Today feels like the kind of day I’ll remember not just for what I ate, but for how it made me feel — warm, curious, a little dizzy from chili oil, and deeply connected to the rhythm of Sichuan life. After two full days wandering through the tangled alleys and bustling night markets of Chengdu and its nearby towns, my camera roll is overflowing with steaming bowls, wrinkled-faced grandmas flipping dough, and alley cats eyeing leftover dumplings. My stomach? Still humming from yesterday’s hotpot. But my mind is wide awake, replaying every bite, every conversation, every unexpected turn down a narrow lane that led to something unforgettable.

I arrived in Chengdu late Friday afternoon after a smooth three-hour bullet train ride from Chongqing, where I’d wrapped up last month’s food journey through Yunnan and Guizhou. This month’s theme: Sichuan Soul Food — not the touristy Kung Pao chicken or mapo tofu served with timid portions of spice, but the real deal: street-level cooking, family-run rice shops open at dawn, and dishes so regional they don’t even have names outside their hometowns.

My base was a small guesthouse tucked behind Jinli Ancient Street, far enough from the crowds to feel authentic, close enough that I could stumble back after dinner without getting lost. The owner, Auntie Li, greeted me with a bowl of warm jiang tang (ginger brown sugar tea) and a warning: “If you can’t handle mala, go home now.” I laughed — but by Saturday night, I understood exactly what she meant.

Saturday began before sunrise. At 6:30 a.m., I found myself in Wuhou District at a tiny stall called Lao Ma’s Breakfast Corner, recommended by a local student I met on a food forum. The queue already snaked around the corner — office workers, delivery riders, elderly couples clutching thermoses. No English signs. No menu. Just steam rising from giant pots and the rhythmic thud of a cleaver.

“What should I try?” I asked the woman in front of me, miming confusion.

She grinned. “Everything. But start with dan hang mian — egg drop noodles with pickled mustard greens and a spoonful of chili oil so red it looks like lava.”

The broth was light but deeply savory, cut through with the sour crunch of the greens and an escalating burn that built slowly, not all at once. By the third bite, my forehead glistened. An old man beside me handed me a folded napkin. “Sweat is part of the meal,” he said with a chuckle. I didn’t doubt him.

From there, I moved to Yulin Road Night Market, which, despite the name, starts buzzing by noon on weekends. Here, the air is thick with cumin, garlic, and the smoky perfume of grilling meat. I tried chuan’er — skewers of pork belly, quail eggs, and cartilage dusted with Sichuan peppercorns. The magic isn’t just in the heat, but in the numbness — that tingling, electric sensation on your tongue that makes you feel like you’re tasting sound. One vendor, a woman named Mei who’s been grilling since 1998, taught me the golden rule: “Don’t blow on it. Let the flavor sit. The spice should wake you up, not scare you away.”

By early afternoon, I took a short bus ride (just 12 RMB, about $1.70) to Huangshui Town, about 40 minutes southwest of downtown. This is where I found Zhang Family Rice Shop, a no-frills canteen-style place that opens at 10:30 a.m. and closes when the food runs out — usually by 1:00 p.m. Their specialty? Hui guo rou (twice-cooked pork) over freshly steamed rice, served with house-pickled vegetables and a free ladle of bone broth.

The dining room had plastic stools and a ceiling fan fighting a losing battle against the kitchen’s heat. I sat across from a construction worker who pointed at my notebook. “Writing a book?” he asked.

“In a way,” I said. “I’m studying hospitality, and I want to share how real people eat here.”

He nodded. “Then write this: the best meals aren’t fancy. They’re hot, cheap, and made by someone who’s done it every day for twenty years.”

He wasn’t wrong. The pork was tender, smoky, and layered with fermented black beans and green peppers. The rice — perfectly sticky, slightly sweet. Total cost: 18 RMB ($2.50). I left with a doggy bag (a rarity in China, but Auntie Zhang insisted) and a heart full of quiet gratitude.

Back in the city by evening, I met up with Lin, a fellow student from Sichuan University’s tourism program, who offered to take me to a hidden hotpot spot — not one of the neon-lit chains, but a family-run joint in a residential complex off Taisheng Road. No website. No English menu. Just a chalkboard and a bubbling cauldron of red oil that looked like it could dissolve metal.

Lin explained the etiquette: “Dip, swirl, taste. Don’t overcook. And never mix raw meats with cooked ones. We care about hygiene, even if it doesn’t look like it.”

We ordered lamb slices, handmade fish balls, lotus root, and gong bao mushrooms — a local variety with a spongy texture that soaks up broth like a flavor sponge. The broth itself was a masterpiece: numbing from Sichuan peppercorns, fiery from dried chilies, and subtly sweet from rock sugar. After ten minutes, my lips felt like they were vibrating. After twenty, I was laughing uncontrollably — partly from endorphins, partly because Lin dared me to eat a whole dried chili “for luck.”

Surprisingly, I survived. And oddly, I wanted more.

Today, Sunday, was quieter. A recovery day, both for my stomach and my senses. I started with cong you bing (scallion pancakes) from a cart near Renmin Park, where retirees played mahjong and practiced tai chi under gingko trees. Then, I visited the Sichuan Cuisine Museum in Pixian — yes, such a place exists! It’s a sprawling complex dedicated to the history, tools, and techniques of Sichuan cooking. I learned that doubanjiang (broad bean paste), the soul of so many dishes, ferments for up to three years in clay jars under the sun. I even tried my hand at making zhong shui dumplings — though mine looked more like sad, lopsided pouches than the elegant pleated crescents of the instructor.

Before heading back to my dorm, I stopped at a tiny shop selling spiced peanuts — roasted, salted, and tossed with star anise and dried tangerine peel. The owner, a soft-spoken man in his sixties, told me these were his father’s recipe. “Food remembers,” he said. “Even when people forget, the taste stays.”

That line stuck with me.

As I sit here tonight, typing with slightly trembling fingers (the aftermath of two days of relentless spice), I realize this trip was never just about checking off dishes or collecting photos. It was about connection — to place, to people, to tradition. In a world where travel can feel performative, where we chase Instagrammable moments, Chengdu reminded me to slow down, to taste deeply, to listen.

And next month? I’m thinking Shaanxi — Xi’an’s alleyways, biangbiang noodles slapping against marble counters, persimmon cakes drying in autumn sun. But for now, I’ll rest. Maybe sip some chrysanthemum tea. And dream of chili oil.

Until the next road,
— Me, somewhere between hunger and wonder