It’s Saturday evening now, and I’m curled up on my hostel bed just off Kuanzhai Alley in Chengdu, sipping warm ginger tea to soothe my slightly overworked taste buds. My stomach is full—no, blessedly overwhelmed—and my camera roll is bursting with photos of steaming baskets, red-oil noodles, and wrinkled-faced grannies flipping dough in the cold winter air. Today was Day One of my two-day food pilgrimage through Chengdu and its surrounding towns, and if this is any indication, I may have already fallen a little in love with Sichuan cuisine all over again.

I arrived early this morning by high-speed train from my university town, which took just under an hour. The weather greeted me with that familiar Chengdu haze—thick, damp, and clinging—perfect for wrapping myself in a thick jacket and diving into bowls of hot soup. By 9:30 a.m., I was already wandering through Jinli Ancient Street, not because it’s the most “authentic” spot (truth be told, it’s quite touristy), but because it’s a great place to start the day with a visual feast of local snacks laid out like edible art.

My first stop? Zhong Dumplings (钟水饺). These aren’t your average dumplings. Tiny, delicate wrappers encase minced pork, drenched in a glossy sauce made from chili oil, garlic water, soy, and a whisper of sweet fermented black beans. The flavor hits you in waves—first savory, then spicy, then subtly sweet—and before I knew it, I’d polished off a plate of ten for just 12 RMB. Pro tip: ask for extra vinegar on the side. It cuts through the richness and wakes up your palate.

From Jinli, I hopped on the metro to Wangjianglou Park, not for the park itself (though it’s lovely), but for what lies just behind it: a quiet residential alley where locals line up every morning for Dan Dan Noodles (担担面) at a decades-old family stall. The vendor, Auntie Liu (as she introduced herself between slurps of her own lunch), has been making these noodles since 1987. Her version is smoky, nutty, and deeply aromatic—the minced pork fried crisp with Sichuan peppercorns crackling in the background like distant thunder. She serves it with a dusting of crushed peanuts and scallions. Cost? 10 RMB. Worth every single penny.

By noon, I was ready for something heartier. I took a 40-minute bus ride to Huangshui Town, about 30 km south of downtown Chengdu. Why go so far? Because this is where Chen Mapo Tofu (陈麻婆豆腐) began. Not the chain restaurants you see everywhere, but the original 1862 outpost, now run by the sixth generation of the Chen family. The building is unassuming—a narrow storefront with red lanterns—but inside, the air is thick with the scent of fermented broad bean paste and toasted chilies.

I ordered the classic mapo tofu, of course, but also tried their lesser-known twice-cooked pork (回锅肉) and a side of hand-pulled wheat noodles in clear broth. The tofu was silky, trembling on the spoon, swimming in a rust-red sauce that numbed my lips within seconds. That’s the magic of huājiāo—Sichuan peppercorn—not heat, but a buzzing, tingling sensation that makes your mouth feel alive. The pork was caramelized at the edges, tossed with leeks and fermented black beans. I ate it all with a bowl of jasmine rice for 28 RMB total. Humble ingredients, extraordinary execution.

After lunch, I wandered through the backstreets of Huangshui, where laundry hung between balconies and old men played mahjong under plastic awnings. I stumbled upon a tiny rice noodle shop tucked between a pharmacy and a bicycle repair stand. The sign read simply: “Old Li’s Breakfast.” No English, no menu board—just a chalkboard in Chinese. I pointed at what the man next to me was eating, and moments later, received a bowl of Sour Pepper Rice Noodles (酸辣粉). Transparent sweet potato noodles in a tangy, fiery broth, topped with pickled vegetables, crushed peanuts, and a spoonful of chili oil so fragrant it made my eyes water. I paid 8 RMB and left with a smile and a thumbs-up from Old Li himself.

Back in central Chengdu by late afternoon, I made my way to Shaocheng Road, a street slowly becoming known as the city’s new foodie haven. Unlike the flashy neon of Chunxi Road, Shaocheng feels lived-in, real. I stopped at Yi Jing Yuan, a century-old restaurant famous for its pork buns (川北凉粉包子)—steamed buns filled with spicy cold jelly noodles. Sounds strange? It’s genius. The contrast of soft bun and crunchy, vinegared noodles is addictive. I paired it with a cup of Sichuan-style milk tea, made with black tea, condensed milk, and a float of fresh cream—creamy, strong, and just sweet enough.

As dusk fell, I headed to Kuanzhai Alley (Wide and Narrow Alleys), not for dinner, but for atmosphere. While it’s undeniably commercialized, the architecture is stunning—restored Qing-dynasty courtyards lit with paper lanterns—and there are still hidden gems. I found one: a tiny stall called “Grandma’s Kitchen” where an elderly woman hand-presses potato cakes (狼牙土豆)—crispy on the outside, tender within, slathered in chili, cumin, and cilantro. I stood on the cobblestones eating them like popcorn, watching tourists take selfies and locals walk their dogs.

Dinner was saved for Chen’s Family Kitchen, a reservation-only home dining experience recommended by a fellow traveler last month. Located in a fifth-floor apartment in a nondescript building, it felt like being invited into someone’s home—which, essentially, it was. Mrs. Chen and her daughter cooked a five-course meal for six guests. We started with spicy rabbit head (yes, really—crack open the skull for tender meat inside, a true local delicacy), then moved to fish-flavored eggplant, kung pao chicken with real wok hei (breath of the wok), and ended with sweet glutinous rice balls in ginger syrup. The entire meal? 98 RMB per person. Unbelievable value.

Now, as I write this, my feet ache, my lips still tingle, and my soul feels nourished. This isn’t just about eating—it’s about connection. Every vendor I met today had a story. Auntie Liu remembers customers from 20 years ago. Old Li learned to cook from his mother, who sold noodles on a bicycle cart. Mrs. Chen cooks the same dishes her grandmother made during the Cultural Revolution.

Tomorrow, I’ll explore Dujiangyan or maybe Leshan for more regional flavors, but tonight, I’m content. Chengdu doesn’t shout; it whispers through steam and spice, through wrinkled hands shaping dough, through the clink of spoons against porcelain.

To anyone planning a food trip here: come hungry, come curious, and come ready to feel a little numb on the tongue. It’s all part of the journey.

Until tomorrow’s bites,
Mei Ling
(Traveler, eater, note-taker)