It’s just past 7 p.m., and I’m curled up in my dorm room after two days that tasted like chili oil, smelled like cumin and Sichuan peppercorns, and sounded like sizzling woks and the chatter of hungry locals. My clothes still carry the faint aroma of mapo tofu and grilled skewers—proof of a weekend well spent exploring the food soul of Chengdu and its surrounding towns. As a second-year tourism major who lives for weekend getaways, this trip was exactly what I needed: messy, flavorful, and deeply human.

I left campus early Saturday morning, catching a 7:15 intercity train from Chengdu East Station to Pengzhou—a small city about an hour northwest of Chengdu, known more for its quiet temples than its street food. But as I’ve learned over the past few months of self-guided culinary tours across China, the real flavors often hide in places tourists overlook. My goal? To eat like a local, follow my nose, and document not just what I ate, but how it felt—the heat on my tongue, the vendor’s smile, the way strangers became friends over shared tables.

By 8:40 a.m., I stepped off the train into crisp autumn air and walked ten minutes to Yimen Street, a narrow lane lined with century-old gray-brick houses now repurposed into family-run eateries. This is where breakfast culture thrives. The first thing I saw—and smelled—was a woman flipping golden jianbing (Chinese crepes) on a flat griddle, her hands moving with practiced speed. I ordered one with egg, crispy wonton skin, and a generous smear of spicy sauce. It cost 6 RMB. Simple? Yes. Memorable? Absolutely. The crunch gave way to softness, then a slow burn from chili oil that woke me up better than any coffee ever could.

But the real star of Yimen Street was a tiny shop called “Old Auntie’s Rice Noodles.” No signboard, just a red plastic stool marking the spot. Inside, steam fogged the windows, and five elderly women sat slurping bowls of dandan mian—Sichuan’s famous spicy-sesame noodles. I squeezed into a corner and ordered the same. The server handed me a small ceramic bowl filled with thin wheat noodles swimming in a rich, oily broth, topped with minced pork, pickled vegetables, and a dusting of crushed peanuts. I took my first bite… and immediately reached for water. The numbing heat of Sichuan peppercorn hit first, then the deep umami of fermented black beans, followed by a lingering spice that made my forehead sweat. But I kept eating. By the third spoonful, I wasn’t fighting the heat—I was embracing it. That’s when I realized: eating in Sichuan isn’t just about taste. It’s a ritual of endurance, of surrendering to flavor until your senses recalibrate.

After breakfast, I wandered through Pengzhou’s old market, where vendors sold dried mushrooms, fresh tofu skins, and jars of homemade chili paste labeled only with scribbled Chinese characters. I struck up a conversation with a farmer selling purple yams—he told me they’re used in sweet soups during winter. We laughed when I tried to pronounce the name correctly (he patiently repeated it three times). These small exchanges are why I travel: not just for photos or blog content, but for moments of connection that transcend language.

By noon, I hopped on a local bus (cost: 2 RMB) to nearby Longmen Town, nestled at the edge of the mountains. Here, I found “Family Kitchen,” a homestyle Sichuan restaurant run by a couple in their 50s. Their daughter translated for us when I asked about the menu. I ordered shuizhu niurou (boiled beef in chili broth), kong xin cai (stir-fried water spinach), and a clay pot of steamed rice. The beef arrived bubbling in a sea of red oil, flecked with white peppercorns and dried chilies. I dipped each slice carefully, letting just enough broth cling to it. The tenderness of the meat contrasted perfectly with the aggressive heat. My nose ran, my eyes watered, but I didn’t stop. Around me, families clinked chopsticks and shared dishes family-style—no portion control, just abundance.

Later, I learned a local secret: the best way to cool down after spicy food? Not milk or bread—but a cup of warm jasmine tea. The hostess brought me a small porcelain cup without asking. “It helps,” she said with a knowing smile. I sipped slowly, feeling the warmth spread through my chest, the spice mellowing into something almost soothing.

In the afternoon, I returned to Chengdu and headed straight to Kuanzhai Alley—not the touristy main lanes, but the back alleys behind them. There, tucked between laundry lines and parked e-bikes, I found a stall selling chuan chuan xiang, skewered meats and veggies cooked in a communal hotpot broth. For 3 RMB per stick, I picked lamb, tofu, lotus root, and quail eggs. The vendor dropped them into a boiling cauldron right in front of me, then handed them over with a side of dry spice dip. Standing on the sidewalk, balancing my phone, my drink, and three skewers, I felt utterly at home. A group of college kids next to me offered me a sip of their sugarcane juice. We didn’t share a language, but we shared hunger, heat, and happiness.

Dinner was at a hole-in-the-wall mifen (rice noodle) joint near Jinli Road. The place had no English name, just a hand-painted board. Inside, plastic stools, fluorescent lights, and a TV playing a 90s martial arts film. I ordered sour and spicy cold noodles—a Chengdu specialty served chilled despite the cold weather. The tangy vinegar cut through the oiliness, while garlic and chili flakes added punch. It was refreshing, bold, and somehow comforting. Total cost? 12 RMB.

Now, back in my room, I’m typing this with slightly swollen lips (thanks, chili oil) and a full heart. Over these two days, I spent less than 200 RMB on food—proof that authenticity doesn’t require luxury. What mattered was being present: watching how older men add extra vinegar to their soup, how children blow on hot dumplings before biting, how a simple “hao chi ma?” (“Is it delicious?”) can spark a ten-minute chat.

This month’s mission—to explore regional food cultures beyond the headlines—feels more urgent than ever. Next month, I’ll head to Xi’an for hand-pulled noodles and roujiamo, then possibly Guiyang for sour fish soup. But for now, Chengdu has reminded me why I do this: food is memory. It’s geography on a plate, history simmered in broth, community built around shared tables.

And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that the best meals aren’t found in guidebooks. They’re found in alleys with no signs, in smiles from strangers, in the courage to take one more bite—even when your mouth is on fire.

Until next time,
Mei
(Traveler, eater, storyteller)

P.S. For anyone planning a similar trip:

Take the high-speed train to satellite cities; it’s fast and cheap (around 30–50 RMB one way). Always carry tissues and hand sanitizer—street food is glorious, but napkins aren’t guaranteed. Learn three phrases: Zhè ge hǎo chī ma? (Is this delicious?), Duōshǎo qián? (How much?), and Xièxie! (Thank you!). Don’t fear the spice. Start slow, drink tea, and let your palate adapt. And most importantly: go with curiosity, not just appetite. The food will taste better that way.