Today began like any other Wednesday—my alarm buzzed at 6:30 a.m., the sky still wrapped in soft twilight. I had just finished my last class by noon, packed a small backpack with my camera, notebook, power bank, and a foldable raincoat (because you never know with Sichuan weather), and headed straight for the Chengdu East Railway Station. My destination? Leshan—a city only about an hour away by high-speed train, but worlds apart in flavor, rhythm, and soul.

Leshan is best known for its colossal Buddha carved into the cliffside overlooking the confluence of three rivers. But honestly? I came for the food. As someone studying hospitality and travel, I’ve learned that real culture doesn’t live in guidebooks—it lives in steaming bowls of dan dan noodles, in the sizzle of skewers on open grills, in the way grandmas shout orders across wet markets. And Leshan, tucked between misty hills and lazy rivers, serves up Sichuan cuisine not as performance, but as daily ritual.

The train ride was smooth—comfortable seats, decent Wi-Fi, and a view that slowly shifted from urban sprawl to green terraced fields. By 1:45 p.m., I stepped off the platform into a warm, slightly humid afternoon. The air smelled faintly of chili oil and river water. I took a local bus (¥2) to the heart of downtown, near Qincheng Ancient Street, where I’d read the real culinary magic happens.

My first stop: Wu Ma Jie Snack Street, a narrow lane lined with stalls that come alive around mid-afternoon. It wasn’t crowded yet—locals were still finishing lunch—but the energy was building. I spotted a tiny stall with a handwritten sign: “Tongjiang Tofu Pudding – Since 1983.” Curious, I ordered a bowl. What arrived was silky-smooth douhua (tofu pudding), served warm, topped with pickled vegetables, minced pork, a drizzle of red chili oil, and a sprinkle of crispy fried soybeans. The first spoonful hit me like a revelation—soft, savory, spicy, nutty, all at once. This isn’t dessert tofu; this is real people food. I paid ¥6 and felt guilty it wasn’t more.

As I wandered deeper into the street, the smells intensified—smoky cumin from grilled meats, tangy vinegar from cold noodle salads, the earthy scent of fermented black beans. I stopped at a family-run cart selling Leshan barbecue skewers. Unlike Chengdu’s sweeter marinades, here they use coarse salt, fresh chilies, and wood fire for a rustic, almost primal taste. I tried chicken hearts, beef tripe, and a local favorite—duck gizzards—all ¥2 per stick. The vendor, an older man with leathery hands and a proud grin, told me, “Eat slow. Let the spice wake your blood.” He wasn’t wrong. The heat built slowly, then exploded, tempered only by the cold bottle of Jianlibao soda I grabbed from a nearby shop.

By 4:30 p.m., I made my way toward the Giant Buddha area, partly for the views, but mostly because I’d heard of a hidden gem: Xiangtian Mi Fan Restaurant. Nestled behind a quiet temple path, this no-frills eatery has been serving mifan—rice porridge with side dishes—for over 50 years. Locals line up before dawn, but I managed to snag a seat at the back table.

Mifan might sound humble—just rice boiled down to a creamy consistency—but in Leshan, it’s elevated to art. I ordered the classic set: a bowl of warm porridge, plus six small plates—spicy preserved mustard greens, braised beef tendon, sour bamboo shoots, marinated tofu skin, pickled radish, and a fiery minced pork stir-fry. Total cost? ¥18. I sat on a wobbly plastic stool, surrounded by elderly couples and construction workers, all silently savoring their meals. There was no menu translation, no English signage—just food, shared in silence, respected in full. I ate slowly, letting each bite tell its story. The porridge soothed the earlier spice, while the sides offered bursts of umami, acid, and heat. It was comfort, memory, survival—all in one meal.

Afterward, I walked along the Min River, watching the late sun gild the face of the Giant Buddha. Tourists snapped photos, but I found myself drawn to the old men playing Chinese chess under banyan trees, the women folding laundry by the stone steps, the kids chasing pigeons with squeals. I took a few photos—not posed, not staged—just life unfolding.

Dinner was non-negotiable: Sichuan hot pot, but not in some fancy restaurant. I wanted authenticity. A local student I met on the train recommended Huangshidou Hot Pot, a hole-in-the-wall joint near the university district. No online booking, no English menu—just red lanterns, loud chatter, and the unmistakable aroma of simmering mala broth.

I sat at a communal table with four strangers—two medical students, a delivery guy, and a retired teacher. We pointed at ingredients: duck blood, lotus root, handmade fish balls, mountain mushrooms, and a plate of thinly sliced beef labeled “huang niu rou” (yellow ox, supposedly more tender). The broth arrived bubbling, dark red and fragrant with Sichuan peppercorns, dried chilies, and star anise. I dipped a piece of beef in—3 seconds—and swirled it in sesame sauce. The first bite was electric: numbing (ma), spicy (la), rich, deeply satisfying. The teacher laughed at my watering eyes and handed me a glass of suanmeitang (plum juice). “First time?” she asked. I nodded. “Good. Pain means you’re alive.”

By 9 p.m., I was stuffed, buzzing from chili and conversation, and utterly content. I walked back to the station under a sky scattered with stars—rare for Sichuan, where fog often lingers. On the train home, I jotted down notes:

Transport: High-speed train from Chengdu East to Leshan (~¥54 one way, 50 mins). Local buses cheap and frequent.Best eats:Wu Ma Jie Snack Street – go late afternoon for full experience.Xiangtian Mi Fan – mifan with side dishes, simple but unforgettable.Huangshidou Hot Pot – arrive early or share a table.Tips: Bring cash—many small vendors don’t take mobile pay if you’re foreign. Wear light layers; indoor spaces can be stuffy. Don’t fear the spice—ask for “wei la” (not spicy) if needed, but try to embrace the burn.Cost total: ~¥200 for the day, including transport, food, and a small souvenir (a jar of homemade chili crisp).

Back in my dorm now, feet tired, stomach full, heart lighter. This is why I study travel—not for luxury resorts or five-star tours, but for moments like today: a wrinkled hand handing me a skewer, a stranger sharing her dipping sauce, the silent understanding between eaters around a bubbling pot.

Next month, I’m thinking Yunnan—maybe Dali or Kunming. But tonight, I dream in chili and rice porridge. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.