Today began with the kind of chill that only a winter morning in Sichuan can deliver—damp, crisp air wrapping around you like a damp towel, and the faint scent of chili oil and fermented broad bean paste already floating through alleyways before 7 a.m. I’ve been in Chengdu for just over 48 hours, but it already feels like home. Maybe it’s the way strangers nod at you from their bamboo chairs in tea houses, or how every corner seems to hide a wok sizzling with cumin-laced lamb skewers. This trip was never about grand monuments or tourist checklists. No, this was a pilgrimage—for flavor, for texture, for the soul-deep warmth that only real Sichuan food can give.
I arrived Saturday night after a quick high-speed train ride from Kunming (another city I’ll write about soon—its flower markets and bridge-crossing noodles deserve their own chapter). But Chengdu? It’s different. It moves slower. People linger. They sip jasmine tea while feeding scraps to stray cats under plane trees. And they eat—oh, how they eat—with intention, joy, and zero apologies for spice levels that would make a Texan weep.
Day One: The Hunt for Dan Dan Noodles & Hidden Alley Delights
My first stop on Sunday wasn’t a restaurant. It was a street corner near Kuanzhai Xiangzi, one of those unmarked stalls where an auntie in a floral apron stands over a pot so blackened with years of use it looks like it’s seen dynasties rise and fall. She sells dan dan mian—but not the kind you get in sanitized food courts. Hers come in small blue porcelain bowls, topped with a tangle of hand-pulled noodles, minced pork fried crisp with Sichuan peppercorns, a spoonful of red oil that glistens like lava, and a whisper of preserved mustard greens.
I paid 8 RMB (about $1.10 USD), took a seat on a plastic stool barely taller than my knee, and dove in. The first bite hit me like a memory I didn’t know I had—numbing (mala), yes, but balanced. The heat didn’t dominate; it danced. The Sichuan pepper made my lips buzz, but the fermented doubanjiang (broad bean paste) added depth, and the slight sourness from the pickled greens cut through the richness. I finished it in under three minutes and immediately ordered another.
From there, I wandered into a residential neighborhood behind Jinli Road—a place most tourists miss. Here, breakfast isn’t jiaozi or congee. It’s congyoubing, scallion pancakes pressed thin and fried until golden, served with a side of soy-vinegar dip. I found a tiny shop where an elderly couple worked in silent sync: she kneaded dough, he slapped it onto the griddle with practiced precision. Each pancake cost 3 RMB. I ate mine walking down the lane, flaky shards falling onto my coat, utterly content.
By noon, I was at Chen Mapo Tofu, the original location near Renmin Park. You can’t talk about Sichuan cuisine without mentioning mapo doufu. This version—silken tofu bathed in a crimson sauce of ground pork, fermented black beans, and enough chili oil to start a fire—is legendary. The dish arrived steaming, crowned with a fine dusting of bright red chili flakes and crushed Sichuan peppercorns. I mixed it thoroughly, letting the sauce coat every soft cube. Paired with a bowl of hot white rice (a must—never eat mapo tofu alone!), it was comfort and chaos in one bite. Total cost: 26 RMB. Worth every penny.
But the real revelation came later that evening in a narrow alley off Taisheng North Road—a spot locals call “Xiaochi Jie,” or “Little Eats Street.” No neon signs, no influencers filming TikToks. Just families huddled around foldable tables, sharing dishes off metal trays. I tried chuanr (spiced lamb skewers), grilled over charcoal and dusted with cumin, chili, and coriander. Each skewer was 2 RMB. I had ten. I also sampled feichang—pig intestine stir-fried with leeks and garlic—that somehow tasted clean, earthy, and deeply savory. And then there was liangfen, cold jelly noodles made from mung bean starch, drenched in sesame sauce, vinegar, and chili oil. Refreshing, spicy, and perfect for cutting through the heaviness of the day’s feast.
I ended the night with tangyuan—glutinous rice balls filled with black sesame paste—from an old woman who ladled them into a sweet ginger broth. 10 RMB for a bowl. As I sat on a low bench, steam rising from the bowl into the cold air, I watched a group of teenagers laugh over shared skewers, an old man sip baijiu from a paper cup, and a dog nap beneath a table littered with toothpicks. This wasn’t tourism. This was life.
Day Two: Rice Bowls, River Views, and the Art of Eating Slowly
Monday started quieter. I took the subway to Wuhou District, where a small family-run place called Lao Cheng Yi Mi Fan Dian (“Old Town One Rice Bowl”) has been serving lunch since 1987. No English menu. No online reservation. Just a chalkboard in Chinese and a grandmother who nods when you point.
I ordered what the man next to me was eating: yu xiang rou si (shredded pork in garlic sauce) over rice, with a side of sour fish soup made with wild grass carp from the Min River. The pork dish was textbook yu xiang—“fish-fragrant” despite containing no fish—balanced between sweet, sour, salty, and spicy, with wood ear mushrooms adding crunch. The soup was tart and warming, with slices of tomato, tofu, and fresh dill floating on top. Total: 32 RMB.
After lunch, I walked along the Fu River, camera in hand. The light was soft, golden, catching the ripples in the water and the silhouettes of willow trees leaning toward the current. I photographed a man fishing with a bamboo rod, a child blowing bubbles near a stone bridge, and a street vendor frying jianbing (savory crepes) on a flat griddle. These aren’t just photos. They’re fragments of a rhythm—the way Chengdu lives, eats, breathes.
For dinner, I treated myself to a proper Sichuan hot pot at Haidilao, not because it’s trendy, but because I wanted to experience the full ritual. Yes, they offer free manicures and phone charging while you wait (which I actually used—my fingers were dry from the winter air), but the food? Impeccable. I went for the split broth—one side fiery red with chilies and Sichuan pepper, the other milky chicken bone clear soup. I dipped thinly sliced beef, lotus root, enoki mushrooms, and handmade fish balls. Every ingredient tasted brighter, cleaner, because the broth elevated it without drowning it.
And here’s a tip: don’t skip the sesame sauce dip. Mix it with a splash of the clear broth, a dash of garlic, and a little cilantro. It cools the heat and adds creaminess. Also, order sweet red bean soup for dessert. It’s humble, warm, and the perfect reset after two hours of spice warfare.
Final Thoughts: More Than Just Food
As I sit in my hostel tonight, typing this with slightly numb lips and a very happy stomach, I realize something: traveling through China’s regional cuisines isn’t just about checking cities off a list. It’s about learning how people live—one bowl, one bite, one shared table at a time.
Chengdu taught me to slow down. To savor the pause between bites. To appreciate the auntie who remembers your order. To embrace the burn, not as punishment, but as pleasure. And to always, always carry tissues—both for your nose and for wiping chili oil off your chin.
Next month? I’m thinking Xi’an for its Muslim Quarter and hand-pulled beef noodles. But for now, I’ll dream of red oil, buzzing peppercorns, and the sound of woks singing in the night.
Until the next journey,
—Mei
(Traveler, eater, note-taker, and proud owner of a slightly singed taste bud)