Today began like any other Friday—cold winter air nipping at my cheeks as I stepped out of my dorm in the early morning light. But unlike most Fridays filled with lectures and library runs, this one carried a different kind of energy: anticipation. Today marked the beginning of my two-day culinary adventure into the heart of Sichuan cuisine, just beyond the bustling streets of Chengdu. As a second-year hospitality major who lives for weekend getaways, food has always been more than sustenance to me—it’s culture, memory, and connection. And there’s perhaps no place in China where that truth rings louder than here.

By 8:30 a.m., I was on a high-speed train from Chengdu East Station to Leshan, a historic city nestled where the Minjiang, Dadu, and Qingyi rivers converge. The ride took only about 50 minutes, costing just 54 RMB—one of the many reasons short trips in China remain so accessible and delightful. I had chosen Leshan not only for its famous Giant Buddha but also because it's quietly revered among locals as a haven for authentic, unpretentious Sichuan street food. If Chengdu is the flamboyant capital of spice, Leshan is its humble, deeply flavorful cousin who knows all the family recipes.

I arrived around 9:40 a.m., dropped my small backpack at a cozy guesthouse near the riverfront (booked through Xiaohongshu for 180 RMB/night), and immediately set off toward Jiufeng Town, a lesser-known district famed for its breakfast culture. Most tourists head straight to the Buddha; I headed straight to the steam rising from roadside stalls.

My first stop: dan dan mian done right. Not the watered-down version you sometimes find in malls, but the real deal—hand-pulled noodles tossed in a fiery mix of chili oil, fermented black beans, crushed peanuts, and a whisper of Sichuan peppercorn that made my lips tingle within seconds. The vendor, Auntie Li, has run this stall for over 20 years. “The secret?” she said with a wink. “Cook the minced pork slowly, and never skimp on the huajiao.” She charged me 8 RMB—a steal. I sat on a plastic stool by the curb, slurping loudly, watching motorbikes weave through narrow lanes. This, I thought, is travel at its purest.

From there, I wandered into a wet market bursting with color and scent—piles of dried chilies stacked like bricks, baskets of pickled vegetables glistening under fluorescent lights, and butchers hacking pork belly with rhythmic precision. I bought a congyoubing (scallion pancake) from an old man flipping dough over a wide iron griddle. Crispy outside, tender inside, smeared with a touch of soy and sesame—simple, soul-warming, and gone in three bites.

By noon, I took a local bus (2 RMB) back toward downtown Leshan and found myself at Xuyong Noodles, a tiny shop tucked behind a pharmacy. This place is legendary for one dish: dazuo rou mian—thick wheat noodles buried under a mountain of braised pork belly, stewed for hours in soy, star anise, and rock sugar. The meat melted like butter, rich but not greasy, with a deep umami depth that lingered long after I’d finished. Total cost? 15 RMB. I paired it with a cup of suanmeitang, the smoky-sweet plum drink that cuts through heaviness like nothing else.

After lunch, I finally visited the Leshan Giant Buddha. Standing at 71 meters tall, carved into a cliff face during the Tang Dynasty, it’s humbling in every sense. I chose not to climb down the zigzagging path (too many tourists, too much time), but instead took a short boat ride from the riverbank (30 RMB). Seeing the Buddha’s serene face rise above the misty water, framed by cypress trees, was worth every penny. I snapped a few photos—not just for Instagram, but to remember how small we are beneath history and nature.

Back on land, I hopped on another bus toward Wutongqiao District, known locally for its traditional mifan—rice porridge served with savory side dishes. At a century-old family-run spot called Old Zhang’s Morning Pot, I ordered the house special: slow-cooked rice porridge with preserved duck, pickled mustard greens, and a perfectly salted century egg. The texture was silky, almost creamy, and the contrast of flavors—salty, sour, earthy—was masterful. An elderly couple beside me chuckled as I reached for extra chili paste. “You’ve got the spirit,” the grandfather said in Mandarin. “Sichuan people don’t fear heat—we embrace it.”

As dusk fell, I returned to central Leshan and made my way to Zhanggong Bridge Food Street, a lively night market strung with red lanterns and buzzing with hungry crowds. Here, Sichuan’s famous xiaochi (snacks) come alive. I sampled bingfen—a jelly-like dessert made from liana root starch, served cold with vinegar, garlic, and chili (yes, sweet and savory collide deliciously). Then came chuan’er—skewers grilled over charcoal, everything from quail eggs to pig brain (I skipped that one), but I did try the rabbit kidney—gamey, spicy, oddly addictive.

But the highlight? Hongyou chashao bing—a flaky baked bun oozing with chili-lacquered char siu-style pork. It was messy, fiery, and utterly unforgettable. I ate it standing under a streetlamp, juice dripping down my fingers, laughing at how far I’d come from the cautious eater I once was.

Before heading back to my guesthouse, I stopped by a 24-hour tea house near the river, where retirees played mahjong and sipped jasmine tea. I joined them for a pot (10 RMB), soaking in the quiet end to a full day. One older woman asked what I was studying. When I said tourism, she smiled. “Then you must taste not just the food, but the hands that make it, the stories behind each bite.” Wise words.

Now, back in my room, feet sore and stomach happily full, I reflect. This trip wasn’t about ticking off landmarks. It was about immersion—about letting the rhythm of a place seep into your bones through its flavors, its people, its unscripted moments. Tomorrow, I’ll take a morning bus to Pengzhou, another hidden gem northwest of Chengdu, known for its hand-pulled lamian and farmhouse-style yu xiang dishes. I’ve already mapped out three spots based on local forum recommendations.

Traveling through China one province at a time, one bowl at a time—I’m learning that the best way to understand a culture isn’t from textbooks, but from sitting on a wobbly stool, sharing space with strangers, and saying “yes” to whatever comes steaming out of the kitchen.

And if my lips are still numb tomorrow? Well, that just means I did something right.

Until tomorrow’s first bite,
Mei 🌶️🍜