Food, Temples and Pandas of a Leisurely Chinese City

CHENGDU, China At first glance it's hard to believe that Chengdu, with its mix of shabby buildings, gleaming high-rises and gray skies thick with pollution, is considered one of China's foremost leisure cities. In the center of the city, the capital of Sichuan Province in southwest China, a giant statue of Mao looms over a yawning construction pit, ineffectively condemning the progress below. Yet only blocks away at People's Park, a quiet, green oasis within the heart of the city, people stroke the air in the smooth patterns of tai chi.
 
Chengdu is a city of juxtaposition, where fleets of bulldozers and wide-swinging cranes share space with raucous teahouses and bustling street stalls of food; where ancient temples send clouds of purifying smoke into the vents of high-rise buildings; where the country's oldest mascot - the giant panda - is bred through artificial insemination.
 
Yet unlike many of China's supercharged cities, here the mix of old and new coexists peacefully, making Chengdu not "old China" or "new China," but simply a relaxed city eager to embrace the free-market values of its native son, Deng Xiaoping - as long as they don't interfere with a good, spicy meal.
 
On a recent weekend visit from Beijing, my husband and I relished the city's leisurely pace, wandering among temples and gardens, sipping unhurried bowls of tea and planning our days - as the locals do - around meals of tingling Sichuan food, the best I've ever tasted.
 
Chengdu plays host to the best of the region's aromatic cuisine, known for its generous use of chili and Sichuan peppercorn, which causes a thrilling numbness around the mouth and lips. We joined the crowd at Chen Mapo Doufu, a humble Chengdu institution opened in 1862 by Grandma Chen, the smallpox-scarred woman who allegedly invented "pock-marked," or "mapo doufu." Here, we tucked into the eponymous dish, a combination of cubes of tofu, bits of ground pork, and a fiery, salty sauce. Paired with a bowl of rice, it was pure Chinese comfort food, warm and soothing with a dazzling bite.
 
The swankier Chengdu Impressions, packed with revelers whose faces glowed with drunkenness, served an impressive shuizhuyu, a classic Sichuan dish of filleted chunks of grass carp poached within a fragrant pool of oil. The fish was flaky and tender with the burn of chili peppers made spectacular by the prickle of the Sichuan peppercorn.
 
Wandering the streets around our hotel, I became entranced by the small snack shops and street-food vendors that dot the sidewalks. At Dandan Mian Central, a neighborhood joint with plastic tables and chairs, we enjoyed dainty bowls of dandan mian, slender noodles tossed with chili oil and ground pork. The highlight here, however, were the shuijiao, crescent dumplings stuffed with a rich pork mixture and doused with an aromatic roasted chili oil. Sprinkled with sesame seeds and sugar, each dumpling was a seductive bite of salty, spicy and sweet, enhanced by the deep toastiness of roasted chilis.

 But Chengdu's charms aren't confined to the dining table. Thanks to a damp climate, greenery bursts from every corner, with lush roof gardens adorning the tops of tumbledown buildings, leafy trees shading the wide avenues, and serene parks providing a cool spot to sip tea. Eager to stroll among the verdant scenery, we took a cab to Du Fu's Thatched Cottage, the former home of the eighth-century Tang dynasty poet, located in a manicured park. Civil war forced Du Fu to leave Chang'an, then the country's capital, in 759. He spent four years in exile here, living in a humble hut and composing more than 240 poems. Though the grounds were recreated 300 years after his death - the temple park was founded during the Song dynasty in the 11th century - the luscious foliage and open spaces illustrate not only the beauty that inspired Du Fu's poetry, but also the isolation.
 
Chengdu's signature attraction is, of course, its population of adorable pandas. We rose early one morning to catch a glimpse of the elusive creatures - who often retire for the day by lunchtime - at the Chengdu Panda Breeding Center, a 40-minute cab ride from the city center. We meandered through bamboo groves, the silence broken by the cackles of the swans that reside in the human-made pond. Narrow paths opened onto spacious, leafy enclosures where giant pandas lounged in groups of two or three, meditatively chewing their way through the 9 to 18 kilograms, or 20 to 40 pounds, of bamboo they eat per day. We watched a pair of young pandas frolic together before they flopped into a wading pool to cool off. Turning the corner, we spotted Jingjing, the center's young cub, perched in a tree and nibbling at a long branch of bamboo. "He climbed up all by himself," called out his nanny, a woman named Teacher Li. Playtime was soon over, however, as a blue- suited worker climbed the tree to carry him down. Jingjing shook his head as he tumbled to the ground, receiving a loving pat from his nanny before being bundled inside.
 
At Qing Yang Gong, or the Green Goat Temple, which is dedicated to the Taoist philosopher Lao Tzu, incense casts cleansing clouds over an array of imposing halls and ornate pavilions. We admired the two bronze goats who stand guard at the main hall's entrance, their bearded faces and long necks rubbed bright by those seeking luck. In a back courtyard, we watched people strive for an auspicious blessing, closing their eyes, spinning in a circle and walking blindly toward a wall emblazoned with Chinese characters signifying good fortune, their outstretched hands groping to make contact.
 
Like many of Chengdu's temple grounds and parks (including Du Fu's Thatched Cottage), the Qing Yang Gong has a teahouse, here an outdoor area shaded by graceful gingko trees. There's an old Chengdu saying, "Bai long men zhen," which means people like to go to teahouses and chew the fat. The roar of voices that swelled over the wall separating the teahouse from the temple grounds proved the tradition - which suffered during the Cultural Revolution, when it was considered bourgeois - has been revived. Families, from infants to grandparents, gathered on this Sunday morning to enjoy a cup of jasmine tea and a good gossip.
 
We stood among the crowd of locals, searching for an empty table, until an elderly woman raised her eyes from her knitting and urged us to sit next to her, helping us pull comfortable bamboo chairs to a concrete table. Six renminbi, or about 75 cents, bought us two bowls of jasmine tea leaves and an unlimited supply of hot water, doled out from a shining brass kettle by a man with stooped posture, one lit cigarette in his hand, one unlit tucked behind his ear.
 
I sipped my scalding, fragrant bowl of tea under the shade of the gingko tree and watched the people around me as they smoked fat cigars, cracked salted melon seeds between their teeth, or rustled the pages of the morning newspaper. My stomach rumbled and I considered our elderly neighbor's friendly dining advice. I mulled over the gleaming chunks of fresh tofu available from a teahouse stall, though walking across the courtyard to the temple's renowned vegetarian restaurant also had considerable appeal. For the moment, however, I was content to listen to the rise and fall of voices, lulled by the gentle charm of Chengdu. (Source: International Herald Tribune,By Ann Mah International Herald Tribune/CRIENGLISH.com)