Today marks the end of a deeply satisfying weekend—one filled with sizzling woks, fragrant alleyways, and the kind of food-induced joy that only Chengdu can deliver. As I sit by my window back in my dorm, still slightly buzzed from yesterday’s chili-laced meals, I can’t help but smile at the memories of smoky streets, wrinkled-faced aunties flipping pancakes on iron griddles, and the rhythmic thump-thump of cleavers slicing through pork belly behind glass counters.
This month’s mission? Dive into Sichuan’s soul—not just its famous hot pot or mapo tofu—but the everyday food rituals that locals live by. My focus: two days of culinary wandering across Chengdu and its quieter satellite towns, hunting for authentic snacks, humble rice dishes, and the real deal when it comes to how people here actually eat.
Saturday Morning: Wide-eyed in Wuhou, Hunting Jianbing & Zhongshui Dumplings
I started early—6:30 a.m.—at a tucked-away lane near Wuhou Temple, where morning fog still clung to the rooftops like soft cotton. The air smelled of soy sauce, sesame paste, and something faintly fermented. This is where breakfast happens: not in cafes, but on foldable stools beside steaming carts.
My first stop: a tiny jianbing stand run by a woman named Auntie Liu. Jianbing—the northern Chinese crepe—isn’t native to Sichuan, but over the years, it’s been reimagined here with local flair. Hers came with a generous smear of spicy broad bean paste (doubanjiang), crispy fried shallots, cilantro, and a whisper of Sichuan pepper that danced on the tongue before you even took a bite. “Add egg?” she asked. I nodded. She cracked two. “One’s never enough,” she said, grinning.
As I stood there, folding the crepe like a burrito, watching her work with practiced speed, I realized this wasn’t just food—it was performance. Every movement had rhythm: spread, crack, flip, fold. And the taste? Crispy edges, chewy center, savory-sweet heat that woke up every corner of my mouth. Cost? Just 6 RMB (about $0.80 USD). I nearly cried it was so good.
By 8 a.m., I was at Zhongshui Dumpling House, a no-frills family-run spot in a residential compound off Tongzilin. This place has no English signage, no Instagrammable decor—just 12 plastic tables and a chalkboard menu written in cursive Chinese. But word on the street? Best chao shou (Sichuan-style wontons) in the city.
I ordered the classic red oil wontons—delicate dumplings swimming in a glossy, crimson broth made from chili oil, garlic water, black vinegar, and a hint of sugar. The first spoonful hit me like a flavor bomb: numbing, tangy, spicy, sweet—all balanced perfectly. The wrappers were thin but held firm; the pork filling juicy and seasoned with ginger and green onion. Around me, office workers slurped loudly, nodding in approval. I followed suit.
Pro tip: ask for extra hua jiao (Sichuan peppercorns) if you want that full-body tingle. Also, pair it with a side of pickled long beans—they cut through the richness beautifully.
Saturday Afternoon: Into the Countryside — Shuangliu and the Art of the Claypot Rice
By noon, I hopped on a Didi express (about 45 minutes, 75 RMB) to Shuangliu, a suburban district southwest of Chengdu known more for its airport than its food—wrong. Locals know better.
Here, tucked between rice paddies and old farmhouses, lies Old Li’s Claypot Kitchen, a low-key joint that only opens weekends. It’s famous for one thing: baozi fan—claypot rice with preserved meats.
The restaurant is literally a converted shed. Long wooden tables, ceiling fans spinning lazily, chickens clucking in the yard next door. I arrived just as Old Li pulled a pot from the stove—smoke curling from the lid, rice crust crackling audibly.
He lifted the lid. Oh. My. God.
Inside: layers of jasmine rice, thick slices of la chang (spicy cured sausage), tender lap cheong, smoked bacon, and chunks of marinated chicken, all steamed together until the bottom formed a golden, crunchy guoba (rice crust). He drizzled it with dark soy sauce and handed me a spoon.
I dug in. The crust shattered like pottery. The rice below was fluffy, infused with meaty essence and smoke. Each bite was different—sometimes fatty, sometimes chewy, sometimes crunchy. I didn’t speak for ten minutes. I couldn’t.
Cost? 32 RMB per person. They also serve a simple bitter melon soup to balance the richness. Drink it. Trust me.
After lunch, I wandered the nearby village, snapping photos of drying chilies hung on bamboo racks, old men playing mahjong under awnings, and ducks waddling down muddy lanes. No tourists. Just life. Real life.
Saturday Night: Hot Pot, But Not the One You Think
Back in Chengdu by 6 p.m., I headed to Yulin Road, a local favorite for late-night eats. Forget the flashy chains—real Chengdu hot pot happens in cramped, neon-lit rooms where the air is thick with steam and laughter.
I found Lao Ma’s Spicy Den, a hole-in-the-wall with plastic chairs and a single communal table. The broth? A deep, murky red, bubbling violently. “Regular spicy?” I asked. The owner laughed. “We don’t do ‘regular’ here. Only mala.” (Numbing-spicy.)
I braved it.
Into the pot went sliced beef tripe, lotus root, enoki mushrooms, tofu skins, and—my personal favorite—duck blood cubes. Everything cooked fast. Too fast. By minute three, the broth was already screaming with heat.
But here’s the secret: the dipping sauce. At Lao Ma’s, they give you a small bowl with minced garlic, scallions,香菜 (cilantro), a splash of sesame oil, and a ladle of the broth itself. Dip lightly. Let the flavors layer.
And yes, it burned. My nose ran. My forehead glistened. But I kept going. Because once the initial fire passed, a warmth spread through my chest—a kind of edible hug. And the textures! The tripe—snappy. The duck blood—silky, almost custard-like. The lotus root—crisp with honeycomb holes soaking up spice.
By the end, I was sweaty, satisfied, and slightly delirious. Total bill: 88 RMB. Worth every penny.
Sunday Morning: Reflections Over Tea and Tangyuan
Today, I slept in—until 9:30—and treated myself to a slow morning at Heming Teahouse in People’s Park. No laptops, no rush. Just a pot of jasmine tea, a notebook, and a bowl of warm tangyuan—glutinous rice balls stuffed with black sesame paste, floating in sweet ginger syrup.
As I stirred the syrup, watching the little balls bob like buoys, I thought about what makes Chengdu’s food culture so special. It’s not just the spice. It’s the accessibility. The intimacy. The fact that the best meals happen on sidewalks, in alleys, behind laundry lines.
You don’t need reservations. You don’t need reviews. You just need curiosity.
And courage.
Because eating in Chengdu isn’t passive. It’s participatory. You point. You gesture. You say “辣少点” (less spicy, please) and then immediately regret it when the dish arrives mild and you miss the magic.
Final Thoughts & Travel Tips for Fellow Food Explorers
If you’re planning a short food trip to Chengdu, here’s what I’ve learned:
Start early. The best breakfasts vanish by 9 a.m.Carry cash. Many small vendors don’t take WeChat Pay or Alipay (yes, really).Embrace the numb. Sichuan pepper isn’t heat—it’s vibration. Let it happen.Bring wet wipes. Your fingers (and face) will get messy. Beautifully so.Ask locals. Point at what someone else is eating. Nine times out of ten, it’s good.Hydrate. Keep water or barley tea handy. You’ll need it.Next month? I’m thinking Guizhou—steamed sour fish, glutinous rice wraps, and the mountain markets of Kaili. But for now, my stomach is full, my camera roll overflowing, and my soul quietly humming.
Until the next bite,
— Mei
Chengdu, China
December 28, 2025