I’m sitting in my dorm room on a quiet Monday evening, still slightly buzzed from the weekend’s adventure. The scent of Sichuan peppercorns seems to linger in my jacket pocket—proof that I really did spend two days wandering through foggy alleys and sizzling street stalls just outside Chengdu. As a second-year hospitality and tourism student, I’ve made it my mission this year to explore one new Chinese province each month through short, immersive food-focused trips. This past weekend was Sichuan’s turn—and oh, what a fiery, unforgettable debut it was.
Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan Province, is often described as “slow-paced” compared to Beijing or Shanghai, but don’t be fooled. The city pulses with life, especially after dark when the real magic begins—not in fancy restaurants, but on sidewalks where woks hiss and steam rises like morning mist over the hills. My journey started Friday afternoon after my last class. I packed light: camera, notebook, reusable chopsticks (a habit I picked up last semester), and an appetite ready for anything.
I took the high-speed train from Chengdu East Station to Leshan first—a small city about an hour away, famous not only for its giant Buddha but also for some of the most authentic local snacks you’ll find off the tourist trail. My goal? To eat like a local, document everything, and avoid the trap of “Instagrammable but flavorless” spots.
Leshan’s snack street near the riverbank came alive around 6 p.m. The air was thick with chili oil fumes and laughter. I spotted a tiny stall with a handwritten sign: “Tangy You Tiao + Red Oil Wontons – 8 RMB.” No English, no menu board, just a grandmother folding wontons with lightning speed. I pointed at her bowl and smiled. She nodded, handed me a steaming paper cup, and said something in rapid Sichuanese I didn’t understand—but the taste needed no translation. The wontons were plump, swimming in a glossy red broth that numbed my lips within seconds (málà, that legendary tingle from Sichuan peppercorns). Paired with crispy fried you tiao dipped into sweet soy milk, it was comfort food elevated to art.
I chatted (as best I could) with a college student nearby who helped translate: “This lady has been here 30 years. Locals call her ‘Auntie Numb.’” I laughed so hard I almost choked on my dumpling. That moment—simple, human, delicious—is exactly why I travel.
Saturday morning, I returned to Chengdu and headed straight to Wenshu Yuan Monastery. Not just for the serene Buddhist temple, but for its hidden gem: a vegetarian canteen serving zhongzi (glutinous rice dumplings) stuffed with spicy mushrooms and preserved vegetables. Only 6 RMB! The line wrapped around the courtyard, mostly monks and elderly locals. I sat on a wooden bench, watching sunlight filter through ancient camphor trees while eating breakfast that tasted both humble and profound.
By noon, I was deep in the heart of Chengdu’s culinary soul: Jinli Ancient Street. Yes, it’s touristy—but skip the souvenir shops and head to the back lanes. There, tucked between tea houses and fabric vendors, I found dan dan mian being pulled by hand, skewers of rabbit heads grilling over charcoal (yes, rabbit heads—I tried one; it’s all about the skin and cartilage, surprisingly tasty), and stalls selling cong you bing (scallion pancakes) so flaky they shattered like autumn leaves.
But the real revelation came at a place called Chen Mapo Tofu, a no-frills restaurant that’s been around since 1862. Their signature dish—soft tofu in a volcanic sauce of fermented black beans, ground pork, and enough chili oil to make your nose run—is considered the original mapo tofu. I watched chefs stir massive woks with long-handled spoons, flames leaping like dragons. I ordered a small portion… and finished every drop, scooping it over a mountain of steamed rice. Pro tip: ask for “medium spice”—they will not go easy on you otherwise.
That evening, I ventured into Kuanzhai Alley (Wide and Narrow Alleys), where old meets new. While the main walkways are polished for tourists, the side courtyards host intimate teahouses and family-run eateries. I stumbled upon a basement-level spot called Old Friend’s Kitchen, where a retired chef cooks six-person dinners by reservation only. Luckily, someone canceled, and I got in. Five courses, all homestyle Sichuan: pickled mustard stem with pork, twice-cooked pork belly, stir-fried green beans with salted fish bits, and a sour-and-spicy fish soup that warmed me from the inside out. The chef, Mr. Li, told me, “Real Sichuan food isn’t just heat—it’s balance. Sour cuts fat, salt enhances aroma, sweetness rounds the edge. Spice? That’s just the voice.”
His words stayed with me as I wandered back to my hostel under strings of red lanterns, stomach full, heart fuller.
Now, back on campus, I flip through my notes and photos. Here’s what I’d tell fellow travelers planning a similar trip:
Practical Tips for a 2-Day Food Trip Around Chengdu:
Transport:
High-speed trains connect Chengdu to nearby cities like Leshan, Dujiangyan, and Deyang in under 90 minutes. Buy tickets via the 12306 app (English available). Within Chengdu, use DiDi (China’s Uber) or the metro. Line 4 goes directly to Kuanzhai Alley and Wenshu Yuan.Where to Eat (Beyond the Obvious):
Leshan Snack Lane (near Riverfront Park): Go after 6 p.m. for the full experience. Try the wontons, grilled oysters with garlic, and rou dajian (spicy minced meat skewers). Wenshu Yuan Vegetarian Canteen: Open 7–9 a.m. and 11 a.m.–1 p.m. Don’t miss the luosifen-style noodles (Sichuan twist on the Liuzhou classic). Chen Mapo Tofu (Main Branch): Arrive before 11:30 a.m. or after 1:30 p.m. to avoid crowds. Pair mapo tofu with dry-fried green beans. Old Friend’s Kitchen: Reserve via WeChat (search “老友食堂预订”) or ask your hostel to help. ~80 RMB per person.Budget Breakdown (per person, 2 days):
Transport: 120 RMB (train + local transit) Food: 200 RMB (including one splurge dinner) Accommodation: 180 RMB/night (mid-range guesthouse near Chunxi Road) Total: ~500 RMB (~$70 USD)Packing Tips:
Bring wet wipes (many street stalls lack napkins). Carry cash—some vendors don’t accept digital payments. Wear layers. Chengdu winters are damp and chilly, but indoor spaces (and spicy food) heat you up fast.Cultural Notes:
Don’t be shy to point and smile—most street vendors appreciate effort over perfect Mandarin. Sharing tables is common. Say “bù hǎoyìsi” (“excuse me”) before sitting. Tap water isn’t drinkable. Always buy sealed bottled water.As I close my journal, I realize these trips aren’t just about food—they’re about connection. The warmth in a vendor’s eyes when you finish your bowl. The shared silence between strangers bonded by spice. The way a city reveals itself not in landmarks, but in flavors passed down through generations.
Next month, I’m heading to Xi’an—noodles, history, and maybe even a camel ride await. But for now, I’ll dream of red oil glistening under golden lanterns, and the quiet hum of a city that feeds both body and soul.
Until then, I’ll keep listening—with my stomach.