In the breezy evening of a Shanghai weekend, a 21-year-old college student named Jin Ling stepped into a sleek Korean barbecue restaurant and paid 59 yuan for what organisers called a “blind-box dinner” — a chance encounter with five strangers chosen by algorithm. In a story reported by #SixthTone, as the group swapped kimchi pork-belly for life stories, Jin realised the novelty: “Because we were all strangers, the conversation felt completely unforced — no need to impress anyone, just pure sharing about our lives.” What she discovered is increasingly common among young urban Chinese: a longing for connection that mainstream social networks and traditional guānxi (关系) ties no longer satisfy.
In China’s fast-paced cities, the old networks of family, childhood friends and neighbourhood ties are fraying. Guānxi, the term for a cultivated web of reciprocal obligations and ties, typically requires effort, time-investment and face-to-face rituals; in contrast, younger generations are turning to light-touch, digitally enabled alternatives to fill the gap. Enter the rise of novel matchmaking and social apps such as Soul, which markets itself as a ‘virtual social playground’ for Gen-Z and records millions of users. According to data cited in the recent feature from Sixth Tone, the dating-and-matchmaking market in China had grown to 7.2 billion yuan (≈US$1 billion) by 2024 and is expected to double by 2026.
On these platforms, and in offline variants with algorithm-matched dinners, the purpose often shifts: it is not solely about finding a romantic partner, but about expanding social networks, alleviating loneliness (孤独) and meeting new people in a time-efficient way. In one study of 459 users of major mobile dating applications in China, the researchers found that app-use was strongly linked to motivations such as social interaction and approval — but also to loneliness and rejection sensitivity. The numbers align with global evidence: users of mobile dating apps report lower sense of community and higher loneliness even as they log more connections.
In the dining experiment Jin took part in, organisers deliberately treat the meeting like a “blind box” (盲盒) – an opaque capsule of surprise whose contents are unknown until revealed. In this context the contents are not sushi or sliders but new people and new stories. The concept resonates phenomenally with youth, especially those under pressure – pressure to succeed, to form relationships, to navigate a life in a mega-city away from hometown support systems. According to an account in China Daily, young participants join such “blind-box socialisation” events because “everyone can chat casually … I don’t have worry about getting along with them [as strangers]”.
What’s interesting is that the apps and dinner-events don’t just aim for romance. On Soul, a report revealed that among users born after 1995, more than 90 % prioritise “emotional value” — the sense of being seen, belonging and cared for — and nearly 80 % said this was more about social interaction than about dating. It suggests a subtle but important shift: this generation is less motivated purely by marriage (结婚) or dating per se, and more by connection, belonging and the quick-match logic of the platform world.
Of course, there are caveats. Experts warn that meet-ups with strangers — in both digital and offline forms — carry risks: from scams to mis-representation of profiles. In the livestream-blind-date space, concerns about verify ing participants’ identities were flagged. #SixthTone In the “blind-box social” movement, a piece by the South China Morning Post noted risk-warning over what organisers call “black-box socials” where young people meet unknown others under the promise of spontaneity.
Culturally, this trend sits at the intersection of urban loneliness (城市孤独) and the weakening of traditional social structures. Where family-arranged match-making or offline social clubs once dominated, today’s young professionals in Beijing, Shanghai or Chengdu may feel they lack time or space to cultivate long-standing ties. Hence they seek scenario-based, algorithm-matched encounters: meals, social karaoke, even blind-box dinners. The concept of dazǐ (搭子) culture – where people match for a particular purpose (e.g., “meal buddy”, “travel buddy”) and avoid deep emotional entanglement – captures how networks are becoming more transactional, more fleeting, but still meaningful for participants.
So when Jin sat in that restaurant in Shanghai, she was doing more than eating beef brisket: she was participating in a micro-ritual of contemporary urban connection, a gesture against solitude, a calibration of social needs in a world mediated by algorithms and apps. Whether these connections blossom, deepen or simply provide an evening of interesting conversation, they reflect a shifting terrain in which young Chinese navigate loneliness, friendships, love and anonymity. And as platforms like Soul and the “blind-box dinner” organisers continue to grow, the question becomes less “Will I find love?” and more “Will I be seen?” — perhaps one of the softest victories in twenty-first-century social networking.
Spicy Auntie has thoughts — and a steaming bowl of them. Because when I look at China’s gorgeous, overworked, digitally addicted young people lining up for blind-box dinners with five strangers and unlimited mapuo tofu, I don’t see frivolous fun. I see loneliness — real, heavy, city-sized loneliness — wrapped up in neon lights and delivered via algorithm. And let me tell you, my dears, it breaks my seasoned Auntie heart.
Loneliness in Asia has its own flavour, doesn’t it? In China, it’s sharpened by long hours, high expectations, migrant-city living, and the erosion of guānxi networks that once held communities together like glue (or like my Auntie’s famous chili oil, which sticks to anything). In the old days, your neighbours knew your business before you did. Now? Your neighbours don’t know your name, but an app knows your sleep schedule, calorie intake, and emotional availability.
So the issues are serious — very serious. Young adults struggling to make friends, to date, to feel seen, to stay mentally afloat in cities where millions rush past you every day and no one looks up. You can be surrounded by humanity and still feel like a ghost. That’s the sad poetry of urban Asia.
But the solution? Oh, it’s so modern it practically screams “imported from the future.” Blind-box dinners, dazǐ-matching apps, mystery meet-ups, algorithmic seat-mates — a whole new ecosystem for the socially malnourished generation raised on WeChat, Meituan, and exam pressure. And honestly? Auntie approves. Because if the old ways aren’t working, you bet the kids will build new ones. They always do.
Do I find it adorable that Gen-Z needs an app to find a dinner buddy? Yes. Do I think it’s sad that so many of them lack the confidence, opportunity, or energy to build organic friendships? Also yes. Two truths can sit in the same hotpot.
What I truly admire is the hunger — not for food, but for connection. For somebody to listen, laugh, share stories, complain about work, ask how your day was. These blind dinners act like emotional life rafts: quick, convenient, low-pressure, and strangely intimate. You don’t owe anyone anything, yet for an hour you get to be human together.
My babies, if the world makes you lonely, you have every right to hack the system. Use the apps, use the dinners, use whatever helps you feel less alone. Just remember: human warmth doesn’t come from algorithms — it comes from the courage to show up as your messy, wonderful self.
And Auntie is cheering for every single one of you.