How China Tried Its Own Version of Suspended Coffee

When owner Gao Wenqi glanced at the small chalkboard by his fast-food counter in Xi’an’s Mijiaqiao neighborhood, he felt uneasy. It read: ‘265 suspended meals purchased, 63 claimed, 202 remaining.’ What began as a tiny act of goodwill had turned into something heavier than expected—and far more complicated.

The short answer? Gao’s ‘suspended meals’ lasted months, saw over 260 pre-purchased meals and just 60 taken. It showed that even simple charity in coffee or food can spark generosity—but also suspicion, red tape, and unintended consequences.

What Is ‘Suspended Coffee’—And How Did It Reach China?

‘Suspended coffee’ began in Europe during World War II, where customers would pre-pay for an extra cup for someone who couldn’t afford one. By 2013, the idea had evolved into China’s ‘suspended meals.’ It started when Chen Li, a deputy police chief in Shaanxi province, shared the concept on Weibo and called for ‘suspended boxed meals’ in China. Within two hours, Gao Wenqi, a 50-year-old Taiwan-born restaurant owner, became the first to respond.

Why Gao Wenqi Wanted to Try It—And How He Started

Gao wasn’t new to this kind of kindness. As a child in Taiwan, he saw his mother pay for a bowl of wonton for a beggar when the vendor hesitated—and she asked the owner to let needy people eat ‘on her tab,’ settling weekly. The vendor charged only 70% of cost. Decades later, when he saw the Weibo post, Gao wanted to test if such kindness could work now. ‘I just wanted to see if this was real,’ he said.

On April 13, 2013, Gao put up a board: ‘Free suspended meals available—please come in and take one.’ His pork rice set normally sold for ¥16, but to avoid profiting, he set the purchase price at ¥10. He only accepted orders from in-store customers and capped purchases at three per person. He figured the actual meal cost was lower than retail, and wanted to serve locals in need.

How It Unfolded: Generosity, Skepticism, and Unexpected Outcomes

Early takers were mostly journalists asking about oversight—not people in need. The first actual recipient came the next day: an elderly man who had seen a newspaper story. He took a meal and then purchased two more, saying, ‘There are others who need it more.’ For days, people came after seeing media coverage, took a free meal, and often bought two or three more. But things soon changed.

Word spread. Friends called asking for a bank account to donate. Big restaurants proposed buying 1,000 to 5,000 meals at once. Gao felt it was turning into a PR project, not a quiet good deed. He clarified his approach with an eight-word ethos: ‘Neighborhood, respect, trust, care.’ He limited purchases to in-store customers only and kept the three-meal cap. But people still drove in from afar to drop off ¥100 or ¥300. Gao realized the act had become rare enough that people craved an outlet for their compassion. ‘It’s this simple. Why does it need an organization?’ he thought.

Yet as unsold meals piled up to 200, few came to claim them. One elderly man insisted on showing his disability and low-income certificates: ‘I want to prove I’m not lying!’ Gao was speechless—his respect wasn’t enough. Recipients still felt ashamed. He guessed the issue might be the upscale neighborhood. So a volunteer suggested targeting out-of-town patients and families at nearby hospitals in Xi’an.

They printed flyers and visited clinics. Hospitals liked the idea but found it difficult. One required Gao to sign a liability waiver. When official routes failed, volunteers explained the program verbally outside hospitals. Some listeners were confused, others skeptical: ‘Free lunch? Are you trying to sell us drugs?’

What Went Wrong—and What It Means for Coffeehouse Charity

The project slowly turned from personal kindness into something more structured. Soon, a standardized logo—a red heart—was introduced, and participating businesses were asked to display it. What began as an organic gesture of goodwill became another organized campaign. For Gao, the hardest part wasn’t running out of money or managing logistics. It was watching a simple act meant to affirm dignity instead make people feel inferior. And seeing a deeply personal form of giving get turned into yet another top-down initiative.

Frequently Asked Questions

What is ‘suspended coffee’ or ‘suspended meals’?

‘Suspended coffee’ originated in Europe during WWII, where people paid in advance for an extra coffee or meal for someone who couldn’t afford it. In 2013, China adapted the concept as ‘suspended meals,’ where customers pre-purchase meals for those in need to claim later.

Who started the suspended meals project in China?

The idea was promoted in China after a Weibo post by Chen Li, a deputy police chief in Shaanxi. Gao Wenqi, a restaurant owner in Xi’an, was the first to implement it on April 13, 2013, starting with suspended meals rather than coffee.

How did the suspended meals program work in Gao’s restaurant?

Gao offered a pork rice meal (normally ¥16) for a set purchase price of ¥10. Customers could buy meals for others, but only up to three per person, and only if they were in-store buyers. Meals could be claimed anonymously by those in need.

Why didn’t more people take the free meals?

Many factors played a role: the relatively upscale neighborhood, stigma around receiving free food, initial media attention attracting donors but not recipients, and organizational challenges when expanding to hospitals.

What were the biggest lessons from the suspended meals experiment?

The project showed that small-scale, personal charity can inspire generosity, but also revealed issues like mistrust, unwanted attention, logistical hurdles, and the risk of turning simple kindness into a managed system.

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