Today was one of those rare Fridays when the weight of mid-semester assignments lifted just enough for me to slip away into a weekend of flavor and discovery. As a second-year tourism student with a growing obsession for regional Chinese cuisine, I’ve been mapping out short food-focused trips across the country—four provinces a month, if time and budget allow. This week, my compass pointed firmly toward Sichuan, and more specifically, the chaotic, aromatic heart of Chengdu.

I boarded the high-speed train from Chongqing at 8:17 a.m., the early winter light still clinging to the edges of the hills outside the city. By 9:43, I was stepping onto the platform at Chengdu East Railway Station, already scanning the air for that unmistakable scent—Sichuan peppercorns dancing with chili oil, fermented broad bean paste simmering in street-side woks. It wasn’t long before I caught it, drifting from a small stall selling dan dan mian to morning commuters.

My base for the next two days is a modest guesthouse tucked behind Kuanzhai Alley (also known as Wide and Narrow Alleys), a historic district that’s equal parts tourist hotspot and living neighborhood. The room is simple—wooden furniture, a kettle, and a window overlooking a quiet courtyard where an old man practices tai chi every morning. But what really sold me? The owner, Auntie Li, handed me a hand-drawn map of “real” eateries within 15 minutes of check-in. “Tourists go left,” she said, pointing down the main alley. “You go right.”

And so I did.

By noon, I found myself on Jinli Road, not the polished tourist version near Wuhou Temple, but a lesser-known stretch locals call Xiao Jinli, running parallel behind the main drag. Here, the stalls aren’t glossy; they’re weathered, family-run, and fiercely proud. I started with chuan chuan xiang—skewers of beef tripe, tofu skin, and lotus root boiled in a bubbling, crimson broth seasoned with dried chilies and heaps of crushed huājiāo. The vendor, a woman with ink-stained fingers from decades of writing orders, warned me: “Don’t rush. Let the numbness come first, then the heat.” She was right. Within seconds, my lips tingled like tiny electric currents, followed by a deep, smoky burn that made me reach for the free suanmei tang (plum juice) beside the counter.

Next stop: a tiny shop no wider than a closet, advertising dòu huā—Sichuan-style tofu pudding. Unlike the sweet versions in the south, this one is savory, served warm with a spoonful of minced pork, pickled vegetables, chili oil, and a sprinkle of crispy fried soybeans. I ate it standing up, watching delivery drivers do the same between shifts. The texture was impossibly soft, almost custard-like, but the flavors were bold, layered—the kind of dish that feels both humble and deeply nourishing.

By late afternoon, I wandered into Wangjianglou Park, partly to cool down (both from the spice and the city buzz), partly to see how locals unwind. Elderly couples played mahjong under bamboo groves, students read poetry near the riverbank, and a group of grandmothers practiced a slow, rhythmic fan dance. I bought a paper cup of gǒng zhū chá—jasmine pearl tea—from a sidewalk vendor and sat on a stone bench, letting the floral warmth soothe my still-tingling mouth.

Dinner was non-negotiable: Chen Mapo Tofu, the original branch on Hualin Street. Opened in 1862, this place is legendary. The story goes that the founder, a pockmarked woman named Chen, created the dish to feed laborers needing cheap, hearty meals. Today, it’s a pilgrimage site for food lovers. I arrived at 6:15 and still waited 40 minutes, but the moment I tasted the dish, I understood why.

The tofu was silken, trembling under a glossy, rust-red sauce that shimmered with oil and specks of fermented black beans. Ground pork added richness, while scallions offered a fresh bite. And then—the numbness again. That signature málà (numb and spicy) sensation flooded my mouth, not punishing, but precise, like a well-composed piece of music. I ordered a side of kòng xīn cài (water spinach stir-fried with garlic) to balance it, plus a bowl of steamed rice—essential for surviving Sichuan heat.

After dinner, I walked along Anshunlang Bridge, where the night market was coming alive. Strings of red lanterns glowed above food carts selling zhá kuí huā chóng (fried silkworm pupae—yes, I tried one, crunchy with a bitter aftertaste), bāo zǐ stuffed with spicy cabbage, and táng hú lu—candied hawthorn skewers glistening like jewels. I bought a small bag of longyan bǐng (dragon eye cookies), sweet and crumbly, perfect with tea.

Back at the guesthouse, Auntie Li was waiting with a pot of píng hé chá, a mild herbal blend meant to calm digestion. We chatted about her childhood in Ya’an, where her mother made là ròu (cured pork) every winter. “People think Sichuan food is all fire,” she said, stirring her tea. “But real cooking knows when to burn and when to rest.”

Her words stayed with me as I wrote tonight’s notes. Because Chengdu, for all its reputation of relentless spice, also teaches balance. It’s in the way vendors offer sugar water with their spiciest dishes, or how parks bloom with quiet moments between bites of chaos. It’s in the rhythm of the city—fast, flavorful, but never without pause.

Practical Tips for Future Food Explorers:

Transport: High-speed rail from Chongqing to Chengdu takes ~1.5 hours. Tickets cost around ¥100–150. Use DiDi or the metro (Line 4 stops near Kuanzhai).Budget: I spent about ¥350 total today—¥180 for train, ¥120 for guesthouse (shared bathroom), ¥50 on food.Must-Try Dishes: Dan dan mian (spicy noodle soup) – try at Lai Tang Yuan near Chunxi Road. Chuan chuan xiang – look for stalls with metal baskets of raw skewers. Mapo tofu – original Chen’s location only. Avoid copycat spots. Dòu huā – savory version is breakfast or snack gold. Best Time to Visit: Late morning (10–11 a.m.) or early evening (6–8 p.m.) to avoid crowds and catch peak cooking energy.Pro Tip: Carry small bills (¥1–10). Many street vendors don’t accept digital payments—or if they do, prefer WeChat over Alipay.

As I write this, the city hums softly outside. Somewhere, a wok sizzles. A grandmother calls her grandson home. And my tongue, still faintly buzzing from the day’s adventures, reminds me: this is what travel should taste like—not just new flavors, but lived ones.

Tomorrow, I head to a village outside Dujiangyan for homemade yú xiāng ròu sī (fish-fragrant shredded pork) and a rice wine tasting. But tonight, I’m full—in stomach, in soul, in gratitude.

Until the next bite,
Mei 🍜