White Rabbit Candy: A Taste of Nostalgia in Modern China
BEIJING: For six decades, White Rabbit candy has maintained its iconic status, with its signature white rabbit illustration and the vivid red and blue stripes on the wrapper.
The waxy interior continues to dissolve deliciously on the palate, releasing a creamy sweetness that remains a staple for many. Its price, a modest few yuan, has likewise persisted.
Yet, the cultural landscape surrounding this treat has undergone a significant metamorphosis. When a pop-up shop in Shanghai emerged in 2019, offering beverages inspired by White Rabbit candy, patrons eagerly formed lines lasting up to four hours, all for a 20 yuan (approximately US$2.9) cup.
A social media user captured the sentiment aptly on Weibo: “What I drank is not milk tea, but a cup of love.”
The preceding year, the launch of a limited-edition lip balm saw the initial batch of 920 units—priced at 78 yuan for two—sell out in mere milliseconds.
China’s nostalgia economy has dramatically altered the dynamics of brand marketing. Traditional interpretations suggest that consumers are purchasing memories, with the generations of the 1980s and 1990s indulging in vestiges of their formative years.
While this theory holds merit, it fails to elucidate the allure of costly lip balms or the phenomenon of four-hour waiting queues.
The individuals queued for the delectable drinks were predominantly born post-1995, possessing no personal recollection of the confections. The White Rabbit lip balm, it appears, evokes more than nostalgia; it encapsulates an emotional state—a craving for continuity.
The nostalgia economy, rather than merely resurrecting the past, capitalizes on the intrinsic desire for a cohesive narrative.
This yearning for continuity is rooted in history. In 1147, the writer Meng Yuanlao chronicled the everyday life of the Northern Song Dynasty in his work Dongjing Meng Hua Lu (Eastern Capital: A Dream of Splendor).
Written from exile following the devastation of the city, it offered readers an evocative sense of coherence amid tumultuous change.
China’s swift transformation over the past forty years has been nothing short of remarkable, often jarring.
As society progresses at an unprecedented pace, the capacity of memory to adapt diminishes. Familiar neighborhoods have been razed, long-standing careers have evaporated, and social structures have become increasingly tenuous.
Nostalgia transcends mere recall; it involves a reconstruction that infuses warmth and connectivity. Individuals seek affirmations that life, in its complexity, possesses meaning.
In contemporary times, where such reassurances are scarce, people are willing to invest in products that evoke this sense of purpose.
White Rabbit candy attracts varied interpretations based on generational context. For those who grew up in the 1980s, it symbolized rarity, gracing celebrations with its precious presence.
Conversely, for subsequent generations, it represents familiarity devoid of gravitas. The same confectionery, yet disparate emotional significances persist.
Personal nostalgia, though potent, is finite. Studies indicate that preferences formed during adolescence tend to remain ingrained throughout life, rendering an experience unique to those who unwrapped White Rabbit candy—a sentiment that cannot be replicated.
However, another category of consumer emerges: those who, though absent from the original era, are drawn to what it embodies. They may not possess personal memories but are connected through cultural heritage, sensing a continuum of identity linking past to present.
The most effective nostalgia-driven products foster a sense of belonging rather than demanding recollection.
Yet, the White Rabbit milk tea serves as a cautionary exemplar. Upon reaching the counter after an arduous wait, many expressed disappointment akin to bland, run-of-the-mill bubble tea.
“It tastes just like any regular bubble tea out there,” remarked one customer, with another noting, “It’s merely exploiting the classic brand.”
This sentiment encapsulates a critical vulnerability inherent within the nostalgia economy. When heritage merely serves as a means of inflating prices, and retro aesthetics overshadow the quality of the product, consumers become acutely aware.
The disillusionment runs deeper than usual commercial failures, as it invokes personal attachments.
In contrast, White Elephant instant noodles illuminate an alternative path. A video depicting disabled workers ending their shift gained traction on Weibo, kindling warmth toward a brand that has long employed approximately one-third of its workforce from this community.
Shoppers rushed to stock up, demonstrating that meaningful narratives resonate more than fleeting nostalgia.
There exist two further hazards. When retro aesthetics transform into formulas, the symbols lose their significance. Additionally, a nostalgia economy constrained to the memories of one generation risks fragmenting a shared cultural experience.
As pop-up shops close and limited editions sell out, one must ponder: what endures? If the answer is solely the memory of a queue, the brand has neglected its legacy rather than fostering its growth.
Conversely, the success of Black Myth: Wukong on Steam illustrates another approach—offering players an experience so artfully crafted that it feels authentically tangible, rooted in something deeper than mere recollection.
Li-Ning’s participation in New York Fashion Week reflects similar logic. Consumers responded positively to the revelation that a brand previously dismissed still embodies a viable future, clearly demonstrating the connection between yesteryear and the present.
The pivotal inquiry for China’s nostalgia economy is not whether there exists a demand for continuity, but whether the industry will genuinely cater to this appetite with depth or resort to exploitative shortcuts.
Some may have fond memories of White Rabbit candy, while others were born into a world where it was simply a staple.
Yet, we all yearn for a sense of cultural identity, with roots substantial enough to anchor us, and a conviction that today’s constructs are worthy of remembrance tomorrow. Nostalgia does not merely resurrect the past; it fosters an affirmation of belonging in the present.
Ultimately, the candy itself remains unchanged. The true question lies in whether its purveyor comprehends the distinction between squandering a legacy and fostering growth.
Sun Yacheng is a professor of marketing at the School of Economics and Management at Tsinghua University; Song Luyang is an associate professor of marketing at the School of Management in Huazhong University of Science and Technology.
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