The morning sun peeked through the thin winter haze as I boarded the high-speed train from Chengdu East Station at 8:15 AM. My backpack was light—just my camera, a notebook, a power bank, and a reusable water bottle—but my stomach was already rumbling in anticipation. Today was all about food. Not fancy fusion or Instagrammable desserts, but real, unfiltered Sichuan flavors: the kind that make your nose run, your eyes water, and your soul sing.

Leshan, just an hour south of Chengdu by bullet train, is best known for its giant Buddha carved into the cliffside overlooking the confluence of three rivers. But for me, it’s always been about the street food. While tourists flock to the temple complex, I had other plans—mapping the city’s culinary heartbeat, one spicy bite at a time.

By 9:30 AM, I was wandering through Jiabei Snack Street (嘉佰小吃街), a narrow lane tucked behind the old market district. The air was thick with the scent of cumin, chili oil, and sizzling pork fat. Steam rose from bamboo baskets piled high with baozi, and vendors shouted over each other, flipping skewers on glowing charcoal grills. I started simple: a plate of dan dan mian from a tiny stall run by an elderly woman named Auntie Li, who’s been serving this same recipe since 1998.

Her version wasn’t overly saucy like some I’ve tried in Chengdu. Instead, it was balanced—a tangle of chewy noodles topped with a crumble of minced pork stir-fried in fermented black beans and doubanjiang, then finished with a spoonful of fiery red oil, crushed peanuts, and scallions. She handed me a small bowl of broth on the side (“To cool the fire,” she winked), and I understood why locals come here before work. It’s comfort, heat, and spice in perfect harmony. Total cost? Just 8 RMB (~$1.10).

I snapped a few photos—Auntie Li mid-stir, the golden glow of chili oil catching the morning light—and jotted down notes: “Order extra oil if you like heat. Broth is mild chicken-based. Eat standing up; there are no chairs.” This is how I travel now—not just tasting, but documenting. Every meal feels like a story waiting to be told.

By noon, I made my way to Fuhua Rice Noodles (福华米线), a family-run shop near the riverbank that’s famous for its sour fish rice noodles. The dish originated in Guizhou but has been adapted here with Sichuan flair. The broth—tart from pickled mustard greens and tomatoes, numbing from Sichuan peppercorns—arrived steaming in a clay pot, with tender slices of river fish, mushrooms, and a nest of slippery rice noodles. I added a spoonful of their house-made chili crisp, and within seconds, my forehead glistened.

The owner, Mr. Zhang, sat nearby drinking tea and watching customers react. “First time?” he asked in Mandarin. I nodded, wiping sweat with a paper napkin. He laughed. “You’ll come back. Everyone does.” And I believed him. The sourness cuts through the richness, the spice lingers without overwhelming, and the fish—fresh from the Min River—has a clean, almost sweet taste. Total: 15 RMB (~$2.10).

After lunch, I walked along the river toward the Giant Buddha. The climb was steep, and the wind off the water was sharp, but the view—of the ancient stone face, serene despite centuries of weathering—was worth every breath. Tourists crowded the viewing platforms, but I slipped away to a quieter path where local vendors sold bing tang hu lu—candied hawthorn skewers glazed in amber sugar. I bought one for 6 RMB, the crunch satisfying against the cold air.

Back in the city center by 4 PM, I headed to Zhengongqiao Market, a bustling wet market by day that transforms into a night food bazaar. This is where locals eat. No English menus, no filtered lights—just raw, vibrant energy. I spotted a stall with a line snaking around the corner: Old Liu’s Spicy Cold Noodles (老刘凉面).

The dish looked plain—yellow noodles tossed with dark soy, garlic water, sesame paste, and a river of red oil—but the flavor was anything but. The first bite hit me with garlic punch, then nutty sesame, then slow-building heat. I watched as Old Liu (who didn’t look a day under 70) mixed each order by hand, tossing the noodles vigorously in a metal bowl before adding chopped cucumber and cilantro. “No sugar,” he told me when I asked. “Just spice, salt, and soul.” 10 RMB (~$1.40). I ate it leaning against a motorcycle, laughing as a stray dog eyed my last bite.

As dusk fell, I found a quiet spot at Huangshidun Road, where food carts lit up like little lanterns. I wanted one last iconic Sichuan experience: spicy rabbit head (lazi tu zi tou). Yes, rabbit head. I’d heard stories—how the brave suck the brain, gnaw the cheeks, savor the cartilage. I ordered one from a vendor wearing thick gloves (his hands stained red from years of handling chilies).

It arrived on a paper plate, drenched in dried chilies and Sichuan peppercorns. I hesitated, then followed the lead of the man next to me—a local in a leather jacket—who cracked open the skull with his fingers and went straight for the eye socket. Gross? Maybe. Delicious? Undeniably. The meat was tender, infused with spice and numbing warmth. The brain was creamy, almost like pâté. I couldn’t finish it all, but I tried more than I thought possible. 18 RMB (~$2.50) for something most people wouldn’t dare touch.

By 8 PM, I was stuffed, slightly numb, and utterly happy. I ended the night at a 24-hour congee shop near my hostel, ordering plain rice porridge to soothe my battered stomach. The owner, a young woman studying nursing, brought me a small dish of pickled vegetables “for digestion.” We chatted in broken English and Mandarin—I told her about my travels, she told me about her dream of moving to Hangzhou.

Sitting there, spooning warm congee under the hum of fluorescent lights, I realized something: food isn’t just fuel. In places like Leshan, it’s memory, identity, connection. It’s how grandmas pass down recipes, how strangers become friends over shared skewers, how a city reveals itself not through monuments, but through the way it eats.

Tomorrow I’ll return to Chengdu, to classes and textbooks and the rhythm of campus life. But tonight, I carry Leshan with me—not just in my full belly, but in my notebook, my photos, and the quiet joy of having tasted a place deeply, honestly, one bold bite at a time.

Travel Tips for Future Food Explorers:

Take the early G-train from Chengdu East (book via Trip.com or 12306 app). Wear comfortable shoes—Leshan’s streets are uneven. Bring cash (small bills) for street vendors. If spice scares you, ask for “wei la” (slightly spicy) instead of “te la.” Visit Jiabei Snack Street in the morning, Zhengongqiao at night. Don’t skip the congee at the end. Your stomach will thank you.

Until next month—perhaps Hunan, perhaps Yunnan. The map is wide, the flavors endless. And I’m just getting started.