This Isn't Just Dinner. This is a Performance with an Edible Finale.
To call Peking Duck a meal is to call the Mona Lisa a painting. It’s technically true, but misses the point entirely. In Beijing, ordering roast duck is to experience a culinary ritual perfected over centuries, a piece of dinner theatre where the grand finale is the impossibly crispy, melt-in-your-mouth skin of a perfectly roasted bird.
The performance begins with anticipation. The chef, in full whites and a tall hat, wheels the glistening, mahogany-colored duck to your table. Then, the show: with the practiced precision of a surgeon, he begins to carve, slicing off layer after layer of skin and meat, arranging it beautifully on a platter. The waiter will then show you how to assemble the perfect bite: take a delicate, paper-thin pancake, paint it with a swipe of sweet bean sauce, add a few slivers of crisp scallion and cucumber, and finally, crown it with a piece of meat and a shard of that crackling skin. The first bite is a revelation of textures and flavors that you will never forget.
Insider Tip:
A true Peking Duck feast doesn't end with the carved meat. The waiter will ask what you’d like to do with the remaining duck carcass. The only correct answer is "duck soup" (yā jià tāng). They will whisk the bones back to the kitchen and, a short while later, return with a large tureen of delicious, milky-white, and deeply flavorful broth. It is the perfect, restorative conclusion to a rich meal.
