中國近期掀起一場前所未有的「外賣大戰」，主角是美團、餓了嗎與京東三大平台。這場戰爭表面上是優惠競爭，讓消費者成為最大贏家，但實質上卻是一場以市場壟斷與習慣改造為核心目標的產業重組戰役。這不僅改變中國人吃飯的方式，也重塑整個餐飲產業的結構。

在這波競爭中，最令人驚訝的是三大平台雖然互相廝殺、價格戰激烈，卻都呈現出訂單與業績的強勁增長。美團單日訂單達1.5億筆，京東外賣訂單年增140%，餓了嗎也成長29%。這現象看似矛盾，但背後有其明確邏輯——平台們的目標並不是從彼此手中搶市場，而是聯手將整個外賣市場規模做大。他們在競爭的同時，也在教育市場、拓展使用者層級。

2019年外賣只佔中國整體餐飲市場的13%，如今已攀升至26%，幾乎翻倍。更值得注意的是，使用人群從原本以20至30歲的年輕人為主，擴大到40歲以上的中老年族群。隨著補貼、滿減與限時折扣活動的鋪天蓋地，一杯奶茶只需3元人民幣、9.9元就能吃到漢堡套餐，許多消費者甚至開始認為「不點外賣就虧了」。這種價格與便利的雙重吸引，讓外賣成為越來越多人日常飲食的首選，進一步讓平台掌握了龐大的流量與數據優勢。

但這場讓利戰爭的另一面，卻是數以萬計實體餐飲業者的苦難。對於中小餐館來說，外賣平台是不可忽視的客源管道。如果不上平台，就等於主動放棄龐大的流量；但如果上平台並參加促銷活動，則幾乎必然虧本。以一份原價20元的便當為例，消費者最終只需支付12元。平台或許補貼其中的3元，但剩下的5元差額需由店家吸收。再加上平台抽成高達20%至26%，也就是每筆訂單店家實際能拿到的金額可能不到10元，幾乎無利可圖。

更殘酷的是，平台演算法會故意將未參與活動的商家排在後面，讓其曝光量驟降，形同逼迫他們非得參戰不可。一些餐廳業主甚至形容：「每接一單就虧一單，但不接單連虧的機會都沒了。」這種「被動內卷」讓越來越多實體小店陷入生存困境，許多人為維持營運被迫加班、壓低成本，甚至放棄原有品質與招牌菜色，只求撐住一日三餐的現金流。

平台之所以願意如此激進地補貼與讓利，是因為它們並不急於獲利，而是想通過壓低整體市場價格來擠壓對手與小玩家，最終壟斷市場，獲得定價權。當其他競爭者與小商戶無法再與之抗衡而退出市場後，平台便可全面掌控價格、推廣與使用者行為，進入真正的盈利階段。這與過去互聯網巨頭在中國其他行業（如網約車、共享單車、電商）的擴張策略如出一轍。

這場外賣大戰短期內確實讓消費者受益，但長遠來看，它正在摧毀一個城市最基層、最有人情味的餐飲生態系統。當街邊小店被迫退出、當平台擁有絕對定價能力，屆時外賣價格可能再度攀升，而選擇也會大幅減少。這是以補貼為武器的持久戰，其真正輸贏的關鍵，將不僅僅在於一杯奶茶的價格，而是中國城市生活與小微經濟的未來走向。

China has recently launched an unprecedented “food delivery war,” with Meituan, Ele.me, and JD.com as the three major players. On the surface, this battle appears to be a competition of discounts, making consumers the biggest winners. But in reality, it is a strategic restructuring of the industry centered on market dominance and behavioral reshaping. It is not only transforming how Chinese people eat but also reshaping the entire structure of the dining economy.

What’s most surprising about this wave of competition is that despite the brutal price war, all three platforms have seen a sharp rise in orders and performance. Meituan processes up to 150 million orders per day, JD’s food delivery orders have grown by 140% year-on-year, and Ele.me has seen a 29% increase. While this seems contradictory, there is clear logic behind it — the platforms aren’t just trying to steal market share from each other, but rather working in parallel to expand the overall size of the food delivery market. As they compete, they are also educating users and broadening their consumer base.

In 2019, food delivery accounted for only 13% of China’s overall dining market; today, that figure has risen to 26%, nearly doubling. Even more noteworthy is the demographic shift — once dominated by people in their 20s and 30s, food delivery now attracts users over 40 years old as well. With subsidies, full-reduction discounts, and time-limited promotions flooding the platforms, a cup of milk tea can cost as little as 3 yuan, and a hamburger combo just 9.9 yuan. Many consumers now feel that not ordering delivery is a missed opportunity. The dual appeal of affordability and convenience is making delivery the preferred choice for an increasing number of people, allowing platforms to gain massive traffic and data advantages.

However, on the other side of this discount war lies the hardship of tens of thousands of brick-and-mortar restaurants. For small to medium-sized eateries, delivery platforms are essential channels for customer acquisition. Not joining the platforms means giving up a large chunk of business; but joining and participating in promotional campaigns almost guarantees losses. For instance, a meal originally priced at 20 yuan may be sold to the customer for only 12 yuan. While the platform might cover 3 yuan of that difference, the remaining 5 yuan must be absorbed by the restaurant. With commission fees as high as 20% to 26%, the restaurant may end up receiving less than 10 yuan per order — barely enough to break even.

To make matters worse, the platform algorithms intentionally push non-participating merchants to the bottom of search results, drastically reducing their visibility. It effectively forces them to join the battle. Some restaurant owners describe the situation as: “Every order means a loss, but without orders, you don’t even get the chance to lose.” This kind of involuntary compression is pushing more and more small shops into a survival crisis, where they are forced to work overtime, cut costs, and even abandon their signature dishes — all to keep daily cash flow alive.

The reason platforms are willing to offer such aggressive subsidies and discounts is not because they are eager to profit now, but because they aim to crush competition by pushing down market prices. Once rivals and small businesses can no longer compete and are forced out, the platform can gain total control over pricing, promotion, and user behavior, finally entering a true profit phase. This strategy mirrors what Chinese tech giants have done in other sectors like ride-hailing, bike sharing, and e-commerce.

In the short term, this delivery war undeniably benefits consumers. But in the long run, it is dismantling the most grassroots and human part of urban dining — the small neighborhood restaurants. Once these are gone and platforms hold absolute pricing power, delivery prices could rise again, and consumer choices could shrink significantly. This is a long-term war fought with subsidies as weapons, and its true outcome will not be decided by the price of a milk tea, but by the future of China’s urban life and the survival of its small business economy.