China’s “First Cup of Milk Tea” Craze Overloads Delivery Riders and Triggers Labor and Sustainability Concerns

The phrase, rendered in Mandarin as 立秋第一杯奶茶的受害者出现了, refers to a growing habit among Chinese netizens to order or gift the “first cup of milk tea” as a way of marking the change of season. The trend, which first gained traction in early August 2024 (and has been noted in earlier years), has become a mini‑festival for the country’s booming milk‑tea market. Brands compete to claim the honour of serving that inaugural sip, deploying limited‑edition flavors, bright‑colour packaging and flash‑sale promotions that echo the intensity of the nation’s famed “Double 11” shopping day.

The surge in demand is not just a marketing triumph; it is also a logistical nightmare. Within hours of the Lìqiū announcement, milk‑tea shops report a flood of orders that overload point‑of‑sale terminals, jam printers, and create “door‑curtains” of receipts in back‑room storerooms. On the streets, delivery riders – the ubiquitous “外卖小哥” – scramble to navigate traffic and meet ever‑shortening delivery windows, often racing against the clock to honor the promise of a freshly brewed cup in a customer’s hand.

A typical scenario unfolded on August 8, 2024, when a popular chain’s Weibo post celebrating the “first cup” was flooded with comments from exhausted staff: “The printer has printed so many tickets it’s smoke‑filled,” one employee wrote. Another rider, using the hashtag #立秋第一杯奶茶的受害者出现了#, posted a photo of a backpack overflowing with insulated bags, captioned, “I’ve been on the road for twelve hours straight. The next ‘victim’ will be my legs.” The humor is palpable, but the underlying strain is real.

The phenomenon shines a light on several broader industry dynamics. First, the milk‑tea market, already worth billions of yuan, is now venturing into hyper‑seasonal marketing, leveraging social media’s viral power to drive concentrated bursts of consumption. Second, the episode exposes weaknesses in supply‑chain resilience. Small, independently owned shops with limited staffing and modest equipment struggle to scale up at a moment’s notice, while larger chains can pour resources into temporary hiring and automated order‑management software. Third, the spike in single‑serve cups and plastic packaging raises sustainability concerns. Environmental observers point out that each “first cup” adds to an already massive tide of disposable waste, prompting calls for greener packaging standards.

Beyond the operational challenges, the “victims” narrative reveals a social undercurrent about the cost of instant gratification. Chinese consumers, accustomed to the click‑and‑want‑it‑now ethos of apps like Meituan and Ele.me, are willing to endure long wait times, occasional mis‑delivered drinks, and even health warnings in exchange for the novelty of a seasonal treat. A tongue‑in‑cheek Weibo thread in July 2025 recounted a man who drank five milk‑tea cups a day, eventually needing hospital care for a blood‑sugar spike – a reminder that the meme can quickly turn from playful to cautionary.

Labour advocates see an opportunity to press for better protections for gig workers. The same platforms that enable a user to order a drink with a few taps also cast delivery riders into a precarious mix of low pay, long hours and limited social security. The surge around Lìqiū has prompted a handful of local policymakers to discuss whether existing gig‑economy regulations adequately cover “peak‑demand” periods, a question that may gain national relevance as similar flash‑sale events proliferate across food, retail and services.

Consumers themselves are beginning to reflect on the frenzy. Some posts urge friends to “make your own tea at home” rather than add to the delivery overload, while others express empathy: “Please be patient with the riders; they’re doing their best.” The collective sentiment is a blend of admiration for the cultural ritual of sharing a warm beverage as the weather cools, and a growing awareness of the hidden labor that makes the experience possible.

By the time Lìqiū passes and the next solar term arrives, the “first‑cup” craze will likely return, perhaps with fresh flavors, new hashtags, and a renewed set of “victims” documenting their struggle. What began as a light‑hearted meme offers a window into the complexities of modern Chinese consumer culture: a market that can turn a seasonal customs into a national sales event, a workforce that bears the brunt of digital demand, and a society gradually questioning the sustainability of its own rapid‑pace appetites. The appearance of these “victims” may be humorous, but the issues they embody are anything but.