Today is quiet—just lectures on tourism management and a group discussion about sustainable travel in rural China. But my mind keeps drifting back to this past weekend, when I escaped the classroom for two days of pure culinary adventure in and around Chengdu. As someone studying hospitality with a passion for real, unfiltered experiences, I’ve made it my mission this year to explore at least four different provinces through their food cultures. This month’s destination? Sichuan—home of bold flavors, numbing spices, and streets that never seem to stop cooking.

I left Friday afternoon after my last class, catching an early high-speed train from Chengdu East Station to Leshan (about 45 minutes). The sky was overcast, but the scent of chili oil already felt thick in the air. My first stop: Leshan Giant Buddha, yes—but not just for sightseeing. I came for the food. Leshan is famous for its street snacks, especially those sold near the temple paths leading down to the Buddha.

By the time I arrived, vendors were already firing up their woks. I started with Leshan folded tofu (Leshan zhedoufu), a local specialty where soft tofu is pressed into layers, fried until golden, then drenched in a fiery sauce made from fermented broad bean paste, garlic, and Sichuan peppercorns. The first bite was electric—spicy heat followed by that unmistakable mala tingle, making my lips buzz like a tuning fork. I watched an elderly woman prepare it with calm precision, her hands moving fast despite the cold. “Eat slow,” she said in Sichuan dialect, “or your stomach will cry.” I laughed and sipped on sweet ginger tea to balance the fire.

From there, I wandered through Huayang Street, a narrow lane packed with stalls selling everything from skewered ox tripe to candied hawthorn. But the real gem? A tiny family-run shop tucked between two souvenir stands, where they serve steamed rice rolls with spicy minced pork (changfen). The rice sheets are hand-poured onto cloth, steamed, then rolled around a savory filling. They’re cut into pieces and topped with red oil, pickled vegetables, and crushed peanuts. I sat on a plastic stool by the sidewalk, eating slowly, watching locals chat and kids darting between tables. Total cost? 8 RMB. Worth every penny.

Saturday morning, I took a local bus to Pengshan District, about an hour south of Chengdu. Why Pengshan? Because hidden in its old town is a nearly 60-year-old restaurant called Lao Ma’s Rice Pot, known for one thing: pork belly and preserved vegetable claypot rice (zao cai fan). The dish arrives bubbling in a small earthenware pot. The lid lifts to reveal crispy rice at the bottom—golden and crunchy—and tender pork layered over fermented mustard greens. I stirred it gently, letting the steam rise into my face. That smell—smoky, sour, rich—was unforgettable. The owner, Mr. Ma, now in his 70s, still supervises the kitchen. He told me his mother invented the recipe during tough times, using what little meat they had and stretching it with home-pickled veggies. “Food should comfort,” he said. “Not just fill.”

After lunch, I returned to Chengdu and headed straight to Wangjianglou Park, not just for the bamboo groves, but because nearby is a hole-in-the-wall spot locals call “Auntie’s Midday Noodles.” No sign, no menu—just a chalkboard. I ordered dan dan mian, the Chengdu classic. But this version was different: less broth, more texture. The noodles were chewy, hand-pulled that morning. The sauce was a complex blend of sesame paste, soy, chili oil, and that signature mala kick. Topped with crumbled pork, scallions, and a sprinkle of Sichuan pepper powder, it was messy, oily, and absolutely perfect. I ate standing up, leaning against the doorway, watching scooters weave through the wet streets after a light drizzle.

That evening, I treated myself to a proper sit-down meal at Chen Mapo Tofu Restaurant—yes, the original. Tourists flock here, but the locals still come too, which is always a good sign. I ordered the namesake dish, of course: silken tofu swimming in a crimson lake of chili-laced beef gravy, scattered with ground Sichuan peppercorns. With it, I had twice-cooked pork (huiguo rou)—thin slices of boiled then stir-fried pork belly with leeks and fermented black beans—and a simple plate of garlicky stir-fried water spinach. The balance was key: rich, spicy, salty, with just enough green to cleanse the palate.

Now, back in my dorm on this quiet Monday, I’m realizing how much food tells a story. In Leshan, it’s about resilience—making deliciousness from humble ingredients. In Pengshan, it’s memory, passed down through generations in clay pots. In Chengdu’s alleys, it’s energy—the rhythm of people living fast, eating well, and sharing space without pretense.

For fellow travelers planning a short food trip to Sichuan, here’s what I’d suggest:

Best time to go: October to March. Summer here is humid and hot; winter brings cooler weather that makes spicy food even more comforting.Transportation: High-speed rail connects Chengdu to cities like Leshan, Deyang, and Mianyang in under an hour. For smaller towns like Pengshan, local buses or ride-hailing apps (Didi) work well.Budget tip: Eat where locals eat. Avoid restaurants with English menus unless you’re okay with inflated prices. Street food is safe if it’s freshly cooked and busy.Must-try list: Long xiang zha jiang mian (spicy Sichuan-style zhajiangmian) Guokui (baked flatbread stuffed with spiced meat) Sour and spicy rice noodles (suan tang fen) Braised duck neck (lu ya bo) – great for snacking Don’t skip: The lesser-known neighborhoods. Jianshe Road, Yulin, and Shaanxi Street offer more authenticity than the tourist-heavy Kuanzhai Alley.

This weekend reminded me why I chose tourism—not just to guide people, but to help them feel a place. And in Sichuan, you feel it in your mouth first. The burn, the numbness, the warmth spreading through your chest. It’s not just eating. It’s experience. It’s connection.

Next month? I’m thinking Fujian—seafood, oolong tea, and Hakka traditions. But for now, I’ll dream of chili oil glistening on fresh noodles, and the sound of woks clanging in the misty streets of Chengdu.

Until next journey,
Mei
(Year 2, Tourism & Hospitality Management)