Today is quiet. The kind of quiet that settles in after two days packed with noise, flavor, and just a little too much chili oil on my fingers. I’m sitting by the window in my dorm room, sunlight creeping through the half-drawn blinds, warming the notebook on my lap. My throat still tingles faintly from yesterday’s mala hotpot, and my camera roll? Overflowing with photos of steaming baskets, wrinkled-faced aunties flipping jianbing, and alleyways so narrow I had to turn sideways.

This weekend was all about food—real, unfiltered, street-level Sichuan cuisine. As a tourism student based in Chengdu, I’ve come to realize that the soul of this city doesn’t live in its museums or tourist brochures. It lives in the sizzle of pork belly hitting a hot griddle, in the clatter of metal chopsticks against ceramic bowls, and in the way strangers nod at each other over shared tables at 8 a.m., already halfway through their third dumpling.

I left campus early Saturday morning, catching a high-speed train from Chengdu East Station to Leshan—just 45 minutes away, but culturally and culinarily, it feels like stepping into a different corner of Sichuan’s vast culinary universe. Leshan is famous for its giant Buddha, yes, but what drew me wasn’t stone—it was stewed beef.

By 9:30 a.m., I was wandering through Fuxi Old Street, where fog hung low between tiled rooftops and the air smelled of star anise and charred meat. Every few steps, smoke curled from tiny stalls: one woman hand-pulling noodles into boiling water, another frying rousa (meat buns) until their skins blistered gold. But I saved my appetite for the main event: Leshan Tuo Tuo Rou, or “chunk beef.”

I followed the line snaking out of Lao A Ba Tuo Tuo Rou, a no-frills shop tucked behind a temple gate. Inside, cauldrons bubbled with dark broth—beef chunks slow-cooked with dried tangerine peel, licorice root, and enough Sichuan peppercorns to make your lips dance. The dish arrived in a shallow bowl, meat falling off the bone, swimming in glossy, rust-colored gravy. I used toothpicks to grab pieces (locals never use chopsticks here—it’s tradition), dipping each bite into a side dish of dry spice mix: salt, chili flakes, cumin, and crushed peanuts. One bite, then another. My nose ran. I didn’t care. This was food as ritual, messy and deeply satisfying.

After lunch, I took a local bus to Dafengding, a quieter neighborhood known for its breakfast culture. There, in a courtyard shaded by persimmon trees, I found a family-run spot serving zhongshui jiaozi—boiled dumplings with a twist. Instead of pork, they used minced river fish mixed with ginger and chives. Delicate, slightly sweet, and served in a soy-vinegar broth with a float of red oil, they were unlike any dumplings I’d tasted. The owner, a woman in her 60s named Auntie Li, told me she’s made them every morning for 38 years. “The secret,” she said, handing me extra chili crisp, “is cold water dough and warm hands.” I believe her.

Back in Chengdu by evening, I headed straight to Jianshe Road Food Street, a neon-lit artery pulsing with hungry students and night owls. If Leshan was about depth, Jianshe Road was about variety—and volume. I started with dan dan mian from a stall near the entrance. Authentic version: not soupy, but a tangle of thin noodles tossed in a paste of fermented black beans, minced pork, peanut powder, and chili oil. It coats every strand. Spicy? Yes. But balanced—the numbing heat builds slowly, letting you taste the funk and umami first.

Then came congyou bing (scallion pancakes) folded around molten cheese and sliced sausage—modern fusion, but delicious. And chuan’er, skewers grilled over charcoal and doused in cumin-chili rub. I tried rabbit kidney (gamey, intense), chicken hearts (tender, smoky), and tofu skin wrapped around leeks. Each skewer cost 2 RMB. I spent less than 30 RMB total on dinner. Unreal.

But the real revelation came late—at Chen Mapo Tofu, not the famous restaurant, but a hole-in-the-wall near Tongzilin subway station recommended by a classmate. At 9 p.m., the place was packed. I ordered mapo tofu for one, expecting the usual. What arrived was transformative: silken tofu floating in a lava-like sauce, studded with glistening bits of ground pork, fermented broad bean paste (doubanjiang), and a blizzard of ground Sichuan pepper. The heat didn’t burn—it cascaded. First warmth, then buzz, then full-body numbness. I ate it with a bowl of plain rice, letting each spoonful reset my palate. The chef, a man with forearms like cured ham, nodded when I finished. “Good,” he said. “You survived.”

Sunday began gently. I slept in, then met up with a fellow travel blogger at Wangjianglou Park, where we joined locals doing tai chi under bamboo groves. Afterward, we hunted down zhongba, a lesser-known Chengdu breakfast: steamed buns filled with red-braised pork, pickled vegetables, and a soft-boiled egg. Found at a cart near Renmin South Road, these zhongba are heavy, juicy, and wrapped in wax paper that soaks up the grease. We ate standing up, laughing as yolk dripped onto our gloves.

In the afternoon, I visited Huaxi Farmer’s Market, not for sightseeing, but to understand ingredients. I watched vendors stack pyramids of dried chilies, bundle fresh fava leaves, and slice pig intestines with surgical precision. I bought a small jar of homemade doubanjiang from an old woman who insisted I try it with steamed bread. “This,” she said, tapping the jar, “is how we remember our mothers.”

As dusk fell, I sat on a bench near Jinjiang River, reviewing my notes. Over two days, I traveled less than 150 kilometers, yet tasted worlds. I learned that Sichuan food isn’t just “spicy”—it’s layered, emotional, rooted in geography and memory. The peppercorns from Emei Mountain, the river fish from Minjiang, the slow fermentation of winter vegetables—all tell stories.

For travelers coming to Chengdu, here’s my advice:

Go early: The best street food disappears by noon. Carry cash: Many small vendors don’t take digital payments. Embrace discomfort: Let your mouth tingle. Drink barley tea. Keep eating. Ask locals: Point, smile, say “Rè de ma?” (“Is it spicy?”). They’ll guide you.

Total spent: ~280 RMB for two days, including train fare. Not bad for a feast that fed both body and curiosity.

Now, as I close this journal, I feel full—not just from food, but from connection. From watching a grandmother teach her grandson to fold dumplings. From sharing a table with strangers who passed me extra vinegar. From the way a simple bowl of noodles can feel like home, even when you’re miles from yours.

Next month: Guiyang. I hear the sour soup fish will break my heart (and maybe my stomach). But I’m ready.

Until then, I’ll dream of chili oil and the sound of woks singing in the dark.