Today started with the kind of cold that only January in Chengdu knows—damp, quiet, and clinging to your bones like a persistent memory. I woke up wrapped in two layers of blankets, my breath faintly visible in the dim morning light filtering through the curtains of my tiny rented apartment near Wuhou Temple. It’s been four days since I returned from last month’s trip to Harbin, where ice sculptures glittered under neon lights and hot red bean soup was the only thing keeping me sane. Now, back in this slow-paced city of tea houses, spicy aromas, and lazy alleyways, I’m already planning my next escape—but not before diving deep into what Chengdu does best: food.

This weekend, I’m embarking on a two-day culinary journey across Chengdu’s lesser-known neighborhoods and surrounding towns, focusing entirely on local eats. No fancy restaurants, no Instagram-bait spots—just real people, real kitchens, and real flavor. My goal? To map out an honest, practical guide to Sichuan’s soul through its street food, family-run rice shops, and the way locals actually eat their mala (numb-spicy) dishes without flinching.

I began today with research, as any self-respecting food traveler must. Over a cup of strong jasmine tea at a corner stall run by an elderly couple who’ve been serving the same brew since 1987 (so they claim), I pored over maps and scribbled notes. The plan for tomorrow: head west to Dujiangyan in the morning, spend the afternoon in Qingchengshan Town, then return via Pengzhou for a late-night snack crawl. Saturday will be dedicated to Chengdu’s hidden alleys—those narrow lanes behind Kuanzhai Xiangzi where tourists rarely wander but where the scent of cumin and chili oil hangs thick in the air.

But let me tell you about something small yet unforgettable from today—a moment that reminded me why I do this.

Around noon, I wandered into a tucked-away market off Renmin Nanlu, one of those places Google Maps barely acknowledges. There were no signs in English, just handwritten boards in bold Sichuanese script: “Hot Dumplings,” “Pickled Vegetables,” “Fresh Noodles Made Daily.” I followed the smell of frying dough and found myself standing in front of a woman named Auntie Liu, who runs a stall called Yi Wan Hóng Shāo Ròu Miàn—“One Bowl of Braised Pork Noodles.”

Her setup is simple: a wok balanced on a gas burner, a wooden counter stained with years of soy sauce drips, and a chalkboard with prices written in shaky numbers. A single red lantern sways above her head. She’s been making these noodles every day for 32 years, she told me between stirring the bubbling broth. “The pork has to simmer overnight,” she said, lifting the lid to reveal tender chunks glistening in a dark, fragrant sauce made with star anise, ginger, rock sugar, and aged soy. “If it’s less than ten hours, it’s not right.”

I ordered a bowl. ¥12. That’s less than $2. And honestly? One of the best meals I’ve had all month.

The noodles were hand-pulled, slightly chewy, perfect for holding onto the rich gravy. The pork melted at the touch of my tongue, fatty but not greasy, deeply spiced but not overwhelming. On the side came a small dish of pickled mustard greens—crisp, sour, cutting through the richness like a cool breeze. I ate slowly, watching neighbors come and go, some grabbing takeout, others squatting on plastic stools just like me, slurping loudly, nodding at Auntie Liu in silent respect.

As I finished, she handed me a free cup of warm barley tea. “You’re young,” she said, smiling. “Eat well now, or your stomach won’t forgive you later.” I laughed, thanked her, and left feeling oddly seen—not as a tourist, not as a student, but as someone who understands that food isn’t just fuel. It’s history. It’s care. It’s love passed down in recipes scribbled on napkins and gestures learned over decades.

Later, I took the subway to Jinli Road, partly for photos, partly to test another theory: how much of Chengdu’s “famous” food scene holds up under closer inspection. The answer? Mixed. Yes, the lanterns are beautiful at dusk, casting golden glows over cobblestone paths. Yes, the smell of dan dan mian and chuan chuan xiang (spicy skewers) fills the air. But prices are inflated—¥35 for a bowl of noodles that tasted like reheated instant ramen with chili oil splashed on top. And most vendors clearly cater to camera-toting crowds, not locals.

Still, I found gems. A little man selling zhong shui jiao—steamed dumplings filled with pork and spring onion—at ¥2 apiece. He wraps them so fast his hands blur. I bought six, sat on a low wall, and watched performers in traditional costumes dance for tips. The dumplings were delicate, the skin thin but sturdy, the filling juicy. Paired with black vinegar and fresh garlic, they were simple perfection.

Tomorrow’s itinerary is tight but exciting. I’ll take an early high-speed train to Dujiangyan (about 30 minutes, ¥15), known not just for its ancient irrigation system but also for a specific type of cong you bing—scallion pancake—that’s layered, crispy, and brushed with sesame paste. Locals say the best is sold near the east gate of the old town by a man who only opens when it rains. Today was sunny. But tomorrow’s forecast? Light drizzle. Fingers crossed.

From there, I’ll hike part of the trail toward Qingchengshan, China’s birthplace of Taoism, and stop at a family-run farmhouse restaurant for lunch. They serve la ba yu—cured river fish stewed with wild peppers—and homemade tofu made from mountain spring water. Reservations aren’t taken; you show up, sit, and eat what’s ready. I’ve packed extra napkins and a portable warmer for my phone—the mountain trails have spotty signal.

Back in Chengdu Saturday evening, I’ll hit Jiuyanqiao Night Market, where students and night owls gather for huo guo (hot pot) snacks, roujiamo (Sichuan-style meat sandwiches), and bing fen (a jelly-like dessert made from fern starch, served cold with sweet syrup). I’ve heard there’s a vendor who makes suan la fen—spicy cold rice noodles—exactly how my host sister in Xi’an used to make them. If I find her, I might just cry.

Practical tips so far:

Best time to eat street food: 6:30–8:30 PM. That’s when stalls are fully stocked and flavors peak.Transportation: Use DiDi (China’s Uber) for short trips, but metro + walking is ideal for exploring markets.Cash still matters: While WeChat Pay dominates, smaller vendors often prefer cash. Carry ¥50–100 in small bills.Spice tolerance? Ask for “wei la” (slightly spicy) if you’re new to Sichuan heat. “Zhong la” (medium spicy) can be brutal.Bring wet wipes. Trust me. Chili oil gets everywhere.

As I write this, curled up on my couch with leftover dumplings warming in the microwave, I feel grounded. Not just by the food, but by the rhythm of this city—the way life moves slower here, even amidst the chaos of traffic and construction. People linger over meals. They argue good-naturedly over whose mother makes better pickles. They share tables with strangers when seats are scarce.

That’s what I want to capture this weekend—not just a list of dishes, but the feeling of belonging, even if just for a few bites.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find that perfect bowl of mian that makes everything else fade away.

Until tomorrow,
Mei
Chengdu, 11:47 PM