Chapter 29: The Waiter's Pride

The two brothers exchanged a glance, then smiled and sat down, fully aware that Zhuang Chen disliked excessive formality. Having interacted with the new boss for a while now, they knew his background was spotless and his connections ran deep—no wonder he didn’t need to be surrounded by a crowd of bodyguards.

Zhuang Chen handed the menu to Xia Long, inviting him to order. Without hesitation, Xia Long swiftly made his selections and requested the dishes be served quickly.

Pouring tea for Zhuang Chen, he remarked casually, “Though the capital is famous as the city of roast duck, it’s not just Quanjude and Bianyifang that make a name for themselves. Many newcomers have emerged in recent years. Take Dadong Roast Duck, for example—their popularity has soared, and they’ve even been chosen to serve at state banquets. Of course, the price reflects that.”

“There are other long-established duck houses as well—Bai Kui, Liqun, Tianwaitian, Big Duck Pear, Jiuhuashan, Golden Million—the taste doesn’t differ much among them; they’re all in the same league.”

“A true connoisseur, I see!” The waiter happened to enter with a tray of marinated appetizers, setting them on the table with a smile. “Back when Emperor Yongle moved the capital to Beijing, he brought with him many court chefs skilled in roasting duck. By the Jiajing era, roast duck had spread from the imperial kitchens to the common folk. Our Bianyifang was the very first roast duck house to hang a sign in Caishikou’s Grain Market Alley—first in all of Beijing.”

“We choose only the plumpest free-range ducks, each weighing in at two and a half kilos. The key is crispy skin and tender, juicy meat—rich but never greasy. But true aficionados are most particular about the signature ruby marinade we serve alongside.”

Pointing to the small dishes of appetizers, he continued, “You can judge a duck by its appearance, but to know if the marinade is perfect, you must taste it yourself.”

“For open-oven roast duck, the cavity must be filled with water—roasted outside, steamed within. Once the meat is done, the juices are at their peak. While still hot, rice wine and honey marinade are poured in, then sugar, rice vinegar, and fine salt. If you’re truly particular, adding a drop of soy sauce is nothing special—the real deal is that deep red broth that comes to the table.”

With that, he closed the door and left them. Zhuang Chen picked up a duck web and savored it. “I’ve heard the earliest ducks were raised in the Jade Spring Mountain’s Silk River—the water never froze in winter, and the ducks drank mineral water, feasting on wild fish, shrimp, and water plants.”

“Ah, that was many years ago!” Xia Long said, chewing on a piece of marinated duck. “People in the capital love to fuss over details—there’s a method and a story behind everything. It’s not just the ducks—even the fuel matters. Jujube wood is considered the best.”

“If there’s no jujube wood, peach, apricot, or pear branches will do. They burn steady and fragrant, with little smoke. Pine, cypress, toon, or paulownia are off-limits—any wood with a strange odor is forbidden.”

“In the old days, people were poor and rarely dined out. When they did order roast duck, they wanted as much meat as possible. The old Quanjude masters would slice the duck to maximize every cut.”

“At most, you could get over 110 slices from one duck, at least 90. For auspiciousness, it was said to be 108 slices. But after that, there wasn’t much left to make duck soup, and some of the pieces weren’t very good.”

“Later, after many trials, they found that 90 slices per duck was ideal. Now, in every Quanjude branch, each duck is sliced into exactly 90 pieces.”

“That way, each slice is of consistent quality, and the remaining carcass makes a perfect duck bone soup.”

As they chatted and ate, more dishes arrived. The waiter brought several plates of wheat pancakes and explained, “When eating roast duck, you must wrap it in a pancake—otherwise, no matter how well roasted, it’s greasy and not fragrant.”

“Our pancakes are always griddled first, then steamed—this makes them elastic and keeps them moist.”

“If the pancakes dry out, they get tough and unpleasant. Steaming is a must—some places just serve them on a plate, which is a terrible mistake!”

“A proper pancake should be springy—if you squeeze it into a ball and let go, it springs right back.”

Clearly not finished, the waiter grabbed a menu and, pointing at the pancakes, vowed, “The best pancakes are so thin and translucent you can read the menu through them. Try it if you like!”

“And the sweet bean paste—only Liu Bi Ju’s sauce will do, blended with sugar and sesame oil to make our special roast duck sauce.”

“It should be neither too thick nor too thin, with just the right sheen—like catching a glimpse of a lotus beauty beyond the window, lightly adorned, yet dazzling.”

Growing more animated, he continued, “To test a proper sweet bean sauce, just dip a chopstick or a cucumber stick in it—if it clings, almost but not quite dripping, that’s the mark of perfection.”

“That’s the kind of sauce that tastes clear and bright, a flavor that speaks of happiness!”

Everyone burst out laughing—this was the joy of dining at a century-old establishment: everything was a story, and the pride in their craft was palpable.

The roast duck chef entered and began to carve the duck at the table. Zhuang Chen watched—it was a skill he’d practiced before. With a sharp, small carving knife, the chef laid the duck flat, removed the head, then, gripping the neck, sliced off the breast skin and meat in thin pieces. Next, he carved the upper right and left breasts, four or five slices each.

Lifting the three-pronged wishbone, he deftly separated the meat from the bone, then sliced downward along the side, passing the leg and finally reaching the tail.

The chef’s technique was solid—mainly slanting cuts, using a flexible wrist, entering lightly and confidently, with the left hand gently steadying the skin, guiding each slice backward in rhythm as the next piece was cut.

They say a duck yields three delicacies, but as Zhuang Chen saw it, it was all about the carving: one for the skin, one for the meat, and one for the oil.

The difference between good and great lies in that thin layer of duck fat.

Wrapping the duck in a pancake and taking a bite, Xia Long’s expression was pure enjoyment. Zhuang Chen tasted it too—competent, but not astonishing.

Perhaps he wasn’t deeply fond of duck, but the marinated appetizers were excellent; he packed some to go, planning to enjoy them with red wine that evening.

By meal’s end, the dishes were all satisfactory, but it was the waiter’s lively wit and warm humor that left the deepest impression on Zhuang Chen.

There was an unmistakable pride in his bearing—his family had served at Bianyifang for three generations, he joked that he was born of this house and would die a ghost here as well.

Zhuang Chen was deeply moved. Perhaps only a century-old restaurant could possess such heritage; its enduring popularity among locals must have some extraordinary reason behind it.