Peking Duck: A Duck Walked from Nanjing to Beijing for 600 Years, Before It Finally Reached Marco's Mouth

From the perspective of a Northeastern Chinese who has lived in Europe for 25 years, tell the story of Peking Duck's historical journey, the precision of sli...

One. The First Time Marco Eats Peking Duck, He Asks a Question

"Coach," Marco stares at the jujube-red duck on the table, "why do you Chinese eat the whole skin?"

I pick up a thin pancake, grab two slices of duck skin, dip them in a little sweet bean sauce, add a few strands of scallion, roll it up, and hand it to him.

"Eat first, I'll explain later."

Marco takes a bite. His expression changes from confusion to surprise, then to silence.

"How is it?"

"This..." He puts down his chopsticks. "This skin is crispy, but there's no meat inside. The meat is underneath. Why do you eat them separately?"

I laugh. In twenty-five years in Europe, I have been asked this question countless times.

"Because the philosophy of Peking Duck is: eat the skin first, then the bone."

"What?"

"The skin is the soul, the meat is the body. The soul must be appreciated first, then the body is digested."

Marco looks at me like I'm crazy.

But I know he will eat another piece. Because that's the magic of Peking Duck: no matter who you are, no matter your cultural background, once you take the first bite, you can never go back.

Two. I'm Not from Beijing, But I Understand the Duck's Journey

My name is Liu Jiayong, from Heilongjiang. Northeasterners eat duck stewed. Peking Duck was once a "foreign dish" to me too.

The first time I ate Peking Duck was in 1988. My father took me to Beijing on a business trip. I was eight years old. I remember the duck being pushed to the table on a small cart, the chef wearing a white coat and a tall white hat, holding a long knife, standing before the duck like a surgeon.

Then he started cutting.

Not chopping, but cutting. Slice by slice, thin as a cicada's wing. I counted: one duck, 108 slices.

"Why cut so thin?" I asked my father.

Father said: "Thin enough to let light through. Look."

He picked up a slice and held it to the light. That piece of duck skin was transparent, like amber.

That image, I have remembered for thirty-seven years.

Later I went to Europe and opened a restaurant in Florence. Every time I try to explain Peking Duck to Italians, I remember that image: an eight-year-old child, seeing a transparent piece of duck skin for the first time, and then knowing what "precision" means.

Three. The Duck's 600-Year Journey: From Nanjing to Beijing

Peking Duck was not invented in Beijing.

This secret, most Chinese people don't even know.

Peking Duck originated in Nanjing. Yes, Nanjing. During the Ming Dynasty, Zhu Yuanzhang established the capital in Nanjing, and the imperial court had a dish called "Jinling Sliced Skin Duck." The method was to roast the duck over a fire of sorghum stalks, then slice the skin. There was no "hanging oven" then; the duck was cooked in a "closed oven."

Then Zhu Di moved the capital to Beijing. He took the chefs from Nanjing, the recipes, and that duck, all to Beijing.

So Peking Duck is a duck that walked from Nanjing to Beijing. It walked for six hundred years to get to today.

But when this duck arrived in Beijing, it changed.

Nanjing's duck was "closed oven": the duck was placed in a sealed oven, and the heat from the walls cooked it. This method was gentle; the skin was softer, the meat tender.

In Beijing, the chefs invented the "hanging oven": the duck was hung in the oven, roasted over an open fire of fruit wood (usually jujube or pear wood). The open flame directly touched the skin, making it crispy. At the same time, the smoke from the fruit wood gave the duck a unique aroma.

So from Nanjing to Beijing, this duck changed from "soft skin" to "crispy skin," from "gentle" to "passionate."

This is very Chinese. Everything in China, when it arrives in Beijing, becomes more "passionate."

Four. Why Does Peking Duck Need to Be Sliced? Not Chopped, but Cut

Europeans eat duck whole. The French roast a duck, cut a few pieces, pour sauce over it, and that's a dish. Italians stew their duck; you can tear off pieces to eat.

But Peking Duck is different. Peking Duck must be sliced. And it must be sliced on the spot. After the duck is roasted, it must be sliced within 15 minutes and served. Beyond 15 minutes, the skin is no longer crispy.

The slicing technique is extremely demanding. One duck must be cut into 108 slices, and each slice must include skin. It can't be too thick—thick is greasy; it can't be too thin—thin breaks easily. The chef's knife must be fast, accurate, and steady. One cut down, the skin and meat separate but don't fall apart.

I once hired a Chinese chef to make Peking Duck at my restaurant in Florence. The slices he cut were uneven in thickness; some had too much meat, some only had skin. An Italian guest said: "This dish looks like it was chopped with an axe."

That day I understood: Peking Duck is not a dish, it's a craft. This craft requires ten years of practice.

Five. The Pancake: The Ritual Is More Important Than Being Full

The second time Marco ate Peking Duck, he had already learned how to wrap the pancake.

"Coach," he said, "I discovered something."

"What?"

"You Chinese eat Peking Duck not to get full. You eat it for... the ritual."

I said: "You finally understand."

The way to eat Peking Duck is itself a ritual. You can't just grab it like a hamburger. You must:

  1. Pick up a thin pancake (15 cm in diameter, less than 1 mm thick)
  2. Grab two slices of duck skin (not more, or it gets greasy)
  3. Dip a little sweet bean sauce (not more, or it gets salty)
  4. Add a few strands of scallion (white part, not the green leaves)
  5. Roll it up (not too big, or it won't fit in your mouth)
  6. Take one bite (must be one bite, not two, or it falls apart)

This process, like Japanese tea ceremony, French wine tasting, or Italian espresso, is a "ritual." The purpose of the ritual is not efficiency, but experience. It's to put you in a state before you eat.

Marco said: "Europeans eat duck to eat. Chinese eat duck to... feel?"

I said: "Yes. Feel the food, feel the history, feel the six hundred years that duck walked from Nanjing to Beijing."

Six. When I Explain Peking Duck to Marco, I Don't Give a Recipe—I Tell History

Marco asked me: "Why is Peking Duck red?"

I said: "Because before roasting, it is brushed with sugar water. The sugar caramelizes at high temperature, forming a jujube-red crispy skin. This is called 'tang se'—sugar color."

"Why brush it with sugar water?"

"Because the imperial chefs of the Ming Dynasty discovered that ducks brushed with sugar water looked better when roasted. Chinese people eat not only for taste, but also for color."

Marco asked again: "Why with scallion strands?"

"Because scallion cuts the grease. The duck skin is very oily; the pungency of the scallion neutralizes the greasiness. This is called 'balance.' The philosophy of Chinese cuisine is the balance of yin and yang: greasy paired with light, sweet paired with salty, hot paired with cool."

"Then what about the sweet bean sauce?"

"Sweet bean sauce is fermented. The savory umami of the sauce, combined with the crispiness of the duck skin and the pungency of the scallion, creates three layers of taste. This is called 'layers.' Chinese cuisine emphasizes layers—not a single taste, but a symphony of tastes."

Marco was silent for a long time. Then he said:

"Coach, I have eaten Italian food for thirty years. I thought I understood food. Now I realize, I don't understand food at all."

I said: "It's not that you don't understand food. It's that you don't understand China."

Postscript: A Duck, a City, and a Pride

For Beijingers, Peking Duck is not a dish—it is a pride.

Beijingers say: "The Peking Duck at Quanjude is the most authentic in all of China."

But Nanjing people will smile and say: "The chefs at Quanjude all trace their ancestry back to Nanjing."

Chinese people's feelings toward Peking Duck are complex. It is both an imperial court dish and a street snack. It can be the star of a state banquet, or the centerpiece of a family gathering at home.

But no matter where you eat it, no matter who makes it, the core of Peking Duck never changes: that duck must be force-fed for sixty days, air-dried for eight hours, roasted over fruit wood for forty-five minutes, and then sliced into 108 pieces by a chef with at least ten years of experience, within fifteen minutes.

This is a precise process. A process that requires patience. A process that requires respect.

Europe has precise foods too. French foie gras, Italian white truffles, Spanish Iberian ham. But European precision is for control. Chinese precision is for respect—respect for the ingredient, respect for time, respect for the duck that walked from Nanjing to Beijing.

I have been in Europe for twenty-five years, six in Florence. I have eaten at the best restaurants in the world, but every time I return to Beijing, the first thing I do is go to Quanjude. Not because I love the taste there, but because that taste holds my memory of being eight years old, my father's hand, that jujube-red duck, and the long knife that cut 108 slices.

That duck walked for six hundred years before it reached my mouth. How could I not respect it?

---

> Coach Liu Says

>

> Peking Duck is not a dish—it is a history. The next time you eat Peking Duck, don't rush to wrap the pancake. Look at that piece of duck skin first. Hold it to the light. See if it's transparent. If it is, the chef's skill has arrived. If not, that duck died for six hundred years in vain.

Related Reading

Continue Reading

← Dongbei Stew: Why Do Northeastern Chinese Throw Everything Into One Pot? — Not Because They Don't Care, But Because "Stew" Holds the Warmth of Home Tianjin Baozi: Why Is It Called 'Goubuli'? — Not Because Dogs Ignore It, But Because the Owner Was Too Busy to Talk →
Back to Articles