Today was one of those days that started slow but ended with my taste buds still buzzing at midnight. I’m sitting in my dorm room now, peeling off my socks—still faintly smelling of chili oil—and trying to capture the whirlwind that was this weekend’s food pilgrimage through Chengdu and its surrounding towns. As a second-year tourism student who lives for weekend getaways, I’ve come to realize that the soul of a place isn’t always found in its landmarks, but in the way people eat, argue over spice levels, and share steaming bowls on plastic stools under neon lights.

This month’s theme? Sichuan comfort food beyond the postcard. No panda bases, no tea houses with performers spitting fire (though that’s cool too). Just noodles, rice, pickles, and the kind of dishes grandmas make when they’re not trying to impress anyone—just feed you well.

We left campus early Saturday morning, taking the high-speed train from Chengdu East Station to Leshan—a city about an hour away, nestled where the Minjiang, Dadu, and Qingyi rivers converge. Most tourists go there for the giant Buddha carved into the cliffside, but I went for something quieter: breakfast at Lao Cheng Ji (Old Town Family), a tiny shop tucked behind a wet market known for its dandan mian with extra numbing pepper and a side of fermented mustard greens.

The moment I stepped in, the air hit me like a warm slap—smoky, sour, layered with cumin and the unmistakable tingle of huājiāo. The owner, a woman in her 60s named Auntie Li, didn’t speak much English, but she understood hunger. She handed me a bowl before I even ordered. “Chī ba, nóng de,” she said—“Eat, strong flavor.” And it was. The minced pork was caramelized at the edges, swimming in a glossy sauce made from fermented broad bean paste, sesame paste, and a splash of dark vinegar. The noodles were hand-pulled, slightly chewy, perfect for clinging to every drop. I added a spoonful of homemade chili crisp from the jar on the table—crunchy with fried garlic and Sichuan peppercorns that danced on my tongue like tiny electric frogs.

Cost? 12 RMB. Less than two dollars. I nearly cried.

After breakfast, I wandered through Leshan’s old streets, snapping photos of wrinkled aunties selling zhongshui bing—flat, griddled cakes stuffed with scallions and lard—and kids slurping bingfen, a jelly-like dessert made from liana root, served with sweet syrup and crushed peanuts. There’s something poetic about watching life unfold around food stalls: the rhythm of flipping pancakes, the hiss of oil, the bargaining over price, the shared laughter when someone takes a bite too spicy.

Back in Chengdu by noon, I met up with Lin, a local food blogger who agreed to guide me through Jinli Street and Kuanzhai Alley—but with a twist. “Don’t go to the main entrances,” he warned. “Tourists flock there. The real eats are in the alleys behind, where delivery drivers eat.”

And he was right.

We ducked into a narrow lane off Kuanzhai and found Xiao Wang’s Rice Pot, a hole-in-the-wall serving dòu huā fàn—silken tofu served over rice with a fiery red sauce. The dish looked simple, almost humble, but the sauce? A masterpiece. Ground pork simmered with doubanjiang (broad bean paste), infused with star anise and black pepper, then finished with a drizzle of chili oil and chopped coriander. The tofu melted into the rice, creating a creamy, savory base that somehow cooled the heat just enough to keep eating. I topped it with pickled long beans for crunch. Total damage: 15 RMB.

“What makes it special?” I asked Lin between bites.

“It’s not fancy,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “But it’s consistent. Same recipe for 30 years. The owner wakes up at 4 a.m. to fry the chili oil fresh. That’s love.”

Later that evening, we took a short bus ride to Pixian County—yes, that Pixian, home of the legendary Pixian broad bean chili paste. I visited a small family-run workshop where they still ferment the beans in clay jars under the sun. The smell was pungent, earthy, alive. Rows of earthenware pots sat in neat lines, covered with straw hats to protect them from rain. An elderly man stirred a vat with a wooden paddle, explaining (through a translator) that each batch ferments for at least six months. “No shortcuts,” he said. “Good flavor needs time.”

I bought a small jar to take home—80 RMB for 500 grams. Worth every penny.

Sunday was reserved for Chengdu’s night markets, and I started with Shuimo Ancient Town, a restored riverside village about 40 minutes from the city center. It’s touristy, yes, but wander past the souvenir shops and you’ll find gems: skewers of chuanr (spicy grilled meat) marinated in cumin and chili, tangyou baba—sweet glutinous rice cakes brushed with honey and toasted over coals—and hémá táng—sesame candy pulled by hand until golden and airy.

But the highlight? Guokui from an old man named Uncle Chen. His stall had no sign, just a cart with a red cloth that read “30 years making bread.” His guokui—a flatbread stuffed with minced beef, Sichuan pepper, and scallions—was baked in a clay oven fueled by pine branches. The crust cracked open with a satisfying snap, revealing a fragrant, flaky interior. He handed me one wrapped in paper. “Rè de hǎochī,” he said. “Hot is best.” He was right. I ate it standing by the river, watching mist rise off the water as temple bells rang in the distance.

By Sunday night, I returned to Chengdu starving again—because how can you stop eating here? I ended at Yulin Night Market, a chaotic strip of food carts and plastic tables where locals gather after work. I tried maocai—a poor man’s hot pot, where you choose vegetables, tofu, and meats, then they’re boiled in a communal spicy broth and served over rice. I picked lotus root, wood ear mushrooms, fish balls, and a slice of pork belly. The broth was thick with chili and numbing pepper, the rice soaked it up perfectly. I washed it down with a cup of suanmeitang—plum juice drink—sweet, tart, and icy cold. Balance restored.

Total spent over two days: around 350 RMB (~$50), including transport and food. Not bad for five full meals and countless snacks.

What struck me most wasn’t just the flavor—but the generosity. The way Auntie Li gave me free dandan mian, how Uncle Chen insisted I take an extra guokui “for the road,” how Lin refused to let me pay for maocai. In Sichuan, food isn’t transactional. It’s care. It’s connection.

As I write this, my stomach is full, my camera roll overflowing, and my heart already planning next month’s trip—Hunan, maybe, or Fujian. But for now, I’m savoring the echo of spice, the memory of steam rising from a rice pot at dawn, and the quiet joy of being fed by strangers who feel like family.

If you ever come to Chengdu, skip the guidebooks for a few hours. Walk past the crowds. Follow the smell of frying garlic and cumin. Sit on a tiny stool. Point at what the locals are eating. Say “wǒ yě yào yí fèn”—“I’ll have one too.”

You won’t regret it.

Until next journey,
Mei
Chengdu, 2025.12.17