in case you missed Part 1, click here
and here's Part 2
Beijing Duck has long been a favorite indulgence in my family. Yet one single pancake pocket each seemed to be the norm at the Chinese dinners of my youth. “Waa!” we cried. No tears at the tables in Beijing, however where an expert can slice a bird into 120 pieces, each with both meat and skin, another key element in the elaborate preparation – truth be told, since returning to the U.S. I cannot find one person to confirm this part of the process but I remain certain it’s true.
After the Bianyifang dinner, pleasurable yet somehow not as satisfying as the no-name-house, we strolled through Tiananmen Square where, with no wind yet plenty of steamy air, kites were being flown and sold and picture-taking appeared more important than sightseeing to Chinese tourists, many of whom, we later learned, were seeing their own sites for the first time. Unfortunately, just like my Lenin non-encounter in Moscow, Mao’s body was being re-embalmed and, therefore, was unavailable for viewing -- it’s a communist conspiracy against me.
Upset by the closed Tomb and unable to make sense of the subway schedule, we opted to take a pedicab back to the hotel. I believe our driver’s decision to quadruple the agreed-upon price was motivated by the fact that we actually arrived without injury. A near fistfight ensued until Chris took a moment to ponder the implications of striking a 90-year old man in the middle of a massive intimidating thoroughfare. We paid the original fare and ran.
The next day, audio-guided by Sir Roger Moore, we walked through the
incredible once-Forbidden City, now known as the Palace Museum. Like
everything in Beijing, it’s larger than life and full of Chinese
tourists wishing to take my picture. “See you on the Internet,” Chris
joked incessantly; a premonition.
Advance preparation for my imagination -- reading history and fiction
and watching “The Last Emperor” -- really added to my appreciation of
this immense site.
As we exited through the Gate of Spiritual Valor, the back door where the Empress would enter (the front door is Tiananmen, the Gate of Heavenly Peace), we felt inspired by the Imperials and needed a final Beijing feast. We decided on an outpost of QuanJuDe where the main restaurant appeared able to seat thousands of diners at once. Maybe that’s why it’s known as “the Big Duck,” not to be confused with “the Sick Duck,” the branch nearest a local hospital.
Bright red ducks hung by their necks like a fence around the chef. The only other colors in the room were florescent white (the lights and tablecloths) and pink (the napkins). Very Valentinesy. We wiped our hands with wet-naps and licked our lips in anticipation. Tomorrow we’d be cruising the Li River in Guilin and soon after we’d be back home where the ducks do roam but the experience is like Guinness in Brooklyn: you like it; you’ll order it again but there’s nothing like that first Dublin pub. Maybe that ingredient was the secret sauce of the first night’s Beijing Duck.
One again, the duck did not disappoint. I asked Miranda Zhao, who has lived in the City her entire life, if she ever had a bad experience. She could not think of one. Zhao said that the best place to eat the famous dish is anywhere you may be when the craving strikes. She also mentions QuanJuDe as a “well-recognized brand.” Like other residents, Zhao eats duck in restaurants (home preparation would be too difficult) or takes one to go.
During my final duck dinner, the third in four nights (one night we had Buddhist vegetarian mushroom-something-cabbage after a day-long mini-bus trip to the Great Wall, Ming Tombs and four “historical” gift shops), we analyzed every bite and attempted to create the perfect ratio of fillings. The bond of the duckathlon led to some fantasizing about bringing one home and some revelation of truths: Chris admitted the train food had scared him and I admitted that there was mutton and shark’s fin in his future. Can’t we just enjoy the duck, he wondered? Yes, we could.
the end
Comments