When people talk about Chengdu, they usually start with pandas and hot pot. But take it from us – that’s only scratching the surface (our founder was born and raised here). Food is the real language of Chengdu. This city lives and breathes flavor, from bubbling hot pot broth layered with depth and spice to humble “fly restaurants” where the chairs might wobble, but the dishes are authentically local.
In the spring of 2020, the world slowed down, but my mind did not. Like so many others in China’s travel industry, Lost Plate’s food tours came to a sudden halt when the pandemic closed borders. With no international guests, no tours, and no idea when things would return to normal, I found myself asking the same question as everyone else: what now?
Some meals are about flavors. Others are about memory. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, a meal becomes a doorway into someone else’s world, where stories and laughter matter just as much as the food on the plate. That’s exactly what I found in a small village outside Yangshuo, where I sat down to one of the most unforgettable meals of my life. But this wasn’t a restaurant in the usual sense. It was someone’s actual home.
Ask any Shanghainese person, “What does Shanghai taste like?” and you’ll likely hear about its rich, soy-infused cuisine, a steaming bowl of scallion oil noodles, or perfectly crisp Shengjianbao. But one dish that truly captures the essence of the city’s food culture is “Baoyu,” or Shanghai-style fried fish.
In the heart of Xizhou, a small town by Yunnan’s Erhai Lake, the scent of baking bread drifts through the air. Inside a modest, flour-dusted bakery, Mr. and Mrs. Yang stand over a charcoal-fired oven, their hands moving with quiet precision – just as generations before them have done. This is the home of a century-old tradition: Xizhou Baba.
Ask any Shanghainese person, “What does Shanghai taste like?” and you’ll likely hear about its rich, soy-infused cuisine, a steaming bowl of scallion oil noodles, or perfectly crisp Shengjianbao. But one dish that truly captures the essence of the city’s food culture is “Baoyu,” or Shanghai-style fried fish.
You probably don’t think of China when you think of wine. That’s about to change. Hidden in China’s remote northwest, where the vast Gobi desert meets the Helan mountain range, a quiet wine revolution is unfolding. Ningxia, once known for sheep herding and sandstorms, is now producing some of the most exciting wines in the world—and almost nobody knows about it.
This is a story about how a yak herder, a French grape, and how a forgotten village gave rise to one of the world’s rarest wines. We begin high in the mountains of Yunnan, one of China’s Western-most provinces, where the Mekong River slices through Tibetan foothills and Catholic church spires rise from the center of timeless villages. There we meet Hongxing, a small boy herding yaks for his family in the remote village of Cizhong.
In the bustling alleys of Xi’an’s Muslim Quarter, where street food and local delicacies narrate the city’s rich history and culture, one small restaurant stands out for its unique flavors and unwavering commitment to tradition. Zhiliang Steamed Dumplings is not just a beloved staple for locals; it’s become a must-try stop for travelers seeking the authentic taste of Xi’an.
When I close my eyes and think of Chengdu, it’s not skyscrapers or pandas I see first – it’s a smell: chili oil, caramelized sugar, and the comforting aroma of yeast drifting up from sizzling griddles filled with golden half-moons of dough. These are dan hong gao (蛋烘糕), translated directly as egg baked pancakes, and to me they’re my entire childhood wrapped up in a delicious package.
