I AM in the ‘royal city’, Chengdu, which according to my local guide, June Zhao, a bright 24-year-old woman, is new and at the same time ancient. “This is because merely 20 years ago, it was a village,” she says. Once ruled by the Qing dynasty, the last of China’s imperial dynasties, this 2,600-year-old royal city was where the traders merchandised silk and rice.

But for foreigners and foodies, Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan province, is now famously known as the food capital. In 2010 it was named the Unesco city of gastronomy and was acknowledged for being the birthplace of many culinary traditions.

One of Chengdu’s specialties is the hotpot. June and I are on our way to the legendary Huang Cheng Lao Ma on Qin Tai Road, that was started as a modest hotpot stall in 1986 by Liao Huaying. It now has three branches in Chengdu.

On reaching the five-storey establishment located in the south of the city, I muse on the name: Huang Cheng Lao Ma, an old lady in a royal city, an apt description for Chengdu. But my thought vaporises when the strong aroma of Sichuan pepper hits us.

As we make our way to the table, I spot a gleaming cauldron. I am told it is a divided hotpot. One section has sizzling red chilli pepper and sesame seed oil in which the adventurous can dunk the ingredients. The other contains a milder broth. According to the manager of the restaurant, 32-year-old Wu Liu Ying, the fiery soup is the old Chengdu way of cooking. “Since most of our customers are foreigners or locals who like a bit of a mild taste, we don’t use all the spices. We keep it simple,” he tells me.

Next to the pot is a wide array of ingredients ranging from fish strips, sliced meats and the base of the lotus flower to lettuce leaves and tofu skin. Since I see myself in the adventurous camp, I take a tofu cube and dip it in the broth, to immediately regret it. I had barely chewed the tofu when the Sichuan pepper’s pungent flavour exploded, my tongue going numb for a good three minutes. Any attempt to reduce the heat by drinking cups of water went futile. “The water is hot!” I managed to cry out. The guide informed me that cold water was bad for the body — talk about adding fuel to the fire.

In the next round waiters bring in generous servings of golden-brown fried fish and beef strips with tomatoes, Kung Pao chicken, shrimp with lettuce leaves and dried mushrooms with tomato paste. The Sichuan pepper is a constant element. The shrimp is quickly polished off and I’m not surprised that it was the main attraction: melt-in-the-mouth, beautifully creamy. It dawned on me then that hot spices do not have to rob a dish of its flavour; rather, they balance the taste of each ingredient. This seemed to be a key quality of Sichuan cuisine.

June advised me to “keep an open mind while having food and remember that just like people, the appearance of a dish can be deceiving too”. This held true for some journalists partaking of vegetarian fare. One vegetable dish turned out to be the only one that was constantly nudged forward on the revolving food tray at the table, until someone weakly complained, “It tastes like dirt.” A bilingual interpreter translated it to the manager. Though a minor disaster, the dish was quietly taken away.

I turn my attention to other dishes placed before me. The fried fish reminds me of home and the roadside baakra restaurants at Kharadar, Karachi. Here, it is presented in a flat steel dish with soya bean sauce, laced with Sichuan pepper. The outer crust of the fish is spicy and delicious while the inside is bland, nicely balancing the overall taste. The only difference from the one sold at baakra at Kharadar is that the inside of the fish is stuffed with spices as well.

When I share this thought with a colleague, he points out how food is usually taken for granted in most countries. “They think it is inconsequential, not realising how fast the global food market is growing.” It seems Chengdu has realised the significance of the food market, though. According to the municipal statistics bureau, Chengdu’s food industry takes up 28.7 per cent of the total sales amount of Sichuan’s food industry and 4.8pc of Chengdu’s GDP. Zhang Xun, vice secretary of Chengdu International Container Logistics Park, says: “We realise the need to export our food and introduce their food in our markets in return. But these plans will begin between 2015 and 2016.”

At the end of our meal, fruit is brought in. Someone pipes up, inquiring about the fortune cookie, a dinner scene that has been enacted in several Hollywood movies starring stereotypical Chinese characters and traditions. Wu Liu clarifies, saying: “It is a hilarious myth. There’s no fortune cookie. Please don’t let people from other countries fool you with an account that has no basis.”

Published in Dawn, September 23rd, 2014