Today was one of those days that started quietly but ended with my taste buds still buzzing and my camera roll overflowing. As a second-year tourism hospitality student, I’ve come to realize that food isn’t just sustenance—it’s culture, memory, and emotion served on a plate. And nowhere does this better than in and around Chengdu, the city where every alleyway hides a story, and every bite tells you something about the people who live here.

I wrapped up my classes by 3 PM—Introduction to Hospitality Management and Regional Geography—and by 4:15, I was on the high-speed train from Chengdu East Station to Leshan, a historic city nestled along the confluence of three rivers, just an hour south. My mission? To dive deep into two days of authentic Sichuan flavors, far from the tourist traps, chasing down street snacks, family-run rice shops, and the kind of home-style cooking that makes your eyes water (in the best way possible).

Leshan is famous for its giant Buddha statue, yes—but what most guidebooks don’t emphasize enough is how deeply rooted its food culture is in daily life. I checked into a small guesthouse near the old town, run by a warm couple in their 60s who greeted me with steaming cups of jasmine tea and a warning: “Don’t skip dandan mian at Auntie Li’s stand tonight. It’s spicy, but it’s love.”

And so, as dusk painted the sky in soft pinks and oranges, I wandered into the maze of Zhongshan Road Night Market. The air was thick with the scent of cumin, chili oil, and grilling lamb skewers. But my first stop wasn’t meat—it was congyoubing, scallion pancakes, made fresh by an elderly vendor named Master Zhang. He kneaded dough with practiced hands, layered it with oil and chopped green onions, then slapped it onto the inside wall of a clay oven. In five minutes, he handed me a golden-brown disc, flaky and crisp on the outside, tender within. I stood on the sidewalk, tearing off pieces as passersby smiled knowingly. This wasn’t dinner; it was communion.

Next came the star of the night: dandan mian. Auntie Li’s stall was tiny—just a folding table, a pot of broth, and a mountain of toppings. She tossed alkaline noodles in a sauce of fermented black beans, Sichuan peppercorns, chili oil, and a spoonful of preserved vegetables before topping it with minced pork and crushed peanuts. The first bite hit like a symphony: numbing, spicy, savory, slightly sweet. I took slow bites, sipping cold barley tea between mouthfuls. A local college student sitting beside me laughed and said, “You’re doing it right—eating slowly, respecting the heat.” That moment reminded me why I travel: not just to see, but to connect.

Saturday morning began early. I caught a local bus to the countryside village of Emeishan, about 40 minutes west, known less for tourism and more for its farming communities and traditional breakfast culture. By 7:30 AM, I found myself at a humble zaocan dian (breakfast shop) tucked beside a rice field. No menu—just a chalkboard in Chinese and a grandmother stirring giant pots of congee.

I ordered pao mo, a lesser-known dish where torn pieces of flatbread are soaked in a rich beef or mutton broth, often flavored with cilantro, pickled mustard greens, and a touch of vinegar. The owner, a woman named Auntie Wu, insisted I try hers with duck instead. “It’s our secret,” she winked. The broth was dark, fragrant, deeply spiced but not overwhelming. Each piece of bread had absorbed the liquid perfectly, soft yet chewy. I watched farmers in straw hats eat silently, dipping pickled radishes into soy sauce. There was dignity in the simplicity.

After breakfast, I hiked part of the lesser-trodden trails near Emei Mountain—not to the summit, but to a cluster of farmhouses offering homestay lunches. I joined a group of four locals for a midday meal prepared entirely over a wood fire. We had yuxiang qiezi (fish-fragrant eggplant), shuizhu roupian (boiled pork in chili broth), and a clay-pot tofu stew bubbling with doubanjiang (broad bean paste). The host, Mr. Chen, explained that “real Sichuan cooking isn’t just hot—it’s balanced. Sweet, sour, salty, numbing, umami—all dancing together.”

What struck me most was how food here is woven into rhythm of life. At no point did anyone treat me like a guest or a customer. I was just another person sharing a table, passing bowls, laughing when I mispronounced words. One older man taught me how to use chopsticks properly with slippery tofu (“Hold them like you’re holding a bird—firm but gentle”), and we all clapped when I finally got it.

Back in Chengdu by late afternoon, I stopped at a hole-in-the-wall mifan (rice shop) near Jinli Street. These small eateries serve set meals—usually a bowl of rice, one or two hot dishes, soup, and pickles—for around 15–20 RMB. I chose the braised pork belly with garlic greens and a side of sour cabbage soup. The rice was steamed in bamboo baskets, giving it a subtle earthy aroma. An elderly couple sat across from me, eating in comfortable silence. The owner, noticing my camera, waved me over and showed me her grandmother’s recipe book, handwritten in faded ink. “This,” she said, pointing to a page stained with oil, “is how we fed people during hard times. Now it feeds happiness.”

As I write this from my dorm room tonight, my stomach full and my feet tired, I think about how food travels through generations. In two days, I didn’t just eat—I listened. I learned that spice tolerance isn’t about bravery; it’s about trust. That a shared meal can be the quietest, most meaningful conversation. That the soul of a place often lives not in its landmarks, but in the steam rising from a noodle cart at dusk.

For fellow travelers: if you come to Sichuan, go beyond the熊猫基地 (panda base) and Kuanzhai Alley. Wake up early. Walk without GPS. Follow the smell of frying garlic and chili. Talk to the aunties behind the counters. Try the dish with the scary name. Carry tissues—both for your nose and for wiping happy tears.

And if you’re ever in Leshan or Emeishan, look for Auntie Li, Master Zhang, or Auntie Wu. Tell them Xiao Mei sent you—a tourism student with a big appetite and an open heart.

Until next month, when I head to Xi’an to chase the scent of cumin lamb buns and hand-pulled biangbiang noodles.

More adventures, more flavors, more stories waiting in every bite.

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