Today began like any other Friday—early morning light filtering through my dorm window, the faint scent of last night’s instant noodles still lingering (a student life staple), and a backpack half-packed with camera gear, notebooks, and a reusable water bottle that’s seen more cities than most people I know. But this wasn’t just another weekend. Today marked the beginning of a two-day culinary pilgrimage into the heart of Sichuan cuisine, right on my doorstep: Chengdu and its surrounding towns.

I’ve always believed that to understand a place, you don’t start with its museums or monuments—you start with its food stalls. And if there’s one city in China that lives and breathes through its street food, it’s Chengdu. So at 7:30 a.m., I hopped on the metro toward Wuhouci Station, not for the temple (though it’s beautiful), but for what lies just beyond it: Jinli Ancient Street.

By 8:15 a.m., Jinli was already humming. Not with tourists yet—that wave would come later—but with locals going about their morning rituals. The air smelled of cumin, chili oil, and something sweet I couldn’t quite place. My first stop? Dan dan mian from a tiny stall tucked between a tea house and a souvenir shop. The vendor, an older woman with flour-dusted hands, scooped fresh noodles into a bowl, topped them with minced pork, pickled mustard greens, crushed peanuts, and a generous swirl of bright red hong you (chili oil). I paid 8 RMB—less than $1.20—and found a wooden bench nearby.

The first bite was a revelation. Numbing, spicy, savory, slightly sweet—all dancing on my tongue at once. That signature mala (numb-spicy) sensation crept up slowly, making me reach for my thermos of jasmine tea. But I couldn’t stop eating. This wasn’t just food; it was comfort, history, and local pride served in a porcelain bowl.

After breakfast, I wandered deeper into the alleys behind Jinli, where the real magic happens. Away from the postcard-perfect façades, I found a grandmother frying you tiao (Chinese crullers) over a coal stove. Next to her, a man poured batter onto a griddle for cong you bing (scallion pancakes). I bought one of each—6 RMB total—and ate them walking, the flaky layers shattering with every bite. This, I thought, is how Chengdu wakes up.

By 10 a.m., I boarded a regional bus (cost: 12 RMB, about $1.70) bound for Huanglongxi Ancient Town, about 40 kilometers south. Unlike the more polished Leshan or Huangcheng, Huanglongxi feels untouched—a riverside village where laundry hangs above cobblestone lanes and old men play mahjong under bamboo awnings.

I arrived around 11:30 and immediately headed for the backstreets. No maps, no apps—just following my nose. And then I saw it: a handwritten sign that read “Zi Zhu Lin – Authentic Family-Style Sichuan Home Cooking.” It looked like someone’s living room had been converted into a six-table restaurant. An elderly couple stood behind a counter, smiling as I pointed at the chalkboard menu.

I ordered three dishes:

Fish-Flavored Eggplant (Yu Xiang Qie Zi) – Soft, glossy eggplant in a tangy-sweet sauce with garlic, ginger, and fermented black beans. Twice-Cooked Pork (Hui Guo Rou) – Thin slices of boiled then stir-fried pork belly with leeks and chili paste. Rich, smoky, deeply satisfying. Steamed Rice with Pickled Mustard Greens and Minced Pork (Xue Cai Rou Si Fan) – Simple, humble, and absolutely perfect.

Total cost? 48 RMB ($6.80). I sat on a wobbly plastic stool, slurping rice and watching raindrops begin to fall outside. The owner brought me a cup of chrysanthemum tea, saying, “Eat slow. Food tastes better when you’re not rushing.”

That moment stayed with me.

After lunch, I explored the town’s narrow lanes, photographing weathered door knockers, stray cats napping in sunlit courtyards, and a woman selling bing fen (grass jelly) from a wooden cart. For 5 RMB, I got a cup of the cool, amber-colored jelly topped with vinegar, sugar, and red chili powder. Sounds strange, but it’s refreshing—sweet, sour, and spicy all at once. A true test of your Sichuan palate.

By 4 p.m., I took a shared van back to Chengdu, arriving at Kuanzhai Alley (Kuanxiangzi) just as golden hour painted the grey brick buildings in warm light. While Kuanzhai is undeniably touristy, it’s also a great place to see how traditional architecture blends with modern café culture. I stopped at a small shop selling Sichuan peppercorns and doubanjiang (fermented broad bean paste)—essential ingredients I wanted to bring home.

Dinner was non-negotiable: Chunxi Road Night Market.

By 7 p.m., the streets were packed. Strings of red lanterns glowed overhead, and the air was thick with smoke, laughter, and sizzling woks. I moved slowly, sampling bites from different stalls:

Spicy Rabbit Heads (Lai Fu Tou) – I’d heard about them, but never tried. Cracked open with my hands, sucked the tender meat from around the eyes and cheeks. Intense flavor, incredibly spicy, but oddly addictive. 10 RMB each.Grilled Tofu Skewers (Chuan’er) – Marinated in chili oil and cumin, then flame-grilled. Soft inside, slightly charred outside. 3 RMB per stick.Cold Noodles with Sesame Sauce (Liang Mian) – A cooling contrast to all the heat. Chewy wheat noodles tossed with shredded cucumber, sesame paste, and a hint of garlic. 9 RMB.

I ended the night at a 24-hour cha guan (tea house) near People’s Park, sipping Mengding Ganlu green tea and writing in my notebook. Around me, students studied, office workers unwound, and elderly couples played Chinese chess. The rhythm of Chengdu life—slow, deliberate, full of flavor.

As I write this now, back in my dorm, my lips still tingle from the day’s spices. My camera roll is full: close-ups of chili flakes falling like snow, wrinkled hands shaping dumplings, steam rising from a pot of huo guo (hot pot) waiting to be devoured.

But more than the photos, I carry the feeling—the warmth of strangers sharing recipes, the pride in a grandmother’s homemade pickles, the way a simple bowl of rice can tell a story.

Tomorrow, I’ll head to Dujiangyan to explore mountain temples and hidden noodle shops. But today was about grounding myself in flavor, in community, in the everyday magic of Sichuan’s kitchen.

If you ever come to Chengdu, don’t just eat the food—listen to it. Watch how the vendor adjusts the flame, how the customer nods before taking a bite, how the spice makes everyone pause, then smile.

Because here, every meal is a conversation. And I’m so glad I came to listen.

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