There’s a natural rivalry between Chengdu, China, and Chongqing. Chengdu has pandas, but Chongqing’s rich cuisine more than makes up for the lack of endearing black and white critters.
During afternoon tea at the Grand Hyatt in Hong Kong, I told a friend that I had arrived by way of Chongqing.
“Ah. Chongqing’s time has come,” he said. It was a flattering comment, considering CQ, as it’s also called, isn’t as well known to Westerners as Chengdu, the seat of Sichuan province and Chongqing’s rival city.
Chengdu in recent years has cemented itself as an international destination for pandas and food. It prides itself as the civilized counterpart, with an updated metro system and English-friendly signage, to Chongqing’s brash intensity.
The real point of cultural contention between the two cities is food, of course,whichreigns supreme in Sichuan. Chengdu is more accessible to foreigners, and its citizens’ emigration to far-flung locales has exported its modern cuisine around the globe. But travelers would be remiss to ignore Chongqing.
Mexico City has climbed the food ranks and become known for its relatively affordable Michelin restaurants; Copenhagen has staked out a space for innovative cuisine; and Tokyo has long been on everyone’s food map. When it comes to Chinese food, Shanghai, Chengdu, Guangzhou and Hong Kong have been, for Westerners, the most culinarily prominent cities.
Chongqing is the best food city you don’t know about. It lies at the junction of the Yangtze and Jialing rivers, a sprawling mountain city connected by a congested network of bridges. Its population dwarfs the size of Los Angeles, New York City and Chicago combined.
I have a Popo and Gong (affectionate Chinese terms for grandmother and grandfather, respectively) who have lived in Chongqing for more than seven decades.
My trips to CQ, including my most recent visit in June, revolve almost entirely around meals. My mother and her Californian sensibilities have outgrown her old home, and she’s baffled by Popo’s obsession with food.
“It’s as if you only live to eat,” she chided Popo, who has nothing to say in defense. Because it’s true: As a 73-year-old CQ native, Popo lives to eat. I can’t help siding with her. How could you not, when you live in a city like this, where spice and smells ring the smog, where frying oil clings to porous shirts, where plastic stools outside tiny noodle shops are the loudest siren song.
