Slow-braised meat, chopped fine and packed into a crisp baked bun — one bite and the savory-sweet juices run into the crackle of the bread. This is Xi'an's everyday street classic, the one locals queue for every morning.
Walk into a Xi'an side street early in the morning and you will catch it before you see it: the smell of a braising pot that has been simmering overnight. That is the signal a roujiamo (肉夹馍, ròu jiā mó) shop is open. The name translates as "meat sandwiched in bread," and Westerners like to call it the "Chinese hamburger" — some even bill it as "the world's oldest hamburger." It does look like chopped meat in a round bun, but it predates the Western burger by centuries. This style of braised-meat sandwich has been eaten in Shaanxi province for more than 2,000 years.
A great roujiamo comes down to two parts that both have to be right — the meat and the bun. The meat is lazhirou (腊汁肉), pork belly simmered slowly in soy sauce, Shaoxing wine, sugar and more than a dozen spices: star anise, cassia, cumin, black cardamom and dried orange peel among them. The best old shops braise it in an "aged broth" (老汤) that they top up but never throw away, sometimes carried over for years — the older the pot, the deeper the flavour. Once the pork is falling-apart tender, it is chopped, fat and lean together, and packed into a hot bun. That bun is the baijimo (白吉馍), a round flatbread of semi-leavened dough baked until the outside is crisp and golden in a ring while the inside stays soft.
What many visitors don't realise is that roujiamo comes in two lineages — the Shaanxi pork version, and the halal beef-or-lamb version of the Hui Muslim community that has lived in the heart of Xi'an for over a thousand years. In the Muslim Quarter (回民街) there is no pork at all; stalls use salt-braised beef or lamb (腊牛肉), some dusted with cumin and chilli until it turns fragrant and bold. Both use the same baijimo bun, but they taste like different worlds. This page walks you through both — how each is made, how they differ, where to find them, and how to order like a local.
The same sandwich tells the city's story two ways — eat both to understand Xi'an properly.
1
This is what most people outside Xi'an picture first. Pork belly braised in lazhirou — the overnight soy-and-spice master stock — until the skin turns soft and the fat melts to a jelly, then chopped fat-and-lean together and packed into a hot bun. The flavour is rounded, deeply savory-sweet, rich but not heavy. Locals order it feishou (a fat-and-lean mix) because that melting fat is the whole point. Some shops add stir-fried green pepper for a fresh note.
2
In the Hui Muslim quarter there is no pork, so stalls use beef or lamb braised in a salty spiced stock called laniurou. The meat is firmer than pork and has more chew; some stalls finish it with toasted cumin and ground chilli for that punchy Hui flavour that meat-lovers fall for. If you want lamb, look for the sign 腊羊肉; if you prefer beef, look for 腊牛肉 — both are delicious in different ways.
Pork belly is cut into big chunks, blanched clean, then simmered in a braising liquid built from light and dark soy, caramelised sugar, Shaoxing wine, star anise, cassia, bay leaf, cumin, white pepper, black cardamom and dried orange peel. It cooks low and slow for an hour or more until the meat pulls apart easily. The most famous old shops keep a "master stock" (老汤) going, topping it up with fresh spices and never tipping it out, sometimes for years or decades. The older the pot, the deeper the aroma — which is exactly why a brand-new shop struggles to match a legend's flavour.
Semi-leavened wheat dough is shaped into a round, flat disc and baked in a clay oven or griddled on an iron pan until the outside crisps to a golden ring and the inside stays soft and fluffy. Locals describe the ideal bun in one phrase: "iron ring, tiger back, chrysanthemum heart" (铁圈虎背菊花心) — a crisp ring around the edge, a cracked tiger-stripe top, and a flower pattern on the base. The crumb has to be dense enough to hold the braising juices without falling apart.
When you order, the cook lifts the braised meat onto a board and chops it fresh — fat and lean together — adds a spoonful of braising liquid, and sometimes stir-fried green pepper or chilli. Then a hot bun straight off the oven is split open and stuffed, and it lands in your hand while the bread is still crisp. Bite it immediately: the moment the crisp crust, soft crumb and juicy meat all meet is the whole magic of roujiamo. Leave it ten minutes and the bun softens and the flavour shifts.
Legendary shops and the places locals actually eat — all confirmed open as of 2026.
If you want your first pork roujiamo in Xi'an, this is the name locals reach for first. An old shop in the Zhubashi lane near the Bell Tower that people have queued at for decades — tender, juicy braised meat, a deep aroma from the master stock, a bun crisped just right. It recently expanded with a second floor for more comfortable seating, and the price is gentle for the reputation. Lunchtime gets busy, so go a little earlier to skip the longest wait.
The main drag of the Muslim Quarter (回民街) is busy with tourists and a little pricier, but turn into the back lanes — Dapiyuan (大皮院) or Sajinqiao (洒金桥) — and you'll find the stalls locals rely on. The salt-braised beef and lamb roujiamo here is firm and full-flavoured, dusted with fragrant cumin and chilli, and some of these stalls have been running long enough to be neighbourhood institutions. Everything is halal: look for the sign 腊牛肉 (beef) or 腊羊肉 (lamb) and point to order.
One of the oldest Muslim restaurants in Xi'an, open since 1898. It is best known for yangrou paomo (羊肉泡馍, mutton soup with torn flatbread), but it also serves a well-regarded salt-braised beef roujiamo (腊牛肉夹馍). It's a good choice if you'd rather sit in an air-conditioned room with proper seating than eat standing at a stall. It has moved into a shopping centre near the Muslim Quarter in recent years, so check the latest location on Amap or Dianping before you go.
For the pork version, most locals ask for feishou (肥瘦), a mix of fat and lean, because the melting fat is what keeps each bite juicy and fragrant. If you'd rather skip the fat, ask for chunshou (纯瘦), lean only, though it comes out a touch drier. Some shops ask whether you want stir-fried green pepper (青椒) added — answer as you like. For the halal meat version, look for the sign 腊牛肉 (beef) or 腊羊肉 (lamb) and point; some stalls let you choose spicy or not.
Roujiamo is meant to be eaten while the bun is still hot and crisp. Don't let it sit and don't take it back to the hotel — give it ten minutes and the bread softens and the juices soak through, and you lose that crisp-outside, soft-inside moment. Watch for dripping braising liquid too: bite from the top or tilt it slightly and you'll stay tidy. From a stall, it usually comes wrapped in paper or a bag so you can eat it on the move.
Locals rarely eat roujiamo on its own. The usual pairing is a bowl of liangpi (凉皮) — cold skin noodles tossed in a garlicky, vinegary, chilli sauce that cuts the richness perfectly — or a bowl of hulatang (胡辣汤), a thick, peppery soup eaten in the morning. Together that's a proper Shaanxi breakfast, all for a handful of yuan and an easy way to fill up on a budget.