Three Men, Three Different Stories: What Is Japanese Tengsu Really About?

Ah-Hong hadn't even opened his lunchbox when he blurted out, "Have you guys ever heard of Japanese Tengsu?" The three people at the table spanned nearly twenty years in age, yet their reactions ran like three parallel lines. Ah-Hong, thirty-five, said his senior colleagues always pick some up when they travel abroad. Old Zhou, fifty-two, furrowed his brow and said that stuff had been talked to death ages ago. Xiao-Jie, twenty-three and fresh out of the military, looked completely lost and asked whether it was a health supplement or a medicine. Ah-Hong laughed and said, "Anyway, it's just for keeping your body in shape," and Old Zhou added, "The version I heard is different from yours." The conversation got cut off by the afternoon meeting.

Back at his desk, Ah-Hong couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The same product, three different accounts, and not one person could back up what they said. He pushed his lunchbox aside, grabbed a scrap of paper, and broke down what he'd heard at lunch into a few points: older folks bring it back from trips, some say they really felt a difference after taking it, some say it's a drug you shouldn't mess with. When he finished writing, he froze. Two of the three were secondhand accounts, one was an impression, and none of them came from something he'd seen or looked up himself. He suddenly remembered helping his mom find a blood pressure monitor last month—just comparing specs took him two evenings. How come when it was his own business, he was so careless?

The first clue came from Old Zhou. He said the reason he furrowed his brow was that he'd seen someone forward a post in a group chat before, full of wild claims, with a string of links attached at the bottom. Ah-Hong asked what it actually was, and Old Zhou just said, "Anyway, I didn't buy it." That sentence contained no information—only an attitude. Ah-Hong wrote it down and noted: "Source: group chat forward, cannot be traced." He realized he did this all the time too—treating other people's attitudes as conclusions, treating forwards as verification.

The second clue came from Xiao-Jie. The next day he came over and asked whether it was "like a vitamin." Ah-Hong couldn't answer right away because he wasn't sure either. The two of them looked it up on their phones together at lunch and discovered that even the question of "is this food or medicine" involves different classification systems in different countries. Something treated as an ordinary food in its country of origin might be categorized differently elsewhere. That's when Ah-Hong realized what he really wanted to ask wasn't "does it work" but "what category of thing is this?" Once the question changed, the direction became clear: confirm what it is first, then talk about everything else.

Next he did something very old-school: he listed out the fields that would appear on the packaging. Product name, ingredients, country of origin, importer, expiration date, warnings. He realized that in the past, when he bought things, he only looked at the product name and the price—he never finished reading those lines at the bottom. He also thought: if this kind of information only comes from friends' secondhand accounts, it'll never line up. You either look at the actual packaging or find publicly verifiable information. So he wrote "Japanese Tengsu" on a slip of paper as a keyword to look up, not a shopping list item.

The real turning point came on the weekend. Ah-Hong accompanied his wife to visit her parents, and his father-in-law casually mentioned that people had been asking about this kind of thing lately, adding that "most people asking are too embarrassed to ask directly." Ah-Hong suddenly understood: the reason this topic spawns so many versions is that the people asking are afraid to ask, and the people answering are afraid to answer—and in between, all kinds of rumors grow. He decided not to be the one who forwards things. He called the pharmacy he frequents and asked only three things: how are these products usually classified, which fields on the packaging should you look at, and if you're already taking other things, how should you bring it up. The person on the other end didn't give him any claims about efficacy—just reminded him to make a list of everything he was currently using.

After getting home, Ah-Hong rewrote that scrap of paper. On the left he wrote "Rumors": must-buy when traveling abroad, felt a difference after taking it, so-and-so said it's amazing. On the right he wrote "Verifiable": product classification, packaging labels, whether the source is clear, a list of what you're currently using. He realized the left column was all other people's mouths, and the right column was what he held in his own hands. He also added "first confirm whether it's a prescription drug" to his notes, because that one line eliminates a lot of gray area. As for those vivid, detailed claims, he decided to set them aside until there was something verifiable to go on.

The following week at lunch, Ah-Hong brought the topic back up on his own. He didn't draw any conclusions—he just said that after looking into it, what he most wanted to remind everyone was "don't treat secondhand accounts as evidence." Old Zhou nodded. Xiao-Jie said he'd go home and ask his elders what they usually take. This time the three of them didn't argue, because they were no longer talking about "does it work" but about "how to ask so you get a clear answer." Ah-Hong tucked the slip of paper into his wallet, reminding himself that next time he saw a similar rumor, he'd ask about the source first, then the classification, and only then talk about whether to buy. That slip of paper didn't give him an answer, but it gave him a sequence that wouldn't let him get led around.