It’s New Year’s Day, and instead of fireworks or resolutions scribbled on paper, I woke up to the sound of bubbling broth and sizzling chili oil. There’s something deeply comforting about starting a new year in Chengdu—where time slows down just enough for you to taste it, one spicy bite at a time.

I arrived yesterday afternoon after a two-hour high-speed train ride from Chongqing, where I’d spent the last leg of my winter break hopping between hotpot alleys and mountain temples. Today marks the beginning of my monthly food pilgrimage—a personal mission to document authentic regional flavors across China, one province at a time. This month: Sichuan. Next month? Possibly Shaanxi or Fujian. But that’s a story for another day.

The plan for today and tomorrow is simple: dive into Chengdu’s soul through its street food, uncover hidden mifen (rice noodle) joints, and learn how locals truly eat their Sichuanese classics—not the watered-down versions served to tourists, but the real deal, drenched in huājiāo (Sichuan peppercorns) and red with làjiāo (chili flakes).

Morning: Wide and Narrow Alleys & the Art of the First Bite

I began the day early, around 8:30 AM, at Kuanzhai Xiangzi—the famed “Wide and Narrow Alleys.” Yes, it’s touristy. Yes, there are souvenir shops selling panda keychains every ten meters. But beneath the commercial surface lies something more genuine: breakfast culture.

Just off the main drag, tucked behind a line of tea houses, I found an unmarked stall run by an elderly woman named Auntie Li. Her hands moved like clockwork as she scooped fermented rice batter into metal trays, steamed them briefly, then sliced them into silky sheets. This was chángfěn, Chengdu-style rice rolls—soft, slightly tangy, topped with a dark soy-chili sauce, crushed peanuts, and scallions.

I sat on a plastic stool, knees nearly touching my chin, and took my first bite. The texture was delicate—like eating a warm cloud kissed by fire. The sauce brought heat, yes, but also depth: fermented black beans, garlic, a whisper of sugar. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was balanced. That’s the thing people misunderstand about Sichuan cuisine—it’s not just málà (numbing and spicy). It’s layered. It tells stories.

Auntie Li smiled when I asked if she’d been doing this long. “Thirty-two years,” she said. “Same spot, same recipe. My husband used to help, but now it’s just me. Young people don’t want to wake up at 5 a.m. for this.” I nodded. There’s honor in consistency.

Cost? 8 RMB (about $1.10 USD). Worth every penny.

Midday: The Hunt for Hidden Mifen in Wuhou District

After wandering through the quieter lanes of Wuhou Temple neighborhood—where laundry hung from balconies like festive banners and old men played mahjong under eucalyptus trees—I followed a local tip to a tiny shop called Lǎo Sì de Mǐfěn. No English sign. Just a red awning and a handwritten menu taped to the window.

Inside, two tables. Outside, three folding chairs. The owner, a man in his fifties with forearms stained from decades of broth, handed me a laminated sheet. Options: beef mifen, pork belly mifen, or “today’s special”—duck blood and tripe in sour-spicy broth.

I went for the special.

When the bowl arrived, it looked almost violent—deep crimson, floating with chili oil, speckled with white cubes of congealed duck blood and chewy strips of tripe. A tangle of fresh rice noodles sat beneath, waiting.

I stirred gently. The aroma hit me first—vinegary, pungent, alive. Then the first spoonful: sourness upfront, then heat creeping in, followed by the numbing tingle of Sichuan pepper. The tripe was perfectly tender, the duck blood soft like tofu. The noodles soaked up the broth beautifully.

An older couple at the next table chuckled as I reached for water after the third bite. “First time with suān là táng?” the woman asked. I admitted it was. She grinned. “You’ll build tolerance. Or die trying.”

We laughed. They offered me a small dish of pickled radish—crisp, sweet-sour—to cool the burn. I thanked them. This, I realized, is what travel is about: not just eating, but connecting.

Total cost: 15 RMB ($2.10). A steal.

Afternoon: The Tao of Dan Dan Noodles (and a Lesson in Humility)

By 2 PM, I was buzzing—not just from chilies, but curiosity. I’d read that true dàn dàn miàn isn’t just spicy noodles. It’s a ritual. So I sought out a cooking class in a residential compound near Jinli Road.

Run by a retired home economics teacher named Ms. Zhou, the session was small—only four of us, including a French exchange student and a couple from Guangzhou. We wore aprons, washed our hands, and gathered around a stainless steel counter.

Ms. Zhou didn’t use recipes. “Cooking is feeling,” she said. “Your eyes, your nose, your hands—they all know before your brain does.”

She demonstrated: toasting sesame seeds until golden, grinding them into paste. Making the chili oil—slowly heating oil, adding dried chilies, star anise, cinnamon, letting it steep. Mixing a base sauce with soy, vinegar, sugar, and that precious zhīmá jiàng (sesame paste).

Then the assembly: blanched wheat noodles in a bowl, a spoon of sauce, a drizzle of chili oil, crumbled Sichuan cured pork (yācài), chopped peanuts, scallions, a sprinkle of MSG (yes, she admitted it—“for umami, not shame”).

We cooked our own batches. Mine looked messy. The sauce was clumpy. The chili oil too heavy. But when I tasted it—oh. There it was. That elusive balance: savory, nutty, spicy, tangy, numbing. Not perfect, but honest.

“You’ll get better,” Ms. Zhou said, patting my shoulder. “Next time, less oil. More patience.”

Class fee: 120 RMB ($16.50). One of the best investments I’ve made.

Evening: Hotpot Under the Stars

New Year’s Eve had passed quietly, but tonight felt celebratory anyway. I met up with a friend from university, Lin, who grew up in Mianyang. He insisted we do Chengdu properly: with a proper hotpot.

We went to a no-frills spot near Taishengnan Road—open-air seating, metal tables bolted to the ground, giant woks bubbling with twin broths: clear chicken on one side, volcanic red málà on the other.

We ordered: sliced lamb, fish balls, lotus root, enoki mushrooms, tofu puffs, and—because Lin dared me—pig brain.

The broth arrived roaring. Within minutes, the air was thick with steam and spice. We dipped, boiled, waited the sacred 90 seconds, then tasted.

The lamb in the spicy broth was transcendent—rich fat melting into chili-infused liquid. The pig brain? Silky, custard-like, with no gaminess. It absorbed the broth like a sponge. I’m still processing how much I enjoyed it.

Between bites, we talked—about travel, school, the pressure of choosing careers. The heat from the pot warmed our faces. Strangers at nearby tables passed us extra napkins, shared platters of raw meat. Someone’s phone played old Cui Jian songs.

This is Chengdu hospitality: loud, generous, unpretentious.

Dinner came to 187 RMB per person ($26). Spent mostly on beer and extra servings of hand-pulled noodles at the end.

Reflections Before Bed

As I write this, curled up in my hostel near Chunxi Road, my lips still tingle. My notebook is smeared with chili oil. My camera roll overflows with close-ups of noodles, wrinkled vendor hands, alley cats eyeing dumplings.

Today reminded me why I travel this way—not for Instagram moments, but for texture. For the weight of a wooden spoon in a grandmother’s hand. For the way flavor can carry memory.

Chengdu doesn’t shout. It simmers. It lets you come to it.

And tomorrow? I hear there’s a village outside Dujiangyan where they make ròu dàn bāo (pork belly buns) in clay ovens fueled by orange peels. The line starts at 6 a.m.

I’ll be there.

Until then—Happy New Year. May your year be filled with bold flavors, unexpected kindness, and just enough spice to keep things interesting.