Today began with the kind of fog that only Chengdu knows how to wear — a soft, damp veil clinging to the city like an old blanket. I woke up just after 7 a.m., my hostel room still dark despite the late hour, the curtains barely letting in the gray morning light. Outside, the muffled sounds of breakfast vendors setting up their stalls drifted through the window: the clatter of metal trays, the sizzle of oil hitting hot pans, and the rhythmic thud of someone chopping yu xiang (fish-fragrant) tofu on a wooden board. It was music to my ears. This wasn’t just another travel day — it was the start of a two-day culinary pilgrimage through Chengdu and its nearby towns, all in search of the soul of Sichuan cuisine.
I’ve been living in China for nearly two years now, studying tourism and hospitality, and one thing I’ve learned is this: if you want to understand a place, follow your nose. And in Chengdu, that means walking straight into the fire — literally.
By 8:15 a.m., I was at Wangjianglou Park, not for the bamboo groves or the poetry pavilion (though they’re beautiful), but because tucked behind the eastern gate is a tiny family-run spot called Lao Ma’s Breakfast Nook. It’s unmarked, no sign, just a red plastic table under a blue tarp where an elderly couple has served the same three dishes for over thirty years. I ordered what everyone else was eating: dan dan mian (dandan noodles), but not the version most tourists know. This one had no broth — just hand-pulled wheat noodles tossed in a paste of fermented black beans, minced pork, chili oil, and a whisper of Sichuan peppercorn that made my lips tingle before I’d even taken a full bite. The cost? 6 RMB (less than $1). I sat on a wobbly plastic stool, slurping loudly, watching office workers scarf down their meals between sips of huangjiu (yellow rice wine). One woman smiled at me and said, “You eat like a local.” That might be the highest compliment I’ve ever received.
From there, I took the subway to Kuanzhai Alley (Wide and Narrow Alleys) — not because it’s authentic (it’s very much curated for tourists), but because right behind it, down a narrow lane locals call Xiao Xiangzi, there’s a hidden market that opens only on weekends. Here, grandmothers fry cong you bing (scallion pancakes) in giant woks, teenagers queue for roujiamo stuffed with braised beef and pickled vegetables, and someone always seems to be roasting sweet potatoes over charcoal. I tried hong you chao shou — red-oil wontons — from a stall run by a woman named Auntie Li, who told me she uses duck fat instead of lard for extra richness. “It’s not traditional,” she admitted, “but it makes the kids come back.” She was right. The wontons were plump, swimming in a glossy crimson sauce that looked terrifying but tasted deeply savory, with a numbing warmth spreading from the back of my throat.
By noon, I boarded a high-speed train to Dujiangyan, a historic town about an hour west of Chengdu, famous for its ancient irrigation system — and, as I recently discovered, its underrated street food. The train ride was quick and smooth, slicing through misty hills and terraced farmland. When I arrived, the air was cooler, crisper, and the scent of woodsmoke hung in the breeze.
My first stop: Guansheng Temple Night Market, which somehow starts serving at 2 p.m. on weekends. I wasn’t here for temple visits — I was chasing a rumor about a mifen (rice noodle) vendor who uses water from the Dujiangyan canals to soak his rice. His name is Old Zhang, and he stands at a corner stall with a handwritten sign: “30 years, same pot.”
His dish — suan tang mifen — is a sour-spicy rice noodle soup with preserved mustard greens, shredded pork, and a poached egg cracked in at the end. He ladles the broth from a steaming cauldron, pours it over the noodles, and finishes with a spoonful of house-made chili oil that glows like lava. I took my bowl to a folding table near a koi pond, and as I ate, rain began to fall — gentle at first, then steady. But no one left. People huddled under umbrellas, slurping, laughing, passing around extra chili crisp. I struck up a conversation with a college student from Leshan who told me, “In Sichuan, bad weather just means better food.” We shared a plate of chang xiang qie zi — stir-fried eggplant with cumin and dried chilies — crispy on the outside, melting inside. 12 RMB. Unbelievable value.
By 5 p.m., I checked into a small guesthouse near the irrigation site — a quiet courtyard house with wooden shutters and a view of the Min River. After a quick rest, I walked to Nanqiao Bridge, where food carts line both sides of the ancient stone bridge. At dusk, lanterns flicker on, reflecting off the water, and the air fills with the scent of grilled skewers, known locally as chuanr. I tried five kinds: lamb dusted with cumin, chicken hearts marinated in soy and ginger, tofu skin wrapped around leeks, quail eggs rolled in sesame, and — the boldest — pig brain skewers, which are creamy, rich, and surprisingly mild when grilled just right. Each stick costs 2–3 RMB. I ate ten.
Dinner was at a homestyle restaurant recommended by my host — Grandma Liu’s Kitchen, a no-frills dining room with checkered tablecloths and a chalkboard menu. I ordered shui zhu yu (poached fish in chili oil), a classic Sichuan comfort dish. The server brought out a massive bowl — translucent slices of river fish floating in a sea of scarlet oil, studded with chilies and Sichuan peppercorns. She poured boiling broth at the table, making the spices crackle and pop. I mixed in the bean sprouts and cilantro, let it cool slightly, and took my first bite. The heat built slowly — not painful, but insistent — followed by a floral numbness from the peppercorns. It was intense, yes, but also deeply comforting, like being hugged by fire.
After dinner, I wandered back toward the river, stopping at a tea house where old men played mahjong and sipped jasmine tea. I joined them for a cup, and we chatted in broken Mandarin and gestures. One man, Mr. Chen, told me he eats mapo tofu every Sunday. “Not just any mapo tofu,” he said. “Mine has twice the doubanjiang (fermented broad bean paste), half the meat, and always served with cold beer.” He laughed. “Balance is everything.”
As I write this now, sitting in my guesthouse room with the window open, I can still taste the day — the layers of spice, the textures of chewy noodles and crispy skins, the warmth of strangers sharing bites and stories. What strikes me most about Sichuan food isn’t just the heat, but its generosity. Every dish feels like an invitation. Even the spiciest chili oil seems to say, “Come closer. Try it. You’ll learn to love it.”
Tomorrow, I’ll head to Pengzhou, another short train ride away, where a friend told me about a village temple that serves su rousi — Buddhist vegetarian “pork” made from konjac and mushrooms, all cooked in a secret broth passed down for generations. I’m curious. Not just about the food, but about the people who make it, preserve it, and share it without fanfare.
This trip has reminded me why I chose this major — not just to study tourism, but to witness how culture lives in the everyday. In Chengdu’s alleys, on a rainy afternoon in Dujiangyan, over shared skewers and steaming bowls, I didn’t just eat. I belonged, however briefly.
And that, more than any guidebook tip, is what I’ll carry with me.