Today marks the end of a deliciously chaotic weekend—one that began with the scent of cumin in the air and ended with my taste buds still tingling from yesterday’s last bite of mapo tofu. I’m sitting by the window of my dorm room in Chengdu, sipping warm chrysanthemum tea to soothe my overworked palate, reflecting on two unforgettable days spent chasing flavor across Sichuan’s lesser-known food alleys.

As a second-year tourism hospitality student, I’ve come to realize that food isn’t just sustenance—it’s culture, history, emotion, and identity all rolled into one steaming plate. And nowhere is this truer than here, in the heart of Sichuan Province, where every meal feels like an adventure for the senses. This month’s mission? To explore local street eats, uncover hidden gem rice restaurants (mifan dian), and truly understand how locals eat their beloved Sichuan cuisine—not the touristy versions, but the real deal.

We started early Saturday morning at Wuhou Shrine Night Market, which, despite its name, comes alive around 10 a.m. on weekends. Yes, it’s technically a “night market,” but by 9 a.m., vendors are already frying up skewers and boiling broth for dan dan mian. I arrived armed with my camera, notebook, and—most importantly—a strong stomach.

The first stop: Lao Ma’s Spicy Cold Noodles. A tiny stall tucked between a shoe repair stand and a flower vendor. Her noodles aren’t served cold, not really—they’re room temperature, tossed in a fiery mix of chili oil, preserved vegetables, crushed peanuts, and a whisper of Sichuan peppercorn that makes your lips buzz like a tuning fork. The total cost? 8 RMB (about $1.10 USD). As I slurped them standing under a faded blue awning, an elderly man beside me chuckled and said, “If you can finish that without water, you’re ready for Chengdu.” I didn’t make it. But I tried.

From there, I wandered toward Jianshe Road Food Street, often called the “locals’ alternative” to the overcrowded Kuanzhai Alley. It’s messy, loud, and absolutely glorious. Motorbikes weave between tables, steam rises from woks like morning fog, and everyone eats with both hands—no forks, no pretense. I spotted a queue snaking around a corner and followed it like a pilgrim. It led to Xiao Zhang’s Home-Style Rice Box (jiare mifan), a family-run spot open only on weekends.

Inside, metal trays hold small dishes: braised pork belly, pickled mustard greens, stir-fried green beans with minced pork, and a silken egg custard trembling in its ceramic bowl. For 15 RMB ($2.10), I got a full plate—rice piled high, topped with whatever caught my eye. The owner, Auntie Zhang, smiled as she handed me chopsticks: “Eat like you’re at home. No rush.” And so I did. I sat on a plastic stool, back against the wall, watching families share meals, students typing on laptops between bites, delivery riders grabbing lunch before heading out. This wasn’t just food—it was community.

One thing I’ve learned traveling through China’s regional cuisines: Sichuan food isn’t just “spicy.” It’s layered. There’s ma (numbing), la (heat), xian (umami), and even subtle sweetness or sourness hiding beneath the fire. To experience this balance, I made sure to include non-spicy dishes too—like the delicate fish-fragrant eggplant (which contains no fish, but gets its name from the sauce) and hongshao rou, a slow-braised pork belly dish that melts like butter.

But of course, no trip to Sichuan would be complete without hot pot. So Saturday night, I joined a group of fellow students at Old Lane No. 3 Hotpot, a hole-in-the-wall place recommended by a classmate whose uncle swears it hasn’t changed since 1998. We squeezed around a circular table, red broth bubbling ominously in the center. The menu had no English, so we pointed at what others were eating. Soon, our table overflowed with platters: beef tripe, duck blood, lotus root, tofu skins, and mountains of fresh chili peppers floating like little rafts.

Here’s a pro tip: if you’re new to authentic Sichuan hot pot, order a side of sesame paste. Dip each bite before eating—it cools the burn without dulling the flavor. Also, drink barley tea, not water. Water spreads the oil; barley tea cuts it.

By midnight, we were all glowing—literally, from sweat—and laughing about how one of us accidentally ate a whole dried chili thinking it was seasoning. But we’d done it. We’d survived the fire. And somehow, I still wanted more.

Sunday dawned quiet and foggy, perfect for a slower pace. I took the metro to Pengzhou, a small city about an hour northeast of Chengdu—less touristy, more residential, and packed with old-school breakfast spots. My target: Chen Family Tofu Pudding House, open since 1962. They serve douhua—soft tofu pudding—in both sweet and savory styles. I went savory: silky curds swimming in a spicy sauce of fermented black beans, garlic, chili oil, and chopped scallions. Paired with a crisp cong you bing (scallion pancake), it was comfort in a bowl. Total cost: 10 RMB.

Walking back toward the station, I passed a grandmother selling tanghulu from a wooden cart—candied hawthorn berries on sticks, glossy red like jewels. I bought one, not just for the taste (sweet, tart, nostalgic), but because she reminded me of my own grandma. She winked as she handed it over: “Sweet outside, sour inside. Just like life.”

That line stuck with me.

Over these two days, I filled 47 pages in my travel journal, took 387 photos (yes, I counted), and consumed approximately 1.5 liters of chili oil (slightly exaggerated, but not by much). But beyond the food, what moved me most was the generosity—the way vendors offered extra servings when they saw I was alone, how strangers shared tables and stories, how meals stretched for hours, unhurried and full of laughter.

For anyone planning to explore Sichuan’s food scene, here’s my honest advice:

Go early or late: Avoid peak lunch hours (12–1:30 p.m.) if you want space and calm service.Carry cash: Many small vendors don’t accept digital payments, especially outside central Chengdu.Ask locals: Pointing at what someone else is eating works better than reading a menu.Hydrate wisely: Drink herbal teas—chrysanthemum, barley, or honeysuckle—to balance the heat.Embrace discomfort: If your mouth feels like it’s on fire, don’t panic. It’s part of the experience. Breathe. Laugh. Eat more rice.

As I write this, snow is forecasted for northern China, but here in Chengdu, the air is thick with humidity and the lingering scent of garlic and spice. My stomach is full, my feet are tired, and my heart is happy.

Next month, I’ll head east—to Jiangxi Province—where I’ve heard the cured meats and rice cakes tell stories of mountain villages and ancient farming traditions. But for now, I’m savoring the echo of Sichuan flavors, one memory at a time.

Until the next journey,
Mei
Chengdu, China