Today is quiet. The kind of quiet that feels earned after two days of nonstop walking, eating, photographing, and laughing with strangers over shared tables of chili-laced food. I’m sitting by the window in my dorm room at Chengdu University of Tourism, sipping warm jasmine tea, watching the morning fog drift lazily over the rooftops like steam from a giant pot of mapo tofu. My stomach is still full, my camera roll bursting, and my notebook—well, it’s practically falling apart from all the scribbles, sketches, and sauce-stained pages.

Yesterday and the day before, I took a short getaway to Leshan and then Zigong—two lesser-known but deeply flavorful cities just a few hours from Chengdu by high-speed rail. This month’s theme? Sichuan street food and the soul of everyday dining. No fancy restaurants. No Instagram traps. Just real people, real kitchens, and real hunger.

Let me take you back to Saturday morning.

I caught the 7:42 am train from Chengdu East Station to Leshan—a 45-minute ride through green hills and rivers that looked like brushed ink paintings. The ticket cost ¥52 one way. I packed light: my DSLR, a foldable umbrella (because November in Sichuan means sudden drizzles), and a reusable water bottle filled with ginger tea to balance out the spice I knew was coming.

Leshan is famous for its Giant Buddha, yes—but what really pulled me in was its reputation for dan dan mian that locals swear tastes nothing like the sweetened versions served in touristy parts of Chengdu. I skipped the temple queues and headed straight to Fuxi Old Street, a narrow lane tucked behind the market district where grandmothers fry you tiao at dawn and unmarked stalls serve bowls of noodles for under ¥10.

At a tiny shop called Old Li’s Noodles, I watched the owner hand-pull dough while his wife ladled a dark, glossy broth into chipped ceramic bowls. I ordered the house special: dandan mian with extra numbing spice. When it arrived, it looked simple—noodles, minced pork, pickled greens, a swirl of red oil, and crushed Sichuan peppercorns on top. But the first bite? Electric. That signature málà—the numbing heat—crept up slowly, then exploded into warmth behind my eyes. I gasped, then laughed, then took another bite. The woman running the counter saw me sweating and handed me a free cup of barley water. “First time?” she asked in Sichuan dialect. I nodded. She winked. “Next time, ask for half spice. Or bring a friend to share your tears.”

After breakfast, I wandered through Leshan’s wet markets—rows of stalls piled high with fermented black beans, dried mushrooms, fresh tofu skins, and jars of homemade chili paste labeled only with masking tape and marker. One vendor let me taste suan la fen—a cold glass noodle salad drenched in vinegar and chili oil. It was bright, tangy, and shockingly refreshing despite the heat. I bought a small jar of her chili oil blend for ¥18. Worth every yuan.

By noon, I boarded a bus to Zigong, about two hours east. Zigong isn’t on most tourists’ radar, but it’s a hidden gem for salt-boiled dishes—a cooking style born when salt miners needed hearty, flavorful meals that could be prepared quickly underground. Today, the city celebrates this history with an entire culinary identity.

I checked into a modest guesthouse near the old town for ¥120/night—clean, quiet, with a rooftop view of red lanterns strung between buildings. Then, I hit the streets.

Zigong’s Niu Shi Jie (Ox Street) is legendary among locals. Every evening, dozens of family-run stalls set up long plastic tables and benches, serving slow-cooked beef, tripe, tendon, and offal simmered in massive cauldrons of spiced broth. The air is thick with cumin, star anise, and smoke from grilling skewers.

I joined a table shared with three college students from Zigong Medical College. We pointed at things we wanted—beef brisket, spicy beef rolls, grilled lotus root—and within minutes, our table was covered in small plates. The broth here is different from Chengdu’s—it’s darker, more herbal, less reliant on chili and more on fermented spices and aged stock. They taught me the local way: dip each bite into a personal bowl of raw garlic paste mixed with vinegar and a splash of broth. “It cuts the richness,” said one girl, pouring me a cup of baijiu from a thermos. “And keeps the cold away.”

Between bites, we talked about school, travel dreams, and why no one outside Sichuan truly understands how food can be both medicine and memory. One guy showed me how to identify the best stall by the color of the oil on the surface of the broth—“If it’s too red, it’s for show. If it’s deep amber with little flecks of spice, that’s love.”

I stayed until nearly 10 p.m., full but unwilling to leave the warmth of the table. On the way back, I stopped at a 24-hour congee stand run by an elderly couple. For ¥6, I got a bowl of silky rice porridge with preserved vegetables and a perfectly runny century egg. As I ate, the man smiled and said, “Spicy food hurts the stomach if you don’t cool it down.” Wise words.

Back in my room, I reviewed my notes:

Transport:

Chengdu → Leshan: High-speed rail, ¥52 one way Leshan → Zigong: Long-distance bus, ¥35, ~2 hrs Zigong local transport: Didi (Chinese Uber) or electric tricycle taxis (~¥8–15 per ride)

Eats & Costs:

Dan dan mian (Leshan): ¥9 Sichuan chili oil (homemade): ¥18 Ox Street feast (Zigong): ~¥45 including skewers and beer Late-night congee: ¥6

Tips:

Go early to street food spots—best quality before noon. Carry cash—many small vendors don’t accept digital payments. Learn three phrases: “Bù là” (not spicy), “Wēi là” (just a little spicy), and “Hǎo chī!” (delicious!). Always drink something cooling after a spicy meal—barley water, soy milk, or plain congee.

Now, on this calm Sunday morning, I feel grounded. Not just from the food, but from the connections—the grandmother who fed me extra dumplings because I reminded her of her granddaughter, the students who welcomed me like an old friend, the quiet pride in how people here speak about their food.

This is why I travel. Not for landmarks, but for these moments—the sticky fingers, the shared laughter, the way a bowl of noodles can tell you everything about a place.

Next month? I’m thinking Guizhou. Sour fish soup, rice terraces, and Miao village markets. But for now, I’ll rest. And maybe eat a banana. My mouth still tingles from yesterday’s feast.

Until next journey,
Mei
Chengdu, China