It’s just past 7 PM, and I’m curled up on my hostel bed in Chengdu, still buzzing from two days packed with chili oil, steam rising from dumplings, and the kind of human warmth that only small-town Sichuan alleys can offer. My fingers are slightly numb—not from the cold, though the January air here does carry a damp bite—but from holding my camera too long in narrow lanes, trying to capture the golden glow of lanterns over a sizzling dan dan mian stall. I’ve been traveling this way for months now—weekends turned into micro-adventures, classrooms traded temporarily for street food markets—and today, after two full days deep in the culinary heart of Sichuan, I feel both utterly exhausted and completely alive.

I left campus early Saturday morning, catching the 7:45 high-speed train from Chengdu East Station to Leshan—just 48 minutes on the bullet train, ¥55 one-way. The ride itself was dreamy: frost-kissed fields blurring past, distant hills wrapped in morning mist, and the occasional glimpse of farmers already bent over their plots before sunrise. I’d packed light—a daypack with my DSLR, a foldable umbrella (because Sichuan laughs at weather forecasts), a notebook, and a thermos of jasmine tea to cut through the inevitable spice later.

Leshan is best known for its giant Buddha carved into the cliffside along the Min River, but I wasn’t there for sightseeing—I was on a mission: to eat like a local. And if you want authenticity, you skip the tourist traps near the temple gates and head straight to Shunjiang Road Night Market, which comes alive around 5 PM.

By noon, I was already knee-deep in flavor. After dropping my bag at a budget guesthouse near the river (¥138/night, clean, quiet, with surprisingly good hot water), I wandered into a family-run mifen shop tucked between a pharmacy and a shoe repair stand. “Mifen” here means rice noodles, but don’t let the simplicity fool you. This place—unmarked, no English sign, just a faded red banner—served what might be the most soul-warming bowl I’ve had all semester.

The owner, Auntie Li (as I later learned), didn’t speak much English, but she nodded when I pointed at the steaming pot behind her. Five minutes later, I was handed a deep ceramic bowl filled with slippery rice noodles swimming in a rust-red broth, topped with minced pork, pickled mustard greens, crushed peanuts, and a generous swirl of chili oil that made my nose tingle before I even lifted the spoon.

This was Leshan Zā Mian—a regional twist on dan dan noodles, but heavier, earthier, with fermented broad bean paste (doubanjiang) giving it a deep umami punch. The heat built slowly, not aggressive like some Chongqing versions, but insistent, lingering. I ate every last drop, then sat back, sweating lightly, watching Auntie wipe down tables with the same cloth she used to dry bowls. No frills. No Instagrammable plating. Just food that tasted like generations.

Cost? ¥12. Yes, twelve yuan. About $1.70.

In the afternoon, I took a local bus (Route 3, ¥2) to the old town district, where I found a tiny shop called Old Master Tang’s Tofu Pudding. Don’t be fooled by the name—it’s not dessert. This is mala doufu, a cold tofu dish drenched in numbing-spicy sauce, served with shredded chicken, cilantro, and crispy fried wonton skins. The texture contrast was unreal—silky tofu against crunchy bits, all bound by that signature Sichuan mala (numb + spicy) sensation. I filmed a quick 30-second clip for my travel blog—steam rising, chopsticks breaking the surface, chili oil pooling like lava—but honestly, no video can capture how it feels to eat this: your lips start tingling within seconds, your forehead breaks a sweat, and yet… you can’t stop.

Dinner was at Shunjiang Road. By 6:30 PM, the entire street was a festival of smoke, sizzle, and laughter. I started with chuan chuan, those skewers dipped in communal broth and then dunked in custom spice blends. You count the sticks after—mine came to 28, totaling ¥49. My favorite? Beef wrapped in lotus root, boiled just enough to keep the crunch, then coated in roasted cumin and Sichuan peppercorns. One bite and my jaw went slightly numb—pleasantly so, like a gentle massage from the inside.

I saved room for bang bang ji—pounded chicken salad with peanut sauce, chili oil, and scallions. Found it at a folding table run by two elderly sisters who’ve been doing this since the 1980s. They don’t have chairs; you stand, eat, smile, and move on. That’s the rhythm of Leshan nights.

Back in Chengdu Sunday morning, I switched gears—from street chaos to refined tradition. I headed to Chen Mapo Tofu, the original branch on Wuhouci Street. Yes, it’s famous. Yes, tourists go. But this is where mapo tofu was invented in 1862 by a pockmarked woman named Chen. And let me tell you: the real thing is nothing like the greasy takeout version abroad.

Here, the tofu is silken, trembling in a glossy, brick-red sauce made from doubanjiang, fermented black beans, ground pork, and a rain of freshly toasted Sichuan peppercorns. It arrives bubbling, and the first spoonful hits you in layers—sweetness, salt, fire, then the creeping ma that makes your tongue buzz. Served with a bowl of plain white rice (essential), it’s comfort and confrontation in one dish. Total cost with tea: ¥38.

After lunch, I walked through Jinli Ancient Street—not for shopping, but for observation. I watched an old man make tanghulu by hand, dipping apples into boiling sugar syrup, twirling them until they glistened like amber jewels. I bought one—¥10—and let it cool on a bench while I scribbled notes. Sweet, tart, crisp—the perfect palate reset.

Now, as I write this, my stomach is full, my feet ache, and my notebook is smeared with chili oil fingerprints. But I’m happy. These weekend trips aren’t just about checking cities off a list—they’re about slowing down, tasting deeply, and remembering that travel isn’t always about grand landmarks. Sometimes, it’s about a nameless noodle shop where the auntie remembers your face after just one visit. It’s about the smell of cumin in the air, the sound of woks singing, the way a stranger shares their extra napkins without a word.

Practical Tips for Future Travelers:

Transport: Chengdu to Leshan via high-speed rail is fast and cheap. Book tickets via the China Railway app (or at the station). For local buses, use Alipay’s transport QR code.Budget: You can eat extremely well on ¥100/day. Most street dishes range from ¥8–¥25. Bottled water is ¥2–3.When to Go: Early afternoon (1–3 PM) or late evening (7–9 PM) for best street food availability. Avoid Sundays at major scenic spots—too crowded.Must-Try: In Leshan, don’t miss Zā Mian and mala doufu. In Chengdu, go to the original Chen Mapo Tofu, not the branches.Language Tip: Learn three phrases: “Kěyǐ pāizhào ma?” (Can I take a photo?), “Zhè ge duōshǎo qián?” (How much is this?), and “Bù là” (Not spicy)—though I recommend embracing the burn.

Tomorrow, I’ll return to lectures on hospitality management, but my mind will still be in those smoky alleyways, where every bite tells a story. And next month? I’m thinking Guizhou—spicy too, but with sour notes, smoked meats, and rice terraces that fall like green stairs from the sky. But that’s another journal entry.

For now, I’ll sleep with the taste of Sichuan still on my tongue—hot, numbing, and deeply, beautifully alive.