Whenever I’m back in Sichuan, I take a road trip to explore the corners of the province I don’t yet know. This ritual began in April 2023, after the pandemic kept me away from home for three long years, when I felt I had almost forgotten the true Sichuan flavors. Our first trip to Leshan was so refreshing that I felt an urge to inhale every bite and document everything (though this was 'pre-Substack,' so those memories are still tucked away in my phone’s photo albums).
It has since evolved into a lovely, if sometimes funny, little family tradition. We’ve been to Yibin, Zigong, Meishan, and Ya’an. My parents often question my itinerary: “Why did you pick this place in the middle of nowhere?” or “The restaurant across the road looks better because it’s fuller.” My dad is notoriously picky. He’ll drop his chopsticks and sigh at an underwhelming meal. Yet, when I asked him for his Sichuan highlights, he didn’t hesitate: the “burning noodles” (ranmian) of Yibin and the rustic stir-fries of a tiny village outside Zigong.
In December, we headed south from Chengdu toward Neijiang and Luzhou, eventually crossing the border into Guizhou. Southern Sichuan cuisine is one of the three major schools of the province, and Neijiang is the center of the genre together with Zigong1. It is characterized by a bold use of fresh ginger, a high level of spice, and a mastery of quick stir-frying. Food historian Lan Yong suggests this region preserves ancient culinary traditions, such as the use of sticky rice and local ginger varieties (蜀姜)2, that predate the more modern, “as-we-know-it” Sichuan food that evolved during the late Qing Dynasty.
Our first stop was Neijiang. Historically a vital hub for land and water transport, it was once the heart of Sichuan’s sugarcane production, earning it the nickname “The City of Sweet” (甜城).
We arrived in Luoquan (罗泉古镇), an ancient town of Zizhong county, just after the weekly market day (known as gan ji). A few vendors lingered with fruit baskets and piles of sugarcane at the town entrance, though they admitted the sugarcane stalks were now imported from Guizhou. “People have turned to more profitable crops, like citrus,” they told us. In winter, you’ll see sugarcane sold on the streets as a snack. If you buy one, vendors peel and cut it into small pieces. Albeit a bit odd, we chew it for the sugary juice and discard the rest like a human juicer, a tradition that likely resulted in the scarcity of sugar in the past. We bought some local peng gan (椪柑); this juicy mandarin-pomelo hybrid is a Sichuan winter staple. Here, you can buy half a kilo of plump, fresh fruit for just 1 yuan.
Luoquan Tofu Banquets
Sichuan has several towns famous for tofu banquets, or doufu yan (豆腐宴), with a whole meal dedicated to tofu dishes: Xiba in Leshan (where I had 9 tofu dishes in one meal), Jiange in Guangyuan, and Luoquan in Zizhong county. These traditions are rooted in local soybean plantations and high-quality tofu production. Luoquan tofu is crafted from locally grown soybeans and well water, coagulated with nigari (a byproduct of local well salt production). The streets were lined with freshly made blocks of tofu, furu (fermented tofu) coated in chili flakes, spicy fermented soy beans bathing in daylight, and bags of savory, flavored pressed tofu.
The term “banquet”, though, can be misleading. These aren’t fancy dinners but nong jia le (farmhouse) style: open kitchens, plastic tablecloths, and a relaxed atmosphere. On a quiet Saturday, the restaurants were filled not with tourists, but with local families and retirees.
Following a tip from a parking attendant, we ended up at the Ancient Town Delicacy Restaurant (古镇美食饭店). Their menu offered 20 different tofu preparations. For a party of three, a full banquet wasn’t practical, so we tried two standout dishes. We started with Doufu Baozi (豆腐包子): fried, pork-stuffed tofu pockets braised in a delicate sweet-and-sour sauce.
As the most popular dish in town, you can even buy these raw to cook at home. Then came the Guobian Doufu (锅边豆腐), “wok-side tofu”. It’s fried until golden and crispy, then tossed with doubanjiang, house-made chili sauce, pickled mustard, scallions, and celery. It’s a spicier, drier version of home-style tofu. As the auntie put it, “Young people love it.”
As the Chinese New Year approached, the restaurant had already stocked a selection of cured meats for sale. We rounded out the meal with country-style stir-fried mushrooms, their house-made larou (cured pork), and a pea shoot soup. Throughout my time in southwest China, I’ve had probably more than 20 bowls of pea shoot soup; I never tire of it. The open kitchen allowed me to observe the techniques firsthand; it’s inspiring to see how a single, familiar ingredient can be transformed into so many different textures.
Luoquan is also home to the Yanshen Miao (盐神庙), the only temple in China dedicated to the God of Salt. The local salt wells here are said to predate even those of Zigong. Unfortunately, it was closed for maintenance. The classic blessing and curse of traveling during the off-season.
Neijiang Beef Noodles
Beef noodle soup is a Sichuan classic that might have inspired the Taiwanese version. Recently, I’ve noticed a boom in Neijiang-style noodle shops in Chengdu. I tried one last May and was underwhelmed, so I arrived at the source with high hopes.
We chose Widow Noodles (寡妇面), a third-generation shop with a confident, five-item menu. It did not disappoint. I was first struck by the aroma of the scorched chili oil. The noodles, called shui mian (water noodles) locally, are made daily with alkaline water. They are similar to Chengdu’s “chive leaf” noodles (韭菜叶子面), thin, flat, machine-pressed noodles, but firmer and springier. After a quick blanch, they are served in a rich bone broth seasoned with a generous amount of chili oil. It wasn’t as spicy as it looked, but deeply fragrant. The beef chunks, stewed for hours in beef tallow, doubanjiang, and spices, were tender and not stringy at all.
In my book, a perfect bowl means the noodles stay springy until the last bite and the broth is well-seasoned without leaving you gasping for water. This hit the mark. We were so impressed, we bought a large bucket of their house-made chili oil to take home.
Ban Cai & Zhanshui dishes
In Neijiang’s old town center, four or five restaurants seem to hold a monopoly over one particular street. Following my parents’ philosophy, we joined the crowd at Duoduowei Bancai (多多味拌菜), a spot specializing in cold meat dishes either dressed, called ban cai (拌菜), or served with a dipping sauce, called zhanshui cai (蘸水菜). You might know the latter from fushun douhua (富顺豆花), a Southern Sichuan staple of freshly made soft tofu with a dipping sauce on the side.
Southern Sichuan is the premier place for rabbit. We ordered the zhanshui tu (蘸水兔): poached, skin-on rabbit served with a vibrant dipping sauce of fresh red chili, garlic, and cilantro. The meat was so bouncy that when I later saw a contestant cooking rabbit on the show Culinary Class Wars, I wanted to send the judges straight to Neijiang.
We also ordered a rustic Fuqi Feipian (Husband and Wife Lung Slices) and a stir-fry featuring a novel ingredient: bi jin (鼻筋), or pig’s nose cartilage. This cut has become trendy in BBQ restaurants. Stir-fried here with tender yellow chives, ginger, and scallions, it was delightfully crunchy, a true testament to the Sichuanese “nose-to-tail” philosophy to appreciate the whole animal.
To end the day, we found a snack eatery popular with students serving re liangfen (warm sweet potato jelly noodles) and a creamy, lukewarm mung bean soup. Unlike the cold versions served in summer, this was thickened with sticky rice, a quite soothing balm for the winter night chill.
Before leaving, I picked up some Zizhong Dongjian (资中冬尖), a famous preserved green from the area (also named as one of the four most famous preserved vegetables in Sichuan, among Fuling Zhacai, Yibin Yacai and Neijiang Datoucai, though I haven’t encountered the last). I feel obligated to bring these flavors back to my kitchen in Berlin. After all, a food souvenir is the best kind of souvenir.
On a non-food-related note, Zizhong also has a beautiful temple honoring Confucius. You can see students hanging red ribbons, praying for good grades or entry into their dream schools.
When I joked about putting my own wish on the tree, my dad laughed: “Confucius is not in charge of your social media views.”
While older books once identified five distinct branches of Sichuan cuisine (including the Zinei Bang style I’m exploring here), modern concepts usually simplify it into three: Chengdu (aka upper river, shanghe bang), Chongqing (lower river, xiahebang), and Southern Sichuan (chuannan). In the decades since the 1980s, these regional styles have blended and interacted to such an extent that the three-school model is easier to understand in terms of the flavor map.
From Lan Yong’s book Chinese Sichuan Cuisine History (中国川菜史)
This was like taking a vacation from frozen Maine for me! Wonderful, and much appreciated!!! 💕
What an excellent post!!