidu， a social media account for the industry， brands like Real Kung Fu and Yonghe King have seen their growth plateau since at least 2013， while the listed value of Real Kung Fu fell by 50 percent from 2012 to 2015 due to internal scandals.

“Are Chinese ‘lower-end restaurant [chains] under a curse？” asked one 2016 study by Shenzhen consulting firm Gelonghui. Real Kung Fu co-founder Pan Yuhai has called the present state of the industry a “bottleneck，” while Yi Zhengwei， restaurant consultant and co-founder of the 72Street chain， more specifically called it “a curse…to do with standards.” In a 2015 essay， Yi writes， “if you just want to invest in a Chinese fast food restaurant， you can easily become a leader in the [domestic] market. But if you actually want to be great， you can think again.”

In The Founder， the 2016 biopic of McDonalds co-founder Ray Kroc， an iconic moment is when anti-hero salesman Kroc pulls up at the McDonald brothers diner in the desert， and finds his food ready just seconds after ordering. More central to the story， though， is what comes afterwards， when one of the brothers shows a slack-jawed Kroc the well-coordinated dance that leads to their speedy and identical delivery： “Every McDonalds burger has two pickles， a pinch of onions， and a precise shot of ketchup and mustard.”

Yi believes that， in China， the speed and ingenuity of food prep are not the chief struggles of its “fast” food industry. After all， its a nation where stores have whole aisles devoted to vacuum-packed instant meals， where roadside vendors can cook and roll up a jianbing with egg and baocui in a minute flat. The reasons China struggles， as Kroc would say， to “franchise the damn thing from sea to shining sea，” seem to lie in three areas： standardization， quality， and branding.

As with every modern Chinese practice， there have been recent attempts to find indigenous roots for fast food in ancient literature. In this case， its a type of eighth-century banquet know as the liban （立辦）： According to the Tang Dynastic History Supplement， a courtier named Wu Cou received a major promotion from the emperor， but had little time to celebrate before he had to report to work. His solution： Order every course brought to the table before his guests arrived （the idea apparently caught on）.

The modern kuaican （快餐）—literally， “fast meal”—actually predates the arrival of Western chains in the late 80s and 90s， and refers to a type of no-frills diner or roadside stall， popular with blue collar workers. Still common in “third-tier” cities or lower， kuaican vendors offer cut-rate combo meals with rice and entrees kept in steam trays similar to American-Chinese buffets， or “one dollar Chinese food” joints， in all but the actual food.

KFC adopted the term when it landed in Beijing in 1987， calling itself meishi kuaican （“American-style fast food”）， and changing the connotation of quick fix forever. When KFC published the recollections of its original restaurants employees in 2017， they unanimously agreed the speed and （rather greasy） Western food were not what impressed Chinese diners 30 years ago. Rather， the uniformed cashiers （hired with strict height requirements）， “white-gloved” sanitation staff， and “95 percent imported equipment，” down to the cutlery and pictures on the wall， all spoke of modernity and modishness to 80s Chinese society. “If it happened today， people would post pictures of it every day on WeChat Moments，” claimed employee Sun Zhijun.

As fast food fever began in the 90s， the government tried to push for an official definition of kuaican. In 1997， the Ministry of Domestic Trade published guidelines that determined it as “cuisine for the masses that satisfies the demands of the consumers everyday life，” and “fast to prepare， convenient to eat， standardized in quality， balanced in nutrition， handy of service， and economical in price.” The same year， the ministry named Beijings Quanjude Roast Duck， Tianjins Goubuli Baozi， and Shanghais Ronghua Chicken （a KFC competitor， later replaced with Lanzhou lamian） as the “Big Three” of Chinese-style fast food.

Helped by these influential “time-honored brands，” the ministry hoped to see domestic kuaican take 30 percent of the market by 2010， fulfilling Premier Li Pengs directive of “fast food with national characteristics [and] scientific-scale management.” It didnt work. Aside obvious differences in aesthetics， cooking methods， and management styles compared to Western upstarts， Yi points out that “time-honored” foods， by definition， market themselves on local history， memories， and taste—the antithesis of a brand trying to go global.

“American food culture is generally unified—hamburgers， pizza—so McDonalds can open tens of thousands of stores， whereas Chinese kuaican are examples of whats most authentic， grassroots， and popular in a region，” he writes. “The South likes rice， the North likes noodles； the East likes sweet， and the West likes savory.”

Theres also little standardization among Chinese brands. According to Gu Zhenyu， author of a 2002 study on the growth of kuaican， Chinese cuisine has historically relied on the skill and reputation of individual chefs， with personal recipes and local tastes being the arbiters of excellence. An additional problem is that restaurants are unwilling to spend money on employee training， and even the biggest brands still rely on traditional “manual preparation” over more consistent machines and assembly lines. “Its already well known that Chinese-style kuaican has inconsistent quality，” Gus report noted， suggesting that this also leads to “perception of lack of care toward sanitation and nutrition.”

“When a [Chinese kuaican] product tries to ‘go out into the world，” Yi concludes， “it meets with pain everywhere.”

The governments decision to push time-honored brands hasnt stopped new kuaican upstarts from trying to adapt the Western models and please every regional palate. Mr. Lees chief rival， Real Kung Fu， started under another name in 1990. By 1997， it was promoting a so-called “computer programmed steaming process” for its rice dishes and entrees， which promised to deliver from kitchen to counter in 80 seconds or less.

Real Kung Fu refused TWOCs request for details on their process—“these are our trade secrets，” said the manager of one location—but periodic “Open Kitchen Days，” typically held at different locations nationwide on March 15， Chinas Consumer Protection Day， reveal that the food is simply pre-prepared and packaged in individual servings at a central kitchen prior to delivery. With each order， kitchen staff simply pops the item into its designated “steam cabinet” programmed with a temperature and timer. The forced steam reheats the item in record time， and the meal is then taken out and assembled on the tray.

This “digitalization” extends to clean-up， as one location manager proclaimed to journalists at a media session： “All cutlery is soaked for at least three minutes； rubber cutlery at 40 to 50 degrees Celsius， stainless steel at 50 to 60 degrees.” A repertoire of “hash-house” lingo is also crucial for the appearance of efficiency and success； Real Kung Fu servers have the habit of shouting dabai （大白， “big white”） for every bowl of rice the customer orders. At Dr. Tian， a bargain-basement competitor in the steamed-rice-combo trade， the cashiers cry of a dishs primary characteristic—“spicy！”—“meat！”—is taken up by the kitchen staff， in a sort of supply chain call-and-response， before the meal is served with xiaobai （小白， “small white”）， their slang for rice.