It’s just past midnight as I sit in my hostel bed in Chengdu, fingers still faintly smelling of chili oil and cumin, ears still ringing with the sizzle of grills and the cheerful shouts of street vendors. Today was meant to be a quiet recovery day after two intense days of eating, walking, and photographing my way through Sichuan’s culinary soul—but honestly, my stomach hasn’t stopped buzzing since Saturday morning.

Let me take you back.

Saturday: Arrival in Dujiangyan — Where History Meets Hotpot (on a Stick)

I left Chengdu at 9:15 a.m. by D-class bullet train—just 30 minutes and ¥15 from Chengdu North Station to Dujiangyan. My goal? To escape the city’s more touristy food alleys and find where locals really eat. Dujiangyan, famous for its ancient irrigation system (a UNESCO site I briefly visited), is also quietly known among food lovers for its weekend street markets and late-night snack strips tucked behind temple lanes.

By 10:30, I was wandering through Guankou Night Market, which, despite the name, starts bustling around noon on weekends. The air was thick with smoke from charcoal grills and the unmistakable fragrance of huajiao (Sichuan peppercorns). My first stop: a tiny stall run by an auntie named Aunt Lin (as she introduced herself with a proud grin) who’s been roasting skewers here for 17 years.

Her specialty? Chuan’r (spicy grilled meat skewers), but not the kind you’d find in chain restaurants. Hers are marinated overnight in a mix of fermented broad bean paste, ginger, and her “secret” blend of five peppers. I tried lamb, chicken heart, and tofu skin—all dusted heavily with crushed Sichuan pepper that made my lips tingle like I’d kissed a battery. She charges ¥2 per skewer, and I ended up with 14. Worth every penny.

Pro tip: Don’t rush. Let the numbness build. That’s the point.

After lunch (if you can call 28 skewers and a cup of sugarcane juice “lunch”), I walked along the Min River, snapping photos of old men playing Chinese chess under gingko trees and grandmothers selling zhongzi (glutinous rice dumplings) wrapped in bamboo leaves. Found a little shop offering dan dan mian served traditional style—not the soupy version tourists get, but dry-mixed with minced pork, preserved vegetables, and a slick of red oil so glossy it looked like lava. ¥8. Life-changing.

Dinner was at a family-run mala xiang guo joint near the old town gate. You pick your ingredients—from lotus root to quail eggs to pig blood cubes—and they wok-fry them in your chosen spice level. I went for “medium,” which locals laughed at. “That’s ‘baby spicy’ here,” said the cashier. Still, sweat poured down my temples. The numbing heat crept up slowly, then hit like a wave. I drank three bottles of suanmeitang (plum juice) to recover.

Sunday: Into the Countryside — A Village Kitchen in Pengzhou

No train this time. I rented a small electric car (¥99 for 24 hours via a local app—highly recommend for rural exploration) and drove 60 km north to Pengzhou, specifically a village called Shuangliu (no relation to Chengdu’s airport district). This trip was inspired by a blog post I found last month about a grandmother who runs a countryside rice bowl (gai jia fan) stand only on Sundays.

Finding it wasn’t easy. GPS failed halfway down a muddy lane. But a farmer on a scooter pointed me toward a blue tarp tent beside a dried-up fish pond. There she was—Grandma Zhou, 72, stirring a giant iron pot over wood fire.

For ¥12, you get a steaming bowl of rice topped with one main dish. That day: braised pork belly with soy and star anise, or stir-fried frog legs with garlic and chilies. I chose the pork. She ladled it generously, added a spoon of pickled mustard greens, and handed me chopsticks wrapped in newspaper. No menu. No English. Just warmth, flavor, and silence broken only by the clink of spoons.

I sat on a plastic stool, watching chickens peck at the ground, and ate like I’d earned it. This wasn’t “authentic” because it was rustic—it was authentic because it had no desire to be anything else. No filters, no branding. Just food made for people who live here.

Before heading back, I stopped at a roadside fruit stand and bought persimmons and red yams. The vendor threw in a free bingtanghulu—crystallized hawthorn berries on a stick—because, she said, “You look like you need sweetness after all that spice.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Reflections: What I Learned (Besides How Much Chili I Can Handle)

The best meals aren’t on apps. Yes, I used Dianping (China’s Yelp) to find general areas, but the real gems came from asking. A taxi driver. A fellow diner. An old man feeding pigeons. Smile, point, say “Rende ma?” (“Is it good?”)—and follow where they nod.

Timing is everything. Many village stalls or weekend-only kitchens open late morning and close by 3 p.m. Arrive too early, and they’re prepping. Too late? Sold out. Set alarms. Respect their rhythm.

Bring wet wipes. And tissues. And hand sanitizer. Street food is glorious, but napkins are rare. Also: carry cash. Some places don’t take WeChat Pay if their QR code gets rained on (true story).

Eat like a local, not a reviewer. Don’t order one of everything to “try it all.” Order what looks busy. Order what the person next to you is eating. Eat slowly. Watch how others eat—do they mix the rice? Drink soup after? Mimic respectfully.

The soul of Sichuan isn’t just spice—it’s balance. Yes, the heat wakes you up. But the magic is in the contrast: the cool crunch of cucumber in a fiery cold noodle dish, the sweetness of caramelized onion under salty preserved veg, the way plum juice cuts through oil. It’s yin and yang on a plate.

Final Thoughts: Why This Matters to Me

As a tourism student, I used to think “cultural experience” meant visiting temples, buying souvenirs, checking off landmarks. But these two days reminded me: culture lives in the hands of a woman flipping skewers at dawn, in the laughter of teenagers sharing a pot of mala, in the quiet pride of a grandmother serving food the same way she has for 40 years.

Next month, I’m heading to Xi’an, then Guangzhou, Harbin, and Lijiang—each time focusing on one theme: street food, breakfast culture, home cooking, winter feasts. I want to document not just what people eat, but how, why, and with whom. Because food isn’t fuel. It’s memory. It’s identity. It’s love shouted over a grill and passed down through generations.

And if I come back with slightly numb lips and a camera full of steam-covered lenses? Well, that’s just part of the journey.

Now, excuse me while I go drink another liter of water. And maybe dream of Aunt Lin’s lamb skewers.

Until next bite,
—Mei 🌶️📷