I woke up this morning with the faint smell of Sichuan peppercorns still clinging to my jacket from yesterday — a quiet reminder that I’d just returned from a two-day food journey deep into the heart of Sichuan’s culinary soul. As a second-year tourism student who spends every weekend chasing authenticity through backstreets and village lanes, this trip was exactly what I needed: messy, flavorful, and deeply human.
Chengdu, of course, is famous. Everyone knows about its pandas, its tea houses, and yes — its spicy food. But what most travelers miss is how the real magic doesn’t happen in the glossy restaurants downtown, but in the damp alleyways behind old residential blocks, at roadside stalls where steam rises like morning prayers, and in family-run eateries where the chef remembers your order after one visit.
So last Friday, after my last class on hospitality management, I packed my camera, a small notebook, and my bravest tastebuds, and headed out on a self-guided mission: explore two lesser-known towns within two hours of Chengdu, focusing only on local food culture — no tourist traps, no Instagram-bait spots. Just real people, real meals, and real stories.
Day One: Huanglongxi — Where Time Stalls and Noodles Dance
The first stop was Huanglongxi Ancient Town, about 40 kilometers south of Chengdu. It’s technically “ancient,” though honestly, parts of it feel reconstructed for weekend visitors. But if you walk past the souvenir shops selling panda keychains and turn left at the stone bridge, you’ll find something else entirely: a living community where grandmas fry dough in woks over open flames and delivery drivers stop mid-ride for a bowl of dan dan mian.
I arrived around 11 a.m., just as the morning fog lifted. The air was cool, slightly humid, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and chili oil. My first stop? A tiny stall tucked under a red awning, run by a woman named Auntie Li, who’s been making zhongshui dumplings (钟水饺) here for over 30 years. These aren’t your typical dumplings — they’re smaller, served without broth, drenched in a glossy sauce made from fermented broad bean paste, garlic water, and a touch of sugar. The heat creeps up slowly, not in your mouth, but in the back of your throat — a signature Sichuan whisper before the firestorm.
She charges 12 RMB for a serving of ten. I ate two. And yes, I cried — partly from spice, mostly from joy.
After lunch, I wandered deeper into the old quarter, where the narrow lanes slope gently toward the river. There’s a little-known spot called Lao Ma’s Rice Noodles, hidden behind a temple courtyard. This place doesn’t have a sign. You know it by the line of locals waiting outside every noon. Ma’am Lao cooks everything herself — from marinating the pork belly to hand-pulling the rice noodles. Her specialty? Za Jiang Mian, but not the kind you’ve had in Beijing or Shanghai. Hers uses a slow-cooked minced pork sauce simmered with doubanjiang (broad bean paste), star anise, and a splash of Shaoxing wine. The noodles are chewy, slightly uneven — clearly handmade — and when you mix in the pickled long beans and crushed peanuts, it becomes something transcendent.
Cost? 15 RMB. Worth every penny.
I spent the afternoon photographing street vendors — an old man roasting sweet potatoes in a metal drum, kids sharing a stick of chuanr (spicy lamb skewers), a blind musician playing erhu near the bridge. In the golden hour, I sat by the river with a cup of jasmine tea from a floating teahouse, watching laundry sway between balconies like flags of everyday life.
Dinner was at a homestay-turned-cafe called Yiwei Tang. The owner, a former chef from Chengdu’s Fine Dining Association, quit his job five years ago to return home. He serves only three dishes per night, based on seasonal ingredients from nearby farms. Last night: braised duck feet in chili oil, stir-fried fiddlehead ferns with garlic, and steamed glutinous rice cakes wrapped in lotus leaves. I paid 68 RMB, including homemade plum wine. We talked about food memory, how certain flavors can teleport you back to childhood. He said, “In Sichuan, we don’t eat to fill our stomachs. We eat to remember who we are.”
Day Two: Qionglai — Mountains, Monasteries, and the Best Mapo Tofu I’ve Ever Had
At 7 a.m., I boarded a regional bus to Qionglai, a county-level city nestled at the edge of the Western Hills. It takes about 90 minutes from Chengdu’s Xinnanmen Bus Station — cost: 23 RMB one way. Few tourists go there, which is exactly why I did.
Qionglai is known for two things: its ancient Buddhist temples and its obsession with tofu. Yes, tofu. Because of the pure mountain spring water, the soybeans here produce the silkiest, creamiest tofu in Sichuan — so delicate it trembles when you breathe on it.
My destination: Xinghua Village, a farming community near Mount Pingle. I arrived around 9:30 and was greeted by Xiao Chen, a young farmer who runs a small eco-tourism guesthouse and offers tofu-making workshops. For 80 RMB, he taught me how to grind soaked soybeans, strain the pulp, boil the milk, and coagulate it using natural gypsum. The process took two hours, but the result — warm, fresh tofu dipped in chili-oil sauce — was unlike anything I’ve tasted. So soft, so rich, it melted like butter on my tongue.
But the real highlight came later.
At noon, Xiao Chen took me to a roadside restaurant called Ah Ping’s Kitchen. No website. No English menu. Just a chalkboard in Chinese and a kitchen window where you can see the wok flying. Ah Ping, a round-faced woman in her fifties, has been cooking here for 27 years. Her mapo tofu is legendary in the village.
Now, I’ve had mapo tofu in Chengdu, Chongqing, even New York. But hers? It’s different. She uses fresh red chilies instead of dried, giving the dish a brighter, fruitier heat. The tofu is cut large, almost rustic, and she adds a spoonful of fermented black beans for depth. Most importantly, she fries the minced pork until it’s crispy, creating little bursts of texture in every bite. And the Sichuan peppercorns? Toasted just before serving, so the málà (numbing-spicy) sensation dances across your palate like a sparkler.
I ordered it with a side of kong xin cai (water spinach) stir-fried with garlic, and a bowl of steamed white rice. Total: 38 RMB.
As I ate, an elderly couple at the next table offered me a piece of laba garlic — pickled during the Lunar New Year. We couldn’t speak much, but we laughed over shared plates and refilled tea cups. That’s the thing about food here — it’s never just fuel. It’s conversation. It’s connection.
In the afternoon, I visited Pingle Ancient Town, quieter than Huanglongxi, with fewer crowds and more original architecture. I walked along the Baishui River, crossed wooden bridges, and stopped at a century-old teahouse where old men played mahjong and sipped Mengding Ganlu, a delicate green tea from the nearby mountains. I didn’t buy souvenirs. Instead, I bought a bamboo cup from a street vendor — 5 RMB — and drank river-water-boiled tea from it, feeling oddly ceremonial.
By 5 p.m., I was back on the bus to Chengdu, sleepy, full, and deeply content.
Reflections & Practical Tips for Fellow Travelers
This trip reminded me why I chose tourism — not for the resorts or cruise ships, but for moments like these: a grandmother handing you an extra dumpling “because you look hungry,” a chef explaining how his mother taught him to balance flavors, a landscape where food grows from the same soil as tradition.
If you’re planning a similar food-focused short trip from Chengdu, here’s what I learned:
Best time to go: Late fall to early winter (November–December). The weather is cool, perfect for spicy food, and harvest season means fresh tofu, mushrooms, and preserved vegetables.Transportation: Buses are reliable and cheap. Use the Chengdu Tourism App (available in English) to check schedules. Always arrive 30 mins early — buses leave on time.Budget: You can eat incredibly well for under 100 RMB/day if you stick to local spots. Save splurges for one special meal.Must-try foods:Zhongshui dumplings (Huanglongxi)Za Jiang Mian with handmade noodlesFreshly made tofu with chili dipAuthentic Mapo Tofu (look for places that make their own tofu)Chuanr (skewers) — try chicken hearts and quail eggsPro tip: Carry cash. Many small vendors don’t accept digital payments, especially in villages.Language: Learn four phrases:“Kěyǐ cài biàn ma?” (Can I see the menu?)
“Zhè ge hěn hǎochī” (This is delicious)
“Duōshǎo qián?” (How much?)
“Xièxie!” (Thank you!)
As I write this, sitting in my dorm room with my camera battery charging and my notebook open, I feel grounded. Not because I traveled far, but because I went deep. Two days. Two towns. Dozens of flavors. Hundreds of smiles.
Next month? I’m thinking Fujian — coastal villages, oyster omelets, and Hakka traditions. But tonight, I’m dreaming of chili oil, glistening under a Sichuan sun.
Until the next bite,
— Mei, a traveler with sauce on her fingers