Chilis and a Cold Cola

Not Sichuan yet. Still Beijing, a neighborhood place near the big shopping streets, lit menu boards and families at every table, chosen by pointing at what the room was having. What arrived was celery and pork under a landslide of dried chilis and enough huajiao to relocate my lower lip. The famous numbing is real even when the kitchen is performing "Sichuan" for the capital: mala starts as flavor and ends as weather.

I documented the bowl like evidence, then bought the cheapest cold cola from the glass-front fridge by the door. Outside, the street still smelled like exhaust and frying oil. Chengdu would come later; tonight was the rehearsal plate, and my mouth believed every lie on the menu.

The cola was cold, necessary, and the single most expensive item on my bill, which tells you everything about the economics of eating brilliantly in this city. I walked home through the evening crowds slightly numb and completely persuaded.