By Sarena Johnston ( Chef , Restaurateur, traveller) Guest Post
I remember the first time I tasted Peking Duck like it was yesterday. I was 24, jet-lagged, and standing in the middle of Beijing’s bustling Wangfujing district with a tiny paper map and an appetite far too large for my backpack. I had just arrived from culinary school in upstate New York, and had taken a leap of faith: three months in China, chasing flavors I barely understood but deeply admired. I didn’t know it yet, but that crispy-skinned, lacquered duck was about to become the beating heart of my culinary philosophy — and the signature dish at my new restaurant in Boston, Lù & Clay.
Beijing: Where the Old Meets the Furious New
Beijing hit me like a wok full of chili oil — intense, fragrant, chaotic. On my first night, I was whisked away by a local food blogger I’d met online to a sleek rooftop restaurant in Sanlitun, the capital’s expat-heavy nightlife district. It was all molecular cocktails and delicate tasting menus inspired by Sichuan, Yunnan, and even European cuisines. The duck there was elegant, plated with fermented plum pearls and dehydrated scallion dust. It was… beautiful. But not what I came for.
A few days later, I found myself in a narrow alleyway in Xicheng district, just west of the Forbidden City, following the smell of wood smoke and roasting fat. There was no sign, just a red lantern and a duck-shaped weathervane turning lazily above a grey-bricked archway. Inside, the air was thick with history. The restaurant had been in the same family for four generations. The walls were lined with old black-and-white photographs of chefs, emperors, and ducks on poles. It was here that I met Old Chef Liu, the man who would become my mentor in all things duck.
A Dish Born for Emperors
Chef Liu told me the history of Peking Duck over many cups of jasmine tea. The dish dates back to the Yuan Dynasty (1271–1368) but gained prominence during the Ming Dynasty, when it became a favorite at the imperial court. Originally, the ducks were roasted in clay ovens — a technique refined over centuries to create the golden, crackling skin and tender meat revered today. In the Qing Dynasty, the dish became more accessible to the public, with the opening of iconic duck houses like Quanjude and Bianyifang. “It is a dish of balance,” Liu said. “You must honor the skin, the meat, the pancake, and the sauce equally — like four friends at a dinner table.”
Learning from the Fire
Over the next two months, I returned to Chef Liu’s kitchen nearly every morning. I chopped scallions, stirred vats of maltose syrup, and plucked feathers from ducks trucked in from farms just outside the city. Liu insisted on ducks that were 65 days old, raised on a specific diet of grains and allowed to roam near shallow ponds.
The preparation was intricate and nearly meditative. We would pump air under the duck’s skin to separate it from the fat layer, then dip the bird in a bath of boiling water, maltose syrup, and vinegar. Then came the drying — sometimes up to 24 hours — followed by a slow roast in a date wood-fired oven. When done right, the skin shattered like caramel glass with a gentle bite.
One day, Liu handed me the long metal hook used to hang the duck in the oven. “Now you roast,” he said. I was terrified. My hands trembled as I guided the duck into the furnace, turning it carefully every 15 minutes. An hour later, I pulled out a burnished, golden-brown masterpiece. Liu nodded. “Your first duck. Now, you will always remember this smell.”
Bringing Beijing to Boston
When I returned to the U.S., I knew exactly what my first restaurant would serve. Boston’s Chinatown is rich in tradition, but I wanted to build a bridge between the old-world elegance of Liu’s kitchen and the modern vibrancy I experienced in Sanlitun. At Lù & Clay, we serve our Peking Duck tableside. The pancake is made with locally-milled flour. The hoisin sauce is fermented in small batches, using a recipe I adapted from Liu’s notes. We even built a custom wood-fired oven to replicate the scent and sear I remember so vividly.
Some customers expect a “fusion” version — maybe duck tacos or sliders. But I always offer the traditional presentation first: crispy skin with sugar; slices of breast meat with scallion, cucumber, and sauce; and finally, a soup made from the remaining bones. It’s a ritual, a performance, and a memory in the making.
The Recipe: Peking Duck, As Taught by Old Chef Liu
Ingredients:
- 1 whole duck (about 5 lbs), preferably air-chilled
- 2 tbsp maltose (or honey)
- 1 tbsp Chinese black vinegar
- 2 tbsp soy sauce
- 2 tbsp Shaoxing wine
- 1 tsp five-spice powder
- Boiling water
- Kitchen twine
- Air pump or straw for skin inflation
- Bamboo skewers
Pancakes (makes 20):
- 2 cups all-purpose flour
- ¾ cup boiling water
- 1 tbsp sesame oil
Sauce:
- 3 tbsp hoisin sauce
- 1 tbsp fermented bean paste
- 1 tsp sesame oil
- 1 tsp sugar
Condiments:
- Sliced scallions
- Julienned cucumber
- White sugar (for crispy skin)
Method:
- Prep the Duck: Remove any excess fat and innards. Rinse and pat dry. Using a pump or straw, carefully inflate the skin from the neck cavity until it separates from the meat. Tie the neck shut with twine.
- Blanch & Glaze: Dip the duck in boiling water for 1–2 minutes. Remove and pat dry. Mix maltose, vinegar, soy sauce, wine, and five-spice powder. Brush this mixture all over the duck.
- Air-Dry: Hang the duck in a cool, dry place with a fan blowing on it for at least 12 hours, until the skin feels papery.
- Roast: Preheat oven to 375°F (or use a wood-fired oven at ~300°C). Hang or place duck breast side up. Roast for 60–70 minutes, turning every 15 minutes for even browning.
- Pancakes: Mix flour and boiling water to form a dough. Rest 30 minutes. Roll into 1-inch balls, flatten, and roll into 6” rounds. Steam or pan-fry until soft.
- Sauce: Mix all ingredients. Adjust sweetness or saltiness to taste.
- Serve: Carve duck skin first — serve with sugar. Then slice meat and serve with pancakes, sauce, scallions, and cucumber. Use carcass to make a simple broth with ginger and scallion.
Now, every time I serve Peking Duck in my restaurant, I tell the story of Chef Liu. Of fire and patience. Of tradition and risk. In a way, this dish is not just food. It’s a passport, a memory, and a love letter to the country that taught me how to cook from my soul.
So, if you ever find yourself in Boston, and you see the flicker of a wood fire behind our kitchen’s glass wall, know that something ancient is roasting — and I’m right there, watching, remembering, learning.
