From Kitchen Cabinets in China to TikTok in New York: The West’s Obsession with Pei Pa Koa

There's a saying that What is old is not always obsolete; sometimes it is wisdom in disguise.

For more than four centuries, Nin Jiom Pei Pa Koa has been a household staple in Chinese medicine cabinets a thick, dark syrup made from honey, loquat fruit, and an intricate mix of herbs. In Hong Kong, parents swore by it. In Beijing, students mixed it with hot water to soothe a sore throat. In Singapore, it was sold alongside other traditional remedies in corner shops.

Now, the West is catching on. Sales of this cough syrup rose nearly a third between 2019 and 2024, with growing demand from millennials and Gen Z shoppers outside of Asia. Social media influencers in Los Angeles rave about it. Herbal enthusiasts in London recommend it as a “miracle elixir.” Some in New York even drizzle it over tea, praising its flavor as much as its supposed healing properties.

On the surface, this looks like a triumph of cultural exchange and a traditional Eastern medicine finally winning the recognition it deserves. But dig deeper, and a more complicated question emerges
Are Western consumers genuinely respecting centuries-old knowledge, or are they simply romanticizing it as the next exotic trend?

For decades, alternative medicine has been marketed in the West as a rebellion against “Big Pharma.” Essential oils, turmeric lattes, CBD oils and many others have had their moment in the spotlight. Now, Nin Jiom Pei Pa Koa seems to be enjoying the same fate, transformed from an everyday cough remedy in Asia into an Instagrammable “heritage wellness product.”

But here lies the controversy: would a Western-made syrup, just as brown and muddy, with the same sticky texture, ever have gained this cult status? Or is its appeal tied to the allure of something foreign, ancient, and mysterious?

The commercialization of Eastern remedies in Western markets often strips away context. To many Chinese families, Pei Pa Koa is not exotic it is ordinary, a trusted but unspectacular medicine. Yet Western marketing reshapes it into something mystical, selling not just the syrup but the story of “ancient Chinese wisdom in a bottle.”

That might feel flattering, but it risks flattening centuries of cultural practice into a consumable trend much like yoga in the West became less about spirituality and more about stretchy pants.