It’s late Tuesday night, and I’m curled up in my hostel bed in the heart of Chengdu, fingers still faintly smelling of chili oil and Sichuan peppercorns. My stomach is full (maybe too full), my camera roll is bursting with close-ups of steaming dumplings and foggy street corners, and my soul feels oddly at peace—like I’ve just been hugged by an entire city made of flavor.

Today marked the end of a whirlwind two-day food pilgrimage through Chengdu and its quieter neighbor, Dujiangyan. As a second-year hospitality and tourism student, I’ve come to realize that food isn’t just sustenance—it’s culture, history, emotion. And in Sichuan, it’s also a kind of language. One bite of dan dan mian, and you’re fluent in fire and numbness. One spoon of hong you chao shou (red oil wontons), and you understand joy tinged with pain.

I arrived Saturday morning on the high-speed train from Chongqing—a mere 70-minute ride, but enough time for me to down a cup of jasmine tea and mentally prepare for what was coming. The air in Chengdu was thick with winter mist and the unmistakable scent of fermented broad bean paste (doubanjiang) wafting from open kitchen windows. I dropped my bag at a cozy guesthouse near Kuanzhai Alley and headed straight for Wangji Street Snack Lane, a narrow, bustling alley tucked behind Renmin Park.

By 8 a.m., the street was already alive. Steam rose from bamboo steamers stacked like towers. Old women in aprons slapped dough into perfect circles for roujiamo (Chinese burgers), while men stirred massive woks of cumin-laced lamb skewers. I started with the basics:

Spicy Rabbit Head – Yes, rabbit head. I know it sounds intense, but it’s a local favorite. You crack open the skull, suck out the brain (rich, gelatinous, deeply savory), then pick at the cheek meat. It’s messy, it’s adventurous, and honestly? Delicious. About ¥15 for one, served cold with a side of chili oil. Not for the faint-hearted, but if you're here, you owe it to yourself to try. Dan Dan Mian – I had three versions that morning. The best came from a tiny stall run by a woman named Auntie Li, who told me she’s been making noodles since 1987. Hers had handmade thin noodles, a slick of red oil, minced pork, crushed peanuts, and a whisper of preserved mustard greens. The broth wasn’t soupy—just enough to coat each strand. Price: ¥12. Worth every penny. Zhongshui Dumplings – These aren’t your average dumplings. They’re plump, boiled pork dumplings drenched in a sauce so complex it should be studied in culinary schools: garlic water, soy, vinegar, sesame paste, and that signature Sichuan numbing spice. I ate six in one sitting. No regrets.

After stuffing myself silly, I wandered into Kuanzhai Xiangzi (Wide and Narrow Alleys), not for the overpriced souvenir shops, but for the hidden gems tucked between them. One such gem: Chen Mapo Tofu, a no-frills restaurant that’s been serving the iconic dish since the 1860s. Their version? Silken tofu swimming in a fiery, glossy sauce with ground beef, fermented black beans, and so much huājiāo (Sichuan pepper) that my lips were buzzing for 20 minutes afterward. ¥28 for a serving meant for two—but I managed most of it solo.

Saturday afternoon, I took a 40-minute train to Dujiangyan, a UNESCO World Heritage site famous for its ancient irrigation system. But I wasn’t there just for history—I was chasing a bowl of yúxiāng ròusī miàn (fish-fragrant shredded pork noodles). At a family-run shop near the old town gate, I found it: hand-pulled noodles in a sweet-savory-spicy sauce made with pickled vegetables, garlic, ginger, and chili. The “fish-fragrant” name comes from the traditional seasoning used in fish dishes, though there’s no fish involved. It’s comfort in a bowl. ¥10. I sat outside under a paper lantern, watching elderly locals play mahjong as the river murmured nearby.

Sunday began early with a visit to Jinli Ancient Street, touristy but still authentic at dawn. By 7 a.m., the vendors were setting up, and the smell of freshly fried you tiao (crispy dough sticks) filled the air. I dipped mine into a bowl of warm doujiang (soybean milk)—a simple, nourishing breakfast that costs less than ¥5.

Then came the highlight: lunch at Chen’s Family Kitchen, a small mǐ fàn diàn (rice restaurant) recommended by a local taxi driver. Hidden in a residential lane, it only opens from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. I ordered the twice-cooked pork with rice—thin slices of belly pork boiled, stir-fried with leeks and doubanjiang, served with pickled radish and a side of bitter melon soup. The rice was cooked in a clay pot, giving it a crispy bottom layer known as guōbā. Every bite was layered with texture and taste. Total cost: ¥35. I left with a doggy bag—and a promise to return next time I’m in town.

Before heading back to Chengdu, I stopped by the Dujiangyan Night Market just as it was lighting up. Here’s where I discovered spicy crayfish buns—steamed buns stuffed with tender crayfish tails in a spicy garlic sauce. ¥8 each. Addictive. Also tried bing fen (stone jelly), a summer dessert somehow still popular in winter, served with sour plum syrup and rose jam. Refreshing, floral, and weirdly perfect after all that heat.

Back in Chengdu on Sunday evening, I treated myself to hot pot at Haidilao, not because it’s fancy (though their free nail clipping and shoe shining are… something), but because I wanted to experience Sichuan hot pot the proper way. I went for the yuán yáng guō—half spicy red broth, half mild chicken broth. Dipped in: beef tripe, lotus root, enoki mushrooms, tofu skin, and handmade fish balls. The key? The dipping sauce. I mixed sesame oil, minced garlic, cilantro, and a splash of the mild broth. After two hours, my face was flushed, my nose running, but my heart was full. Cost: ¥128 with drinks. Worth it for the experience alone.

Now, as I sit here writing this, I’m reflecting on what makes Chengdu’s food scene so special. It’s not just the spice—it’s the care. The aunties who wake up at 4 a.m. to knead dough. The grandpas who stir pots for decades using the same wooden spoon. The way strangers offer you a taste of their street snack with a grin.

For fellow travelers planning a short food trip here:

Best time to visit: November to February. Less humidity, more depth in flavors. Transport: Use the metro (cheap, clean) or DiDi (Chinese Uber). Trains to nearby towns are efficient. Budget tip: Eat where locals eat—look for queues of office workers at noon. Avoid restaurants with English menus outside tourist zones. Must-try list: Dan dan mian, hong you chao shou, mapo tofu, yu xiang rou si, liang fen (cold starch noodles), and anything with huājiāo. Pace yourself: Sichuan food is intense. Balance spice with mild dishes like steamed fish or tofu soup.

This trip reminded me why I chose tourism. It’s not about ticking off cities—it’s about tasting lives. In two days, I didn’t just eat my way through Sichuan—I felt its heartbeat, heard its laughter, warmed my hands on its flames.

And tomorrow? I’ll rest. Maybe drink some chrysanthemum tea. But soon—very soon—I’ll be boarding another train, toward another city, another story waiting to be chewed, swallowed, and shared.

Until then, Chengdu, thank you. You fed more than my stomach. You fed my curiosity.

With full cheeks and a lighter heart,
Me.