It’s a crisp Monday morning in Chengdu, and I’m sitting at my favorite corner table in a tiny café near the university, sipping congou black tea with a dash of milk—my go-to comfort drink after a weekend packed with flavor, fatigue, and fried dumplings. Outside, the city is waking up slowly: motorbikes weaving through narrow alleys, elderly locals practicing tai chi in neighborhood parks, and the unmistakable scent of mala (spicy-numbing) seasoning already drifting from street-side breakfast stalls.
This past weekend, I took another one of my spontaneous food-focused getaways—this time exploring two lesser-known towns just outside Chengdu: Huanglongxi Ancient Town and Shuangliu District, both within an hour’s drive. My mission? To dive deep into Sichuan’s soul through its everyday cuisine—not the touristy Kung Pao chicken platters served with a side of disappointment, but the real stuff: humble, bold, and cooked with generational wisdom.
I left campus early Saturday morning, packing only my camera, a notebook, a portable charger, and a stretchy waistband (essential). The drive to Huanglongxi was smooth—autumn leaves glowing gold along the highway, fog curling over rice fields like steam from a hotpot. By 9:30 a.m., I’d parked near the old stone bridge that marks the entrance to the ancient town, where wooden houses lean gently over cobblestone lanes, their eaves carved with dragons and lotus blossoms.
My first stop: Chen’s Tofu Pudding Stall, tucked beneath a red awning strung with dried chilies. This place has been run by the same family for four generations. Old Mr. Chen, wearing a white apron stained with soybean juice, ladled warm douhua—silken tofu pudding—into a bowl and drizzled it with a dark, glossy sauce made from fermented broad beans, chili oil, garlic water, and a whisper of Sichuan pepper. He topped it with chopped green onions and crispy fried soybeans.
I sat on a low bamboo stool, balancing the bowl on my knees. The first spoonful hit me like a revelation: soft, almost custard-like tofu melting against the fiery, numbing sauce. It wasn’t just spicy—it was complex. Earthy, tangy, umami-rich, with a lingering tingle on the tongue. “This,” I thought, “is how people actually eat breakfast here.” Total cost? 6 RMB (less than $1). I asked Mr. Chen if he ever considered opening a restaurant in the city. He laughed. “Too much noise. Here, I know my neighbors. They tell me if the sauce is too salty.”
By noon, I wandered deeper into the maze of lanes, drawn by the sound of sizzling oil and the rhythmic thud-thud of a cleaver. I found a small open-air kitchen where a woman in her fifties was hand-pulling noodles for dan dan mian. Not the version you see on Instagram—with neat little nests of noodles drowned in peanut sauce—but the original street-style: coarse wheat noodles tossed with minced pork, pickled vegetables, chili oil, and a splash of broth so rich it shimmered. She served it in a recycled plastic bowl, no chopsticks provided (you bring your own or use disposable ones from the stall next door).
I crouched on the edge of a step, slurping loudly. The noodles had bite; the pork was sweet and crumbly; the broth clung to every strand. A local man beside me grinned. “You’re eating it right,” he said in Mandarin. “No fancy plate. Just hunger and heat.”
After lunch, I drove to Shuangliu, a district better known for its airport than its food—but locals swear by its hidden xiaochi (snack) streets. I followed Google Maps to Liujiang Snack Lane, a nondescript alley behind a wet market. At first glance, it looked abandoned—until 5 p.m., when metal shutters flipped open and stalls burst to life.
One vendor, Auntie Li, makes zhongshui jiaozi—boiled dumplings stuffed with pork, ginger, and preserved mustard greens. Her secret? She mixes the filling with chilled broth before wrapping, so each dumpling explodes with savory juice when bitten. I ordered ten, doused in her house-made vinegar-chili dip. They were plump, tender-skinned, and dangerously addictive. As I ate, she told me she used to work in a textile factory but started selling dumplings after her husband fell ill. “Now,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron, “I feed 200 people every night. Better than sewing buttons.”
But the real highlight came later: dinner at Old Liu’s Homestyle Kitchen, a no-sign, cash-only spot recommended by a student from my program. No menu—just whatever Liu Mama feels like cooking that day. I arrived at 6:45 p.m., just as she was setting out dishes on a folding table. That night: twice-cooked pork with leeks, mapo tofu made with duck blood instead of beef, stir-fried green beans with fermented black beans, and a clay pot of rice steamed with lap cheong sausage and mushrooms.
I was the only non-local there. Liu Mama spoke little English, but we communicated in gestures and smiles. She handed me a small bowl of suan la tang—a sour-and-spicy soup with wood ear mushrooms and tofu—as a welcome gift. “Eat slow,” she said. “Spice needs time to hug your stomach.”
Every dish was a masterclass in balance. The mapo tofu wasn’t just hot—it had depth, with layers of fermented bean paste, garlic, and the floral buzz of Sichuan peppercorns. The twice-cooked pork had that perfect char at the edges, melting into the fragrant leeks. And the rice—oh, the rice! Each grain soaked up the smoky sweetness of the Chinese sausage. I left with a full belly and a promise to return in winter for her hotpot nights. Total bill: 48 RMB.
Back in Chengdu Sunday evening, I stopped at Wangjiaqiao Market to pick up some local ingredients: dried Sichuan peppers, chili flakes, and a bottle of Pixian broad bean paste—the holy trinity of mala cooking. The vendor, noticing my notebook, asked what I was writing. “A food diary,” I said. “For people who want to taste China like a local.” He smiled and slipped an extra bag of peppercorns into my tote. “For courage,” he joked.
Reflecting tonight, I realize these trips aren’t just about eating. They’re about connection. In a world where travel often means checking off landmarks, I’ve found something quieter and more lasting: the rhythm of daily life, the pride in a well-made dumpling, the way a stranger offers you extra chili because they see you appreciate the burn.
Next month, I’m heading to Guilin, Guangxi—not just for the karst mountains, but for the rice noodle stalls along the Li River and the village markets where farmers sell lotus root and fermented fish. I’ll document every bite, every conversation, every wrong turn that leads to the best meal of the day.
Because here’s the truth: you don’t need a five-star hotel or a guided tour to understand a place. Sometimes, all you need is a plastic stool, a bowl of steaming noodles, and the willingness to say “yes” to whatever comes next.
Until then, I’ll be dreaming of tofu pudding—and saving up for looser jeans.