One Perfect Day in Anguo: A Coffee-Scented Pilgrimage Through China’s Herbal Heartland

The air in Anguo is laced with ginseng and licorice, a fragrance so distinct it feels like walking through a living apothecary. I arrived on the 6 a.m. bullet-train from Beijing (¥45; 45 minutes), the carriage still dim and hushed, my senses already primed for a city that trades in roots, bark, and centuries-old remedies. By 7:30, the winter sun—thin but insistent—was gilding the station square, and I was starving.

Nick Wright

Morning

1. Breakfast at Lao Qiao Doufufang: A five-minute taxi (¥8) took me to a Qing-dynasty courtyard whose beams are black with soot and stories. Locals queue for doufu nao, a silky tofu brain floating in cinnamon-anise syrup; the first spoonful tastes like Jakarta’s tauhue met Sakarya’s salep and decided to dress up. Bowls are ¥6; arrive before 8 a.m. or the copper pots are scraped clean.

2. The Herbal Medicine Market: Across the lane, the city’s famous bazaar is already roaring. Sacks of wolfberries glow like rubies; wholesalers haggle over pangolin-scented bark. I slipped my phone into flight-mode—stallholders still bargain with abacuses—and let the choreography unfold. Tip: bring cash (WeChat Pay works, but crisp notes earn warmer smiles). Admission is free; 8–11 a.m. is prime.

3. Third-Wave Detour: Plantae Coffee Roasters: I thought I’d left serious espresso in Osaka’s Triangle Park, yet here was a neon-box café wedged between two tonic-wine shops. Owner Liu Shuai, a Berlin-trained Q-grader, pulls ristretto with Yirgacheffe beans he roasts on a vintage Probat. A cortado (¥22) arrived on a cedar tray, the crema striped like mahogany grain. We spoke about extraction curves while the scent of angelica root drifted in from next door—East meeting West in perfect, caffeinated harmony.

Noon–Afternoon

4. Stroll the Prescription-Stone Alleys: Anguo’s old lanes are paved with stone tablets etched with Ming-era formulas. I traced them like a hopscotch of ancient pharmacology, ending at the Pharmacy Museum (¥20, open 9–4). Inside, waxen figures grind herbs beneath a calligraphy banner that reads “Medicine is Compassion.” Compared to New York’s cloistered Met, the scale is humble, but the intimacy is intoxicating.

5. Lunch: Zhen Hao Cai Jiaozi Guan: A ten-minute bike-share ride (¥2) delivered me to a dumpling house where the fillings read like a materia medica: huangqi (milk-vetch) boosts qi, black sesame enriches hair. I ordered the house platter (¥28) and watched the cook pleat petals of dough—each one a miniature architectural dome, not unlike Istanbul’s pierced vaults. Dip in Shanxi vinegar spiked with goji; thank me later.

6. River Loop & City God Temple: With a belly full of herbs, I rented an e-scooter (¥3 per 30 min) and cruised the Fuhe River levee. Russet willows combed the water; old men flew kites shaped like phoenix tails. The City God Temple crowns the southern bank—its scarlet columns freshly repainted for 2025’s Lantern Festival. Climb the drum tower for 360-degree views: on clear winter days you can see the Taihang Mountains bruising the horizon. Entry ¥15, closes at 5 p.m.

Evening

7. Sunset at Yaowang Pagoda: The 13-storey pagoda, rebuilt in 2012, straddles a lotus pond west of town. I took a Didi (¥12) and arrived at 4:45—golden hour spilled across the adjoining wheat fields, cicadas droning like tiny baristas grinding beans. The top tier is closed, but the 7th-floor balcony is open (¥10) and offers a cinematic vista: cranes hovering over new TCM factories, the old city wall zig-zagging like a dragon’s spine.

8. Dinner: Hui Min Xiao Chuan Jie (Muslim Night Market): Back downtown, the Huimin quarter ignites after six. Smoke from lamb skewers curls under fairy-lights; cumin drifts thick as snow. I pulled up a plastic stool and ordered:

• 5-spice lamb kebab (¥3/stick)
• Hand-pulled noodle soup with danggui root (¥18)
• Fermented hawthorn iced tea (¥5)

Eat standing—tables are for card games. The vibe rivals Jakarta’s Jalan Sabang at 2 a.m., yet here the muezzin competes with erhus rather than dangdut.

9. Post-prandial Espresso & Jazz at Dongtang Bar: Hidden behind a calligraphy-supply shop, Dongtang is Anguo’s sole speakeasy. Push the sliding bookcase and descend into brick vaults. The house band—oud, tabla, double-bass—starts at 9 p.m.; cover ¥40 includes a single-origin pour-over from the same beans I tasted at Plantae, but here it is served in porcelain cups older than my passport. We clapped along to a modal improvisation on The Jasmine Flower while outside the moon glazed the pagoda’s eaves. I left at 11:30, sated, sober, and elevated.

How to move, spend, and savour

• Transport: Taxis start at ¥6; Didi is ubiquitous. Bike-shares (Meituan/Hello) litter sidewalks—unlock with a QR code.
• Timing: Markets 7–11 a.m.; museums 9 a.m.–4 p.m.; night market 6 p.m.–midnight.
• Cash: Bring at least ¥200 in small bills—many vendors eschew cards.
• Language: Basic Mandarin helps; download Pleco for herb names.
• Dress: December is dry but cold (–2 °C at night); bring layers and a scarf.
• Etiquette: Haggle only in markets; temples favour right-hand incense offerings.

Anguo will never outshine Beijing’s boulevards or Shanghai’s neon canyons. It doesn’t need to. Its genius lies in micro-doses—anise on the wind, a perfect ristretto between two apothecaries, the hush inside a Ming courtyard when the city pauses to inhale. Follow this itinerary and you’ll leave with lungs full of botanical perfume and a mind steeped in stories, the kind that percolate long after the last sip.