It’s late Saturday evening, and I’m curled up on the couch in my Chengdu dorm, still buzzing from two days packed with flavor, misty mountain air, and the kind of chaotic charm only small-town Sichuan can offer. The scent of cumin and chili oil seems to have embedded itself into my jacket—proof, perhaps, that food here doesn’t just feed the stomach; it leaves a mark on your skin, your memory, your soul.
This month’s travel mission? Dive deep into Sichuan’s culinary heartland beyond Chengdu’s famous hotpot alleys. So this weekend, I packed my camera, a lightweight raincoat (because let’s be honest, December in Sichuan means damp chill and surprise drizzles), and headed out—first to Leshan for its legendary street eats, then back toward Chengdu via the ancient water town of Huanglongxi, where time moves slower, but the snacks are just as bold.
Day 1: Leshan – Where Buddha Smiles and Bellies Grow
I caught an early high-speed train from Chengdu East Station to Leshan—just 45 minutes and 65 RMB one way. Fast, clean, efficient. Perfect for a student budget and tight schedule. As soon as I stepped off the platform, the city welcomed me not with grand monuments, but with smoke curling from roadside grills and the sizzle of skewers hitting hot iron.
My first stop? Leshan Gongyuan Street (Leshan Park Road Snack Street). It’s not fancy—just a narrow lane lined with tiny stalls under red lanterns—but locals swear by it. And after today, so do I.
I started with Leshan Tiao Tiao Ji—a local specialty that’s like cold chicken salad turned up to eleven. Shredded poached chicken, tossed with heaps of crushed Sichuan peppercorns, dried chili flakes, garlic, sesame oil, and a splash of vinegar. The magic is in the texture: numbing (mala), tangy, and slightly oily in the best possible way. I watched the vendor stir it in a giant wooden bowl with practiced hands. One plate: 18 RMB. Worth every penny—and every sneeze (yes, the chili hit hard).
Next, douban fish on a stick. Yes, you read that right. Fresh river fish fillets coated in fermented broad bean paste (doubanjiang), skewered, and grilled over charcoal. The sauce caramelizes into a sticky, savory crust. I stood at the counter, shivering slightly in the morning fog, taking bite after smoky bite. 10 RMB for two skewers. Simple, rustic, unforgettable.
By noon, I hiked up to the Giant Buddha of Leshan, carving through thick forest paths and stone steps worn smooth by centuries. The view from the top—of the Min River snaking below and the Buddha’s serene face emerging from the cliff—is humbling. But honestly? I was more excited about what came after: lunch at a family-run midian (rice shop) tucked behind the temple grounds.
The place had no English name, just a faded red sign: “老张饭馆” (Old Zhang’s Restaurant). Inside, plastic stools, steaming pots, and an elderly woman dishing out bowls with military precision. I pointed at what the locals were eating: bangbang ji (pounded chicken) with rice and pickled vegetables. She nodded, handed me a bowl of broth-heavy sour cabbage fish soup too. Total cost? 32 RMB.
The bangbang ji was tender, shredded by hand and mixed with a potent sauce of chili oil, garlic, and cilantro. The fish soup—tart, spicy, warming—was exactly what my damp clothes and tired legs needed. I sat by the open kitchen, watching steam rise from the woks, listening to rapid-fire Sichuanese banter. No one spoke English, but smiles bridged the gap.
Before catching the bus back toward Chengdu, I made one last stop: a roadside cart selling ye ye bing—grandma’s pancakes. Hand-pressed dough, stuffed with scallions and lard (yes, lard—don’t knock it till you’ve tried it), pan-fried until golden and flaky. 5 RMB. Crispy outside, soft inside, rich without being greasy. I ate it walking to the station, letting the crumbs fall onto the wet pavement like edible breadcrumbs.
Day 2: Huanglongxi – Ancient Alleys and Steamed Secrets
I didn’t go far today—just 50 km south of Chengdu to Huanglongxi, an ancient water town dating back over 1,700 years. Took a Didi shared ride (38 RMB) from my hostel, arriving by 9:30 a.m. Unlike the tourist-heavy crowds of nearby Luodai or Huanglongxi’s own peak seasons, December offered quiet charm: moss-covered bricks, willow branches trailing into canals, and the occasional duck paddling past teahouses.
Huanglongxi isn’t known for haute cuisine, but for humble, old-school snacks passed down through generations. And that’s exactly what I craved.
I wandered into a courtyard restaurant called He Family Old Workshop, where a grandmotherly figure stood over a bamboo steamer. On the menu: huo gen er—a chewy, translucent noodle made from fern starch, served cold with a fiery sauce. It looked unassuming—like jelly strips in red oil—but the first bite exploded with heat and earthiness. 15 RMB. I drank three cups of green tea afterward.
Then, zongzi—but not the usual glutinous rice pyramid. Here, they make a savory version stuffed with minced pork, salted egg yolk, and mushrooms, wrapped in reed leaves. Steamed for hours. I bought one from a tiny stall near the old bridge. 12 RMB. The rice was perfectly sticky, the filling rich and umami. I ate it sitting on a stone bench, watching a man feed bread to koi fish in the canal.
For lunch, I tried something new: Chengdu-style dry noodles (gan mian) at a no-name shop near the west gate. No tables, just a counter and a pot of boiling water. The owner tossed fresh alkaline noodles with preserved vegetables, peanuts, scallions, and a dark, nutty sauce. No broth—just pure, concentrated flavor. 14 RMB. Simple, satisfying, and perfect for a chilly day when you want something quick but deeply comforting.
I spent the afternoon photographing the town—the arched bridges, the wooden shutters, laundry lines strung between houses. I even joined a short folk dance performance in the square, laughing as I misstepped the traditional moves. Later, I treated myself to dan dan mian from a street cart—this version had actual minced pork (not just sauce), and a poached egg cracked on top. The yolk ran into the chili oil like liquid gold. 16 RMB.
Reflections & Tips for Fellow Travelers
As I write this, sipping jasmine tea and scrolling through today’s photos, I realize how much these short trips ground me. Between lectures on hospitality management and group projects, these weekends remind me why I chose this major: to connect people with places, flavors, and stories.
If you’re planning a similar food-focused escape in Sichuan, here’s what I’d suggest:
Travel light, eat often. Portion sizes are small, prices low. Try everything in small doses.Carry cash. Many street vendors don’t take WeChat Pay or Alipay if you’re using a foreign-linked card.Embrace the mala. Sichuan peppercorns aren’t just spice—they’re a sensation. Let your palate adjust.Go early. Best street food sells out by midday. Arrive at snack streets before 10 a.m.Ask locals. Point, smile, say “rè de” (hot) or “suān de” (sour) to guide your choices.Total spending this weekend? Around 420 RMB, including transport, food, and one 60 RMB guesthouse night in Leshan. For two days of immersive culture and unforgettable meals, that’s a steal.
Back in Chengdu now, I already feel the pull of next month’s destination—Guangzhou, for dim sum and roast meats. But tonight, I’m dreaming of cumin-scented breezes, the clang of woks, and the quiet pride in a grandmother’s eyes as she serves you her family’s recipe.
Sichuan doesn’t just feed you. It welcomes you—spicy, loud, messy, and utterly alive.
Until next bite,
Mei 🌶️🍜📸