It’s Thursday evening, and I’m curled up on my dorm bed in Chengdu, still tasting the lingering heat of chili oil on my lips from lunch today. My camera roll is full—again—and my notebook is splattered with soy sauce stains. That’s how I know it’s been a good day.

This week has been packed with midterms and early morning lectures on hospitality management, but even deadlines can’t dull my excitement for weekend adventures. Tomorrow morning, I’m hopping on a high-speed train to Leshan, then driving north toward Mount Emei and zigzagging through rural towns along the Min River. The mission? Two days of pure Sichuan food worship: street snacks, family-run mifen (rice noodle) joints, and home-style chuan cai (Sichuan cuisine) cooked the way grandmas do—slow, spicy, and full of soul.

But today, before the journey begins, I spent hours wandering through two of Chengdu’s most underrated local markets: Jinli Night Market and Wangjianglou Snack Lane, tucked behind the quieter east side of the city. These aren’t the tourist traps near Chunxi Road; they’re where locals go after work, balancing plastic stools and steaming bowls like pros.

I started at Wangjianglou just as the sun dipped behind the rows of old apartment buildings. The air was thick with woodsmoke and the scent of fermented broad bean paste (doubanjiang), the backbone of so many Sichuan dishes. I passed by stalls selling dan dan mian—not the watered-down version you sometimes see abroad, but the real deal: hand-pulled noodles slicked in a glossy, numbing sauce made from chili oil, preserved vegetables, minced pork, and a whisper of Sichuan peppercorns that makes your tongue tingle like a light electric current.

The vendor, an older woman with flour-dusted hands and a no-nonsense expression, handed me a bowl for just 8 RMB. “Eat fast,” she said in Sichuanese-accented Mandarin. “Noodles get sad when they sit too long.” I sat on a wobbly stool beside a college student reviewing flashcards and slurped deeply. The first bite hit like a warm punch—spicy, savory, slightly sour, and utterly addictive. I finished it in under five minutes and immediately wanted another. But I had a list to follow.

Next stop: cong you bing, or scallion pancakes. Not the flatbread you get at mall food courts, but flaky, pan-fried discs layered like puff pastry, pulled and stretched right in front of you. I watched a man slap dough onto a wide metal griddle, brush it with lard and chopped green onions, then twist it into a spiral before flattening it again. The result? Crispy golden edges giving way to soft, chewy layers inside. I paid 6 RMB and walked down the lane eating it like a taco, flakes raining onto my coat.

By 7:30 PM, I’d reached Jinli Night Market—but not the main entrance everyone photographs. I ducked down a narrow alleyway behind the Kuanzhai Alley complex, where the real action happens after 7. This is where migrant workers, delivery drivers, and off-duty chefs come to eat. The lights are dimmer here, the tables stickier, and the food more honest.

I spotted a tiny stall with a red lantern and a handwritten sign: Zìzhì Dòuhuā – Homemade Tofu Pudding. Curious, I stepped closer. An elderly couple served silken tofu pudding in shallow bowls, topped with either sweet ginger syrup or a fiery Sichuan-style savory sauce. I opted for the latter. The server ladled warm tofu into a bowl, then added a spoonful of pickled mustard greens, crushed peanuts, minced garlic, and a deep red chili-oil broth that shimmered under the lantern light. She stirred it gently and handed it over with a smile. “Careful—it bites back.”

She wasn’t wrong. The first spoonful was creamy and cool from the tofu, then—bam—the heat rushed in. It wasn’t just spice; it was complexity. Umami from fermented beans, tang from vinegar, nuttiness from sesame oil, and that signature ma la (numbing-spicy) sensation that defines authentic Sichuan flavor. I ate every drop, scraping the bowl with my spoon like a ritual.

As I wandered back toward the metro, I stopped at a cart selling hong you chao shou—red oil wontons. These delicate dumplings, filled with pork and chives, floated in a pool of bright red chili oil, scattered with crushed Sichuan pepper and cilantro. 10 RMB for a bowl of ten. I stood by the curb, blowing on each piece before dipping it in extra vinegar. Perfection.

Now, sitting here tonight, planning tomorrow’s route, I’m reminded why I chose tourism—not just to see places, but to taste them, one bite at a time. In China, food isn’t just sustenance; it’s memory, identity, and love served on paper plates.

For tomorrow’s trip, here’s my rough plan:

Day 1 (Friday): Chengdu → Leshan (1 hr by train) → Drive to Emeishan Town

Morning snack: Leshan qiaotou ma (bridge-head beef noodles), known for their rich broth and tender slices of spiced beef. (~15 RMB) Lunch: Local tufu (local tofu) hotpot in a riverside village near Baoguo Temple. Dinner: Homestay-cooked meal with a host family—expect yuxiang qiezi (fish-fragrant eggplant), shuizhu yu (boiled fish in chili broth), and homemade pickles.

Day 2 (Saturday): Explore foothills → Return via Qinxin Town for breakfast

Early morning: Visit a pre-dawn mifen stall where rice noodles are made fresh daily. I’ve heard the owner uses spring water from the mountain. (~8 RMB) Mid-morning: Stop at a roadside tea house for suyou cha (oil tea), a Tibetan-influenced drink made with butter, tea, and roasted barley—surprisingly hearty for winter travel. Late afternoon: Back to Chengdu by 6 PM, ready to write, edit photos, and dream of next month’s destination: Guilin, Guangxi—where rice paddies meet river caves and luosifen (river snail rice noodles) reign supreme.

Practical tips from today’s Chengdu snack crawl:

Best time to visit night markets: 6:30–8:30 PM. Arrive early before crowds, but late enough that all stalls are fully operational. Payment: Most small vendors accept WeChat Pay or Alipay. Carry about 50 RMB in cash for the oldest stalls. Spice level: If you’re sensitive, ask for wei la (slightly spicy). But if you want the real experience, embrace the fire. Have yogurt or milk tea nearby. Hygiene note: Look for stalls with high turnover and visible cleanliness. Steam and constant boiling oil are good signs. Photography: Ask before taking close-up shots of people. Many vendors don’t mind—they’re proud of their craft. A smile and a “Ke yi pai zhao ma?” (“Can I take a photo?”) go a long way.

Back to reality: I’ve got a Hospitality Law quiz tomorrow at 9 AM, and I should probably review. But first, I’ll charge my power bank, clean my lens, and save these notes. Because someday, maybe in a travel magazine or a little blog that grows into something bigger, I’ll tell the world about the woman who warned me her tofu pudding bites back—and how, in that moment, I fell a little more in love with this country.

Until tomorrow’s journey—may the roads be clear, the chili oil abundant, and the seats on the train unclaimed.

— Mei, Year 2, Tourism & Hospitality, Chengdu 🌶️🍜📷