Today began with the kind of chill that only deep winter in Sichuan can bring—one that seeps into your bones no matter how many layers you wear. I woke up in my tiny guesthouse near Wuhou Shrine just after 7 a.m., the sky still wrapped in a soft gray blanket. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and chili oil, a scent so distinctly Chengdu it almost felt like home. I’ve been here since yesterday afternoon, and already, this city has wrapped itself around me like a heavy quilt—warm, slightly spicy, and impossible to ignore.

I’m on a two-day mission: dive deep into Chengdu’s street food culture, track down hidden gem rice restaurants, and understand how locals truly eat their Sichuan cuisine—not the watered-down versions served to tourists, but the real deal. No map apps, no curated food tours. Just walking, watching, asking, tasting.

By 8 a.m., I was at Jinli Street, not for the souvenir stalls or photo ops, but for breakfast. Tourists flood this place by mid-morning, but early? It belongs to the locals. I followed an old man in a wool cap into a narrow alley behind the main drag and found myself at a steaming cart where a woman in a red apron was folding zhongshui dumplings—small, juicy pork parcels swimming in a slick of red oil, garlic, and fermented black beans. “One portion?” she asked, already scooping them onto a paper plate. I nodded, handed over 8 RMB, and stood under a dripping eave eating dumplings so flavorful I nearly forgot the cold.

What surprised me wasn’t just the taste—it was the rhythm. People weren’t lingering. They ate fast, wiped their mouths, and walked off, clutching plastic bags of groceries or heading to work. Food here isn’t an event; it’s fuel, comfort, ritual—all at once.

From Jinli, I took the subway to Kuanzhai Alley, but skipped the touristy courtyards. Instead, I wandered into Xiaohe Street, a quiet lane lined with family-run eateries. There, tucked between a tailor shop and a tea stall, I found Lao Ma’s Rice Bowl—a no-sign spot known only by its number on Dianping (Chinese Yelp). Inside, six plastic tables, a ceiling fan spinning lazily, and a chalkboard menu written in thick Sichuan dialect.

I ordered the huo mian tang—a fiery beef noodle soup—and the house special: doubanjiang rice with braised pork belly. When the rice arrived, it wasn’t fancy. Just a bowl of steamed jasmine rice topped with a spoonful of savory, fermented broad bean paste, shredded pork, and pickled vegetables. But the first bite? Mind-blowing. Salty, umami-rich, with a slow-building heat that made my forehead sweat. The lady behind the counter saw me pause, eyes wide. She laughed. “La bu la? Spicy?” I nodded, grinning. “Hen la… hen hao chi! Very spicy… very delicious!”

That became my mantra for the day.

After lunch, I headed east toward Tiebei Road, rumored to be one of Chengdu’s last true chengbian (city-edge) markets. It’s not on any official tourism map. I got there by hopping on bus 48 after asking a fruit vendor for directions. The market sprawled across three blocks—live frogs in buckets, stacks of dried mushrooms, mountains of fresh green garlic chives, and rows of chili peppers strung like holiday lights.

I spent an hour just watching. An old woman pounded douchi (fermented black beans) in a stone mortar. A butcher hacked pork ribs with terrifying precision. And everywhere, the smell—of cumin, star anise, Sichuan peppercorns roasting in woks. I bought a small bag of hand-ground huajiao (Sichuan pepper) from a vendor who insisted I try a single kernel. My lips went numb within seconds. “Good anesthesia,” she joked, tapping her front teeth.

By 4 p.m., I was ready for tea—and recovery. I found a quiet corner at Heming Tea House in Renmin Park, ordered jasmine pu’er, and sat by the window, watching people play mahjong under striped umbrellas. A trio of elderly women sang Sichuan opera snippets while feeding breadcrumbs to sparrows. For a moment, the spice faded, the noise softened, and I just breathed. This is why I travel: not just for the food, but for these pockets of peace in the middle of sensory overload.

Dinner was non-negotiable: Chen Mapo Tofu, the original 1862 location near Chunxi Road. Not the chain. Not the copycats. The Mapo Tofu. I arrived at 6:15—just in time to snag the last seat at the counter. The kitchen is open, so I watched the chef toss silken tofu cubes with minced pork, doubanjiang, and a rain of crushed red chilies. He finished it with a final sprinkle of ground Sichuan pepper and a drizzle of bright red oil.

When it arrived, the dish shimmered. I mixed it gently, letting the sauce coat each piece of tofu. The first bite sent a wave of ma la—numbing and spicy—through my mouth. It wasn’t painful. It was euphoric. I ate it with a side of plain rice and a cold Tsingtao beer, exactly as the couple next to me did. No words. Just nods of approval.

After dinner, I walked along the Jinjiang River, the city lights reflecting on the dark water. I stopped at a night stall selling congyoubing—scallion pancakes fried crisp and folded into paper cones. The vendor, a young guy with earbuds in, handed me one without a word. “For free,” he said when I reached for my wallet. “You look like you earned it.” I didn’t argue.

Back at the guesthouse now, feet sore, stomach full, fingers still slightly sticky from chili oil. I’m sipping warm water with ginger, trying to calm the fire in my throat. My notebook is filled with scribbles:

This trip reminded me of something important: food isn’t just about flavor. It’s about people, routine, history. In Chengdu, every bite tells a story—of monsoon seasons, of mountain trade routes, of grandmothers teaching daughters how to balance ma, la, and xian (spicy, numbing, salty). And yes, it’s also about surviving a meal that makes your nose run and your eyes water—but in the best possible way.

Tomorrow, I’ll take a morning train to Dujiangyan, explore the ancient irrigation system, and hunt for zhongzi (sticky rice dumplings) sold by river vendors. But tonight? Tonight, I earned my rest. And maybe, just maybe, a glass of milk before bed. This Sichuan fire doesn’t quit easily.

Until tomorrow,
Mei
(Traveling Student | Future Food Anthropologist?)