I woke up this morning to the kind of fog that only Chengdu knows how to wear—thick, soft, and slightly sweet with the scent of Sichuan peppercorns lingering from last night’s dinner. It was Saturday, the start of my two-day culinary escape into the heart of Sichuan cuisine, and I had no intention of rushing. My hostel in Wuhou District hummed quietly; the streets outside were still damp from an early drizzle, and the neon signs of nearby dan dan mian stalls flickered like sleepy fireflies.
This trip wasn’t about grand temples or scenic mountains (though those are never far in Sichuan). No, this was a pilgrimage of the palate. As a tourism student who’s grown obsessed with how food shapes local identity, I’ve made it my mission this year to explore one Chinese province per month through its street eats and home-style cooking. January is Sichuan’s turn—and Chengdu, its delicious, chaotic capital, is the perfect place to begin.
By 8:30 a.m., I was at Yulin Morning Market, tucked behind residential blocks near Tongzilin. Locals call it “the real breakfast battlefield,” and after today, I understand why. The air was thick with steam rising from bamboo baskets filled with zhongshui dumplings—plump pork parcels swimming in chili oil and fermented black beans. I watched an elderly vendor press each dumpling by hand, her fingers moving like clockwork. One basket cost just 12 RMB (~$1.70), and I devoured six in under three minutes, tears welling not from sadness, but from the slow, creeping burn of red oil meeting tongue.
Next stop: Wangji Smoked Duck on Yulin West Road. This isn’t your average smoked poultry joint. The duck here is marinated for 12 hours in a blend of star anise, cassia bark, and rock sugar before being slowly smoked over tea leaves and camphor wood. I bought a quarter-bird to go—crispy skin, tender meat, faintly sweet and deeply aromatic. The lady at the counter insisted I eat it cold, “like proper Sichuan people do.” So I did, standing under a bus stop awning, peeling meat off the bone with my fingers. Passersby nodded approvingly. Mission: assimilation, achieved.
By noon, I was deep in Kuanzhai Alley (Wide and Narrow Alleys)—but not for the touristy teahouses or souvenir shops. I ducked into a narrow side lane where a tiny stall called Lao Ma’s Rice Bowl operates out of what looks like someone’s former living room. This is where Chengdu locals come for midian—"rice restaurants" serving affordable, soul-warming plates. Lao Ma’s specialty? Hui guo rou (twice-cooked pork) over steamed jasmine rice, with a side of pickled mustard greens. The pork was sliced paper-thin, stir-fried with leeks and broad bean paste until caramelized at the edges. I paid 18 RMB (~$2.50) and felt like I’d been let in on a secret.
What struck me most wasn’t just the flavor—but the rhythm. At Lao Ma’s, people didn’t sit. They stood, ate quickly, chatted with the cook, and left their bowls on a ledge by the door. Efficiency with warmth. No waste, no pretense. That’s Chengdu dining in a nutshell.
After a short nap back at the hostel (necessary after chili-induced exhaustion), I set out for Jinli Street as dusk fell. Yes, it’s touristy. Yes, it’s crowded. But hear me out: Jinli, at night, becomes something else entirely—a pulsing artery of flavor and noise. I skipped the overpriced kung fu shows and headed straight for the back alleys where the real vendors operate.
Here’s what I tried:
Spicy Rabbit Heads from a stall run by a woman named Auntie Li. I hesitated—yes, rabbit heads—but she laughed and said, “The brain is the best part! And the ears—so crunchy!” With gloves and a mini hammer, I cracked open a head like a walnut. The meat around the jaw was rich and gamey, seasoned with cumin and dried chilies. Not for everyone, but unforgettable.Tangyuan (glutinous rice balls) in ginger syrup from an old man who’s been selling them here for 32 years. Warm, chewy, soothing—perfect after the spice assault.And then, the crown jewel: Chuan Chuan Xiang—a DIY skewer hot pot where you grab bamboo sticks loaded with tofu, beef, quail eggs, and lotus root, then dip them into a communal pot of bubbling, crimson broth. Mine cost 25 RMB for 20 sticks. The broth was so numbing (ma la) it felt like my lips were vibrating. I drank three bottles of sugarcane water to cool down.Between bites, I snapped photos—not just of food, but of moments: a little girl sharing a skewer with her grandfather, a delivery rider pausing to buy jianbing (savory crepes) for his shift, a group of college students laughing as one accidentally bit into a whole dried chili.
Sunday morning found me in Pengzhou, a 45-minute high-speed train ride from Chengdu East Station (26 RMB one way—ridiculously convenient). I’d read about Deng’s Family Kitchen, a countryside homestay-turned-restaurant serving ancestral Sichuan recipes. The building was a restored farmhouse surrounded by winter radish fields. Inside, long wooden tables sat beneath strings of drying chilies.
I ordered the Grandmother’s Mapo Tofu—not the greasy, oversauced version you get in malls, but a delicate balance of silken tofu, minced pork, and just enough doubanjiang (fermented broad bean paste) to sing, not shout. The chef, a woman in her 50s named Deng Mei, told me her recipe has been passed down for four generations. “Real Sichuan food isn’t just spicy,” she said, stirring a wok with one hand while holding her granddaughter’s drawing in the other. “It’s layered. It tells a story.”
For lunch, I shared a family-style meal with two other travelers—an Italian photographer and a Shanghai-based food blogger. We had yu xiang qie zi (fish-fragrant eggplant), kou shui ji (“mouth-watering chicken” in chili sauce), and sour cabbage fish soup so sour it made my eyes water—in the best way. Total cost: 98 RMB per person. Worth every cent.
As I boarded the train back to Chengdu, I jotted down notes for future travelers:
Practical Tips for a Chengdu Food Weekend:
Best Time to Visit: January is chilly (5–10°C), but perfect for hot pots and steaming bowls. Bring layers.Transport: Use Didi (China’s Uber) or the metro. Chengdu’s subway is clean, efficient, and English-friendly.Must-Try Streets: Yulin Road – Breakfast and local joints. Jinli Back Alleys – For adventurous eats without the front-street prices. Shu Feng Ya Yun Snack Street – Less known, more authentic than Chunxi Road.Budget: You can eat like a king for under 150 RMB/day if you stick to street food and midian.Pro Tip: Carry wet wipes, cash (some small vendors don’t take WeChat), and a smile. Pointing and miming works better than broken Mandarin sometimes.Back in my hostel, I uploaded my photos and reread my notes. Two days. Dozens of dishes. Hundreds of steps. My mouth still tingles from the ma la. But more than that, I feel full in a deeper way—full of stories, connections, and the quiet pride of having eaten like a local, not a tourist.
Chengdu doesn’t give up its secrets easily. But if you walk slowly, eat bravely, and listen to the sizzle of the wok, it will feed you—body and soul.
Until next month: Gansu Province, here I come. Let the lamb skewers be plentiful.