Where in China Can You Find the Weirdest-Tasting Dishes?

When you first arrive in Chongqing and see the shelves of "Strange-Flavored Broad Beans" in supermarkets and convenience stores, you can't help but have a big question mark in your mind. Of course, if you've already encountered this nationwide snack before, it must have left a deep impression on you:

Strange-Flavored Broad Beans—rough and bumpy in appearance—just begging to be played with!

They look weird! They seem like broad beans, but their rough, bumpy surface makes you want to fiddle with them. Pop one into your mouth, crack through the crispy shell, and crush the hard bean with your molars—suddenly, sweetness, spiciness, saltiness, numbness, and sourness all rush out at once. What kind of flavor is this? Did the chef accidentally knock over the spice jars and just roll the beans in them before serving? Yet it’s incredibly satisfying—crunchy, fragrant, leaving only one thought in your mind:

"Strange flavor" is actually a defined flavor profile in Sichuan cuisine, with a fixed combination of tastes—not just randomly "weird." It emphasizes the harmonious balance of sweet, sour, spicy, numbing, and salty flavors, all present at once in a single bite, yet each one subtly elusive. This bizarre and unpredictable taste sometimes even baffles locals from Sichuan and Chongqing, but it’s also a key to understanding the quirky charm of Sichuan flavors.

How are Strange-Flavored Broad Beans made?

Take fresh broad beans (also known as fava beans), soak them, remove the sprouting "black line," and deep-fry them until crispy. Then, boil water and sugar into a thick syrup, adding sweet bean paste, salt, vinegar, chili powder, Sichuan pepper powder, and other seasonings at the right moment. When the syrup forms large "fish-eye" bubbles, pour in the beans and coat them evenly. Once cooled, you’ll have a plate of crispy, fragrant strange-flavored beans. Alternatively, you can first mix the seasonings with the beans and then pour the syrup over them—the principle is roughly the same.

Coating the beans evenly with sugar requires real skill.

This is the homemade method, and factories follow a similar process, though with stricter controls and precise ratios. The techniques of caramelizing and coating are the core of this delicacy—using syrup to firmly bind all the seasonings to the beans, achieving the essence of strange flavor: sweet, sour, spicy, numbing, and salty, each distinct yet harmoniously unified.

This method can be called "strange-flavored sugar coating," a common approach in preparing strange-flavored dishes. But beyond this, strange flavor holds even richer connotations.

After all this talk, what exactly makes the flavor "strange"? In four words: utterly unpredictable.

Don’t underestimate this description. Sichuanese and Chongqing locals are among the boldest and most flexible when it comes to culinary pursuits. Earning their genuine exclamation of "This flavor is so weird!" is no small achievement.

Sichuan cuisine is no stranger to complex blends of sweet, sour, spicy, numbing, and salty flavors.

Take fish-fragrant shredded pork, for example—a dish that perfectly embodies the art of composite seasoning.

Fish-fragrant shredded pork, familiar to many, balances savory and spicy with an enticing sweetness and sourness, complemented by the aromatic notes of scallions, ginger, and garlic. Originally a fish-cooking technique (some say the dish earned its name from its fish-like umami or the use of "fish chili" seasoning), it’s now used to flavor pork, teasing the palate with the suggestion of fish without any actual fish. Then there’s the "home-style flavor," represented by twice-cooked pork, where Pixian bean paste takes center stage, delivering a savory-spicy taste with rich layers tailored to different dishes.

The "lychee flavor" is even more intriguing. Walk into a Sichuan restaurant and ask the server for a "lychee-style" dish, and they’ll know to add sugar. But Sichuan cuisine values balance—sweetness must be accentuated by sourness, grounded with a hint of salt, and never without the "charred-spicy" touch. Kung Pao chicken is a classic example of charred-spicy lychee flavor. When it reached northern China, only the sweetness was emphasized, leaving Sichuan natives feeling it lacked depth.

Charred-spicy lychee flavor is not the same as sweet-and-sour!

That said, no matter how complex or varied the seasoning, most flavors still have a clear hierarchy. "Strange flavor" is different—it forces all tastes to advance in perfect, precise balance, making it impossible to pin down or identify a dominant note. Each bite seems to reveal something new, yet you can never quite describe what you’re tasting.

Perhaps because it’s so bizarre, it was initially called "mixed flavor" and wasn’t considered refined enough for formal dining, often appearing in street stalls as a snack or a side dish like dressed peanuts.

The soul of strange flavor lies in its seasoning sauce.

Sichuan culinary tradition dictates that seasonings should be pre-mixed into a sauce before cooking. Strange flavor requires a staggering array of ingredients: Sichuan pepper oil (or powder), chili oil, sesame paste, sesame seeds, sesame oil, vinegar, MSG, soy sauce, sugar, and scallions—easily over ten items. The mixing order matters too—no haphazard tossing together. Start with vinegar to dissolve the sugar, then gradually add the rest, tasting after each addition to ensure no single flavor overpowers the others. Sesame paste is crucial—it harmonizes all tastes, helping them achieve a balanced unity. The familiar duo of numbing and spicy must be used sparingly, as their boldness can easily dominate the entire dish—

The so-called "strange flavor" is actually an extremely delicate and balanced high-level culinary technique.

Once the sauce is prepared, it can be used to dress shredded chicken. A tender young rooster is simmered until just cooked, then cooled and shredded, laid over scallion strips, and drizzled with the sauce—done. See, the seasoning is the hardest part, while the meat seems like its supporting act. As long as the chicken isn’t raw or tough, each bite delivers a layered, endlessly evolving delight, utterly addictive. Even a cold dish like this can be incredibly satisfying with rice.

Because the balance required for "strange flavor" is so precise, it’s rarely used in hot dishes—high heat alters the seasoning, turning an authentic "strange flavor" into something else, and you can’t just turn off the heat to taste as you go.

But nothing can stop Sichuanese people in their culinary explorations. The aforementioned "sugar-glazed strange flavor" is an adaptation of the cold-dressed version. Early dishes like "strange flavor peanuts" and "strange flavor broad beans" involved frying the ingredients and then pouring the sauce over them at the table to avoid sogginess. Later, chefs began coating the ingredients with a syrup that evenly adhered the seasonings, creating a crispy, crumbly texture with all five flavors, quickly dominating the market. Loved by both common folk and literati, Lao She praised it as "sweet, spicy, sour, salty, and numbing—all in one bite, crispy and fragrant," while Wang Zengqi wrote, "The strange flavor broad beans from Beibei are truly peculiar: crispy, salty, sweet, numbing, and spicy," his admiration evident.

This fiery sugar-glazed method was uncommon in earlier times.

Some went even further, determined to create hot "strange flavor" dishes. In 2006, Sichuan Science and Technology Press published *Sichuan Strange Flavor Dishes*, featuring over 200 recipes, nearly half of which were hot dishes—think "strange flavor abalone," "strange flavor tendon," and "strange stir-fried seafood trio." If you can imagine it, it’s been made. Restaurants also rolled out hot "strange flavor" stir-fries, like the once-trendy "strange flavor trotters." Compared to cold dishes, the cooking methods are far "wilder," boldly amplifying the flavor’s distinctiveness with additions like cilantro and celery for "exotic aromas." The order of seasoning is adjusted too—vinegar, which evaporates easily, is added just before serving. All ingredients are pre-cooked, with the "strange flavor" finalized only upon plating, ensuring the most vibrant, balanced aroma hits the diner’s nose.

"Strange flavor pork knuckle" is pre-braised in broth.

This approach has drawn criticism, with some dismissing it as inauthentic Sichuanese "strange flavor." To each their own, but consider this perspective from the bestselling *Shark’s Fin and Sichuan Pepper*: Sichuan cuisine’s extreme emphasis on seasoning makes it a confident, dynamic culinary tradition. From its inception, "strange flavor" has resisted definition, inherently rebellious against conventions. As long as its soul—harmonious, flexible flavors—remains, it can pioneer new taste frontiers.

The most vibrant foods never stay confined to cookbooks. Hit the streets to see "strange flavor" in its most vivid form.

"Strange Flavor Noodles," hailed as "Chengdu’s #1 Noodles," pack a punch. It’s not just noodles tossed with sauce but involves simmering pork bones with dried shrimp, cuttlefish, and mussels for a briny broth. The cooked noodles are then dressed with the "strange flavor" sauce—a twist on old Chengdu’s seafood noodles, though its origins are now overshadowed by its fame. The oceanic umami enriches the salty base, sweet-sour notes whet the appetite, and the bold spice-numbing heat lingers only after swallowing, leaving pure satisfaction. The broth is typically bold—many end up drinking every drop.

Anyone recognize where these "strange flavor noodles" are from?

"Strange flavor" also stars in grilled fish, though balance takes a backseat here. Fiery spice dominates upfront, setting your tongue ablaze, followed by an electric numbing shock. Chew slowly, and the sweet-sour-salty base unfolds, letting the fish’s freshness shine. A meal like this is a battle, leaving you sweaty and exhilarated.

Then there’s Shuangliu’s "strange flavor dry pot." A modern twist on tradition, this nearly 20-year-old dish has earned its authenticity. Braised rabbit heads and duck wings are stir-fried until tender yet slightly charred, their fats melding into the meat. Under the spice-numbing assault, it’s never greasy—just irresistibly gnawable, with bones worth sucking clean.

Crispy skin gives way to juicy meat!

"Strange flavor" can be exquisitely balanced or wildly bold, but either way, it demands deep flavor mastery and practiced ease. This ethos reflects Sichuanese culinary pursuit—and their everyday lives.

Sichuanese love their drinks, often paired with "strange flavor" peanuts or broad beans. Maybe stocks dropped today, or a mahjong game recouped some losses. Maybe there’s homework to supervise, petty squabbles at home, or office politics. So what? Life’s like this—sweet, sour, bitter, spicy, salty. Balance is enough.

Even brown sugar cakes can go "strange." Sweet, sour, bitter, spicy—balance is enough.

Text | Chen Gongqing, Cat Knight

*Sichuan Cuisine Culinary Guide*. Chongqing Publishing House.

*Sichuan Strange Flavor Dishes*. Sichuan Science and Technology Press.

Hu Lianquan, Li Zhaoliang, Luo Chengzhang. The Details of Sichuan Cuisine. Sichuan Science and Technology Press

Xiong Sizhi. Innovative Hot Dishes with Peculiar Flavor