The Dong tavern and the Miao king

The Chinese can’t really hold their liquor. Of the two enzymes responsible for breaking down alcohol, one is inactive in a large part of the Han population, which means alcohol metabolism stops halfway—at acetaldehyde, a highly toxic substance. That’s why most Chinese alcoholic drinks are low in alcohol, and even those are consumed sparingly. Of course, men’s gatherings include the usual displays of bravado, the ritual of proving one’s drinking prowess—but within modest limits.

I remember my first trip to China, on New Year’s Eve 1995, when Beijing was bitterly cold. The icy wind blowing from the desert was so brutal that only the little bottles of Mongolian “Two-Headed Horse” brandy, bought at a suburban store, kept me alive through those freezing days. As I was queuing at the airport on the way back, security spotted one last hidden survivor in my coat pocket and wanted to confiscate it. But how could I give up my friend—the one who had saved my life? So I twisted off the cap, determined to drink it right there. The security officer grabbed my hand in an iron grip to stop what to him must have seemed a suicidal act. But then my travel companion, Dr. Chen, spoke up behind me: “Let him—these people can drink.” The officer let go, and soon his colleagues gathered around, eager to witness this rare and enviable feat.

The peoples traditionally called “southern barbarians” by the Han—the Dong and the Miao—are a different story. Like us, they have the enzyme that converts acetaldehyde into acetic acid, which quickly neutralizes the toxin. So in their villages, you find something you won’t find among the Han: the distillery and tavern.

A Dong tavern is not like ours. It’s not a place for chatting over drinks—that’s what the drum tower, the Dong community center, is for. The heart of the tavern is the still itself, from which the liquor drips continuously. And what a liquor! Crystal clear, a fruit spirit of 50 to 53 percent alcohol.

Instead of bar stools, the distiller’s work is surrounded by enormous ceramic jars bearing the calligraphic character 酒 jiŭ, meaning “drink.” The jars, along with the gourds, baskets, instruments, and inscriptions, fill the room with the atmosphere of an antique shop or a small museum—like in Ma’an, a neighborhood of Chengyang, a Dong village.

In the middle, surrounded by the jars, like an antiquarian’s desk stands a table used for tea ceremonies—except here, the tiny tasting cups (品茗杯 pĭn míng bēi) are filled not with tea but with spirits. Guests don’t usually drink on the spot; instead, they buy the liquor by the jar or bottle to take home and share with friends or drink together in a communal setting.

A key element of Dong tavern décor is the skull of an ox, buffalo, or yak—its massive horns both warding off evil and symbolizing masculinity.

Such skulls are often acquired from herder friends; those without such connections can find them in one of the popular “horn shops.” These sell everything from small horn trinkets to large shoulder blades carved with calligraphy—and even full-sized horned skulls.

The shop signs themselves are small masterpieces. The signboard of a horn shop in Zhaoxing, for example, shows how Chinese calligraphy oscillates between image and script. The ancient character 牛 niú (“ox”), which was stylized from a frontal drawing of a bull’s head some three thousand years ago, here becomes an image again—a totem-like design echoing the shapes of the horned skulls hanging around it and reinforcing their archaic power.

But Zhaoxing today is not only home to Dong distilleries. Among its arcaded lanes, which run along the canals like in Venice, you’ll also find shops run by the Miao people, who live in the surrounding mountains of Guizhou province. One such place is the 苗王 miáo wáng or “Miao King” antique shop and bar.

Of course, the Miao never had a king—how could they, when the name “Miao” itself was given by outsiders to a collection of tribes who never considered themselves one people? Still, the bearded, broad-shouldered man who appears in photos on the shop’s door and on its bottles truly looks like the ruler of some ancient nomadic nation.

Inside, there’s even a small hall with a roughly carved wooden throne, naturally crowned with horns and surrounded by ceremonial Miao artifacts—as if the king were about to receive his loyal subjects.

But the throne now stands empty. Instead, a man rises from behind the counter—he had been napping there—bearing a striking resemblance to the Miao King in the photographs. As it turns out, he’s the king’s grandson.

Their family business, The Miao King’s Liquor, is distilled in their Miao home village. The shop’s ground floor is devoted to promoting it in all varieties—from this year’s fresh batch to the four- and eight-year aged editions, sold in elegant gift boxes. The décor, of course, continues the antique-shop aesthetic so popular in Dong taverns.

After a while, he invites me upstairs. The upper floor turns out to be a real antiques warehouse, accessible only to the initiated—serious buyers tempted by what they’ve seen downstairs. He unrolls an old Taoist scroll painting, and the sage depicted bears a startling resemblance to both him and his grandfather.

Back on the ground floor, he takes out a gorgeous old robe embroidered with gold thread and dragons. My mouth waters at the sight, though I don’t dare ask the price. He puts it on, wraps a Miao turban around his head, and poses before his grandfather’s portrait—puffing the old man’s pipe.

For the performance, I feel obliged to buy a bottle of the eight-year Miao King’s Liquor, in its decorative box. Two hundred yuan—about twenty euros. I also ask for fourteen small cups, to share it with my travel companions. I catch up with them in a Dong fish restaurant, where we unanimously agree: it’s the best spirit we’ve ever tasted in China.