Today started before the sun did. I woke up at 6:30 a.m., pulled on my favorite travel jacket (the one with all the pockets for snacks and camera batteries), and grabbed my notebook—already half-filled with scribbled notes from last month’s trip to Kunming. It was time for another food-fueled escape, this time just outside Chengdu, deep into the heart of Sichuan cuisine. As a second-year tourism hospitality student, I’ve made it my mission to explore not just what people eat, but how they eat, where they source their ingredients, and why certain dishes carry such emotional weight. This weekend? Two days dedicated entirely to Chengdu’s street food culture, humble rice shops, and authentic family-run Sichuan kitchens.

By 7:15 a.m., I was at Chadianzi Bus Station, boarding a shuttle to Huanglongxi Ancient Town, about an hour’s drive south of downtown Chengdu. The sky was still gray-blue, but the city was already buzzing. Vendors were setting up their carts along the sidewalks—steamed buns wrapped in cloth, elderly women stirring giant pots of soy milk, and the unmistakable scent of chili oil hanging in the cool morning air. I snapped a few photos through the bus window: a man flipping golden jianbing on a hot griddle, a stack of bamboo steamers rising like a tower beside him. Breakfast dreams in motion.

Huanglongxi is one of those places that feels frozen in time—but only until you turn the corner and see a neon sign flashing “Spicy Rabbit Heads 8 RMB.” The ancient stone bridge arches over a lazy river, willow branches trailing in the water, but just beyond it, the real magic begins: a narrow alley packed with food stalls, each one specializing in a single dish passed down through generations.

My first stop: Zhang’s Cold Noodles. The stall is nothing more than a folding table and two stools, run by an auntie named Zhang who’s been serving this same recipe since 1987. Her liangmian—cold wheat noodles tossed with fermented black beans, pickled vegetables, garlic water, and a heavy hand of red chili oil—is legendary among locals. I watched her assemble each bowl with rhythmic precision: tongs of noodles, a splash of vinegar, a sprinkle of crushed peanuts, then that final, fiery drizzle. One bite and my nose tingled; the heat built slowly, balanced by tangy fermentation and a surprising crunch. I paid 6 RMB (less than $1) and sat on the edge of a stone step, slurping happily as tourists wandered past, drawn by the smell.

From there, I walked deeper into the old town, following the sizzle of woks and the chatter of bargaining. At a tiny shop called Old Li’s Rice Bowl, I found exactly what I’d been searching for—a no-frills canteen-style setup where workers and retirees line up for hearty, affordable meals. For 12 RMB, I got a clay pot of yu xiang eggplant (spicy garlic sauce with minced pork), a side of pickled mustard greens, and steaming white rice served in a metal tray. The eggplant melted in my mouth, soaked in savory-sweet-spicy sauce, while the rice grounded the intensity perfectly. What struck me most wasn’t just the flavor—it was how normal this felt. No Instagrammable plating, no fusion gimmicks. Just food made for people who need energy, comfort, and a little fire in their belly.

After lunch, I hopped on a local bus to Pixiu Street in Shuangliu District—a lesser-known snack alley that doesn’t get flooded with tour groups. Unlike the polished food courts near Chunxi Road, Pixiu Street thrives on chaos: motorbikes weaving between tables, kids chasing each other past noodle stands, and the constant clatter of chopsticks hitting ceramic bowls.

Here, I tried dan dan mian from a vendor who cooks over a coal-fired stove. His version was different from the restaurant renditions I’d had—thinner broth, more numbing peppercorns, and a generous swirl of sesame paste that coated every strand. He told me (through gestures and broken English) that he uses homemade lard and hand-pulls his noodles every morning at 4 a.m. “No machines,” he said, tapping his chest proudly. “Only hands, only heart.”

But the real surprise came at dusk, when I ducked into a dimly lit hole-in-the-wall called Sister Lin’s Home Kitchen. It looked like someone’s living room converted into a dining space—four tables, a fridge humming in the corner, and a TV playing old episodes of I Am a Singer. Sister Lin, a woman in her fifties with flour-dusted arms, greeted me like a long-lost niece. When I asked what she recommended, she smiled and said, “Whatever I cook tonight.”

Thirty minutes later, I was eating shui zhu yu—sliced fish poached in a boiling broth of chilies, Sichuan peppercorns, and bean sprouts—so spicy my eyes watered, so flavorful I couldn’t stop. Next to it was kou shui ji (“saliva chicken”), named because it makes your mouth water: tender boiled chicken drenched in chili oil, garlic, and sesame, topped with crushed peanuts. And of course, more rice. So much rice.

As I ate, Sister Lin sat across from me, sipping tea and telling me about her daughter studying nursing in Xi’an. “Food is memory,” she said softly. “When she comes home, I make these dishes. She cries sometimes—not from spice, but from missing home.” I understood. That night, under the flickering fluorescent light, I didn’t just taste Sichuan food—I felt it.

Back in Chengdu by 9 p.m., I wandered around Kuanzhai Alley, now lit up with lanterns, tourists laughing over skewers of chuanr (spicy lamb kebabs). But I didn’t stop. Instead, I bought a paper cup of cong you bing (scallion pancake) from a quiet cart near a temple gate. Simple, flaky, warm. Perfect.

Reflecting now, sitting at my desk with my camera backed up and my stomach finally calm, I realize how much I learned today. Not just about recipes or regional variations, but about rhythm—the rhythm of a city that wakes up to the sound of chopping boards, eats with both hands, and treats spice like love: overwhelming at first, but impossible to live without.

This is why I travel. Not for landmarks or checklists, but for moments like Sister Lin’s smile, Auntie Zhang’s steady hands, and the way a cold noodle can tell a 40-year story. Chengdu, you’ve fed more than my appetite—you’ve fed my soul.

Tomorrow, I’ll write up a full guide: exact locations, prices, best times to visit, metro/bus routes. But tonight? Tonight, I’m just grateful—for heat, for history, and for the kindness of strangers who serve their hearts on a plate.

Until next province,
Mei (a traveler with a full stomach and a full heart)