The problem was, this wasn't an easy question to answer here. I hadn't really enjoyed the food in the Beijing area nearly as much as the food in Shanghai. I also had gotten lazy. A night of room service here, a couple of buffet lunches there, and all of a sudden the vast majority of my culinary experiences were circumscribed by the Saint Regis.
This wasn't what we wanted out of our flight of fancy! We wanted to experience culture, learn new things, push ourselves past our comfort zone. And here I was seriously considering
another Wagyu Beef Burger.... Enough!
Fifty some odd days ago, we kicked off our adventure with street food - including a steaming bowl of chili crab, a cheap forty and no napkins. And so we thought we'd go to the Night Market in Beijing, and bring the chapter to a close with another round of unpronounceable dishes, maybe even unknowable dishes. Go out with a real bang.
The Beijing Night Market is a small strip of vendors literally sandwiched between two streets-- a highway median, really. As we approached, T kept talking about his approach to the evening. There was his normal, head-first, "gotta find something good" banter. But was there a bit of hesitation too? "I am really, really looking forward to France. Some western-style food." Pause. Pause. "I wouldn't want to get myself sick."
After octoballs, fish eyes, otak otak, chendol, stink beans and durian, T had a lifetime of street (food) cred with me. "Don't be a hero love. Just don't be a hero."
Under a series of awnings, almost any thing you can imagine has been harpooned with a bamboo skewer. There was a tangle of tentacles, testicles, seahorses on a stick. There nameless pieces of mutton that had been minced beyond oblivion and stuffed into what looked like a split Baily. There were piles of what might have been giant, chestnut flour gnocchi. Might have been, if were were in Tuscany. But here, these guys were in fact larva of some kind or another.
T and I walked along, taking it all in: the neon lights; the athletic store with a faux Nike swoosh, which we would later learn is the largest athletic brand in China; the book store we had stopped in earlier in the day. Out of six floors, an entire half floor is designated to foreign language books. And on that half-floor, I came to understand why the Chinese must think Americans are a poor, weak and degraded culture. Rows and rows of Lipstick Jungle, the Devil Wears Prada, Twilight and John Gresham novels. We were there for an hour. T bought a Ian Flemming novel in protest. Apparently here, the great western mind who thought up 007 counts as a "Foreign Classic."
Well, You only Live Twice - the first time you eat street food, and day you decide you will never eat it again. As we got to the end, a steamy wave of stink over came us. Completely foul. Like someone had lost their bowels in the street over. Sure enough, just behind T, was giant mound of tripe. Is it considered tripe uncooked? A giant mound of cow stomach then. That was enough for me. And it was even enough for T - "How about we go get some Peking Duck?"
I wasn't exactly sure. You see, I don't like duck. Ever since my Dad let me order it at Mountain Jacks at tender pre-teen age, I haven't been able to go back. There was just something about the way it came out - pink and fatty--and something about spitting it half chewed in my napkin, that scarred me. And ever since I've avoided it. I think I'm the only person in the history of Tour D'Argent's patronage that has ordered beef at their restaurant. If the oldest restaurant in Paris has numbered each duck that has been served since its inception in the 17th century, you know they have a hall of shame for patronesses like me.
But, then again, I know a nice man who loves Peking duck. He loves it so much, that he'll order himself an entire duck, even if he's eating alone. I think he told me he ordered himself a duck a day when he was in Beijing. Plus, could I leave China, without giving it a go?
We went to a place called Quanjude. I had done a bit of research on Peking duck joints, just in case the meat-on-a-stick market failed to fill us up. According to the Chowhound Beijing boards, Quanjude made great duck. This was important. Be just as important was the quality of the trimmings - the pancakes, the hoisin sauce and all the little extras.
When we walked in to Quanjude, we followed the crowd. Crammed into a tiny elevator. Ni Hao. And ushered into a waiting room. We took a number. Xie Xie. And then we waited, watching the men smoke and the children terrorize each other. This place was huge. A warren of dining rooms, decked out in red and gold, were crowded with giant round banquet sized tables. When we were shown to our seat, we noticed a party of 14. Just behind them, a handful of men in chef whites and toques were expertly carving up the four ducks the family had ordered. We were in for a treat.
T and I ordered cabbage hearts and chestnuts and a half duck. Along with the duck, we got the typical fixins - Hoisin, Scallions, Pancakes. But I had read a thing or two. No wanting to come across like the duck luddite I was, I ordered some extra extras - turnip sprouts and some minced garlic. The later was an off-menu request, but according to The 'Hound, molasses-glazed ducks were served in Imperial courts with Hoisin sauce for the ladies and garlic sauce for the men. I just wanted to show them I knew a thing or two. That's all.
When our duck came, we were served up a hunk of skin first. Lacquered, brown, crispy, hot and chewy too. This was to be dipped in the bowl of sugar. Like chewy, smokey, butter sugar. Next came the meat itself. Apparently I hadn't fooled anyone, because the waitress quickly set about teaching me how to assemble my pancake.
First, you set out your pancake. You then got about 2 or 3 hunks of duck, and really slathered it in sauce. Next, you used the duck to swab the sauce all over your pancake to get it good and sticky. Next, you dipped your scallions in said sauce, placed it on top of your duck, and made it all into a neat little pile in the upper middle part of our cake. One horizontal fold to tuck your duck in, then two vertical folds on each side. A voila.
It was delicious. Warm, crunchy and smoky. It was even better with the extra bite of garlic and turnip sprouts. We made short shrift of it in no time. As our duck-loving friend would say, it was "quite nice...."
So we ended our trip to Beijing in the same way we started it in Singapore. With a meal that brought us to our senses. A meal that taught us a little bit about the people who had cooked it. And made me all the more excited about learning more about this crazy, wonderful and challenging part of the world.
So I close this post with the full disclosure that I am currently sitting in Eze, France. While the subtitle of my blog is no longer completely accurate, I still have about a week and a half of being footloose and fancy free. With an 18 hour flight, a twelve hour time zone change, what better way could there be than to split it in two, and sandwich a bit of La Belle Vie in between?
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