Peking duck is my single favorite restaurant food. I've had it untold times in America, where it is occasionally superb, and less often in Beijing, where it became a restaurant dish some 600 years ago. Our Chinatown restaurants aren't nearly that eternal, although they do honor local traditions by handing out fortune cookies after meals.
Beijing is the capital city of China. It was known as Peking until the second half of the twentieth century, when so much changed under the Communist government. But even the Commies knew enough not to mess with the name of the duck. What I find fascinating about Beijing is that it has been a political capital of China for centuries, has a population of more than 20 million, and yet Peking duck is the only great dish ever conceived there.
Duck in general is not easy to cook, and Peking duck is orders of magnitude more difficult. In China, Pekin (no "g") ducks are bred on farms near Beijing and force-fed a diet of grains and beans for several weeks before slaughter. Then they are prepared by a painstaking process that includes hanging to dry for six hours. After roasting, the duck is sliced ritualistically, the meat going into one pile, small pieces of skin with fat removed into another.
Serving Peking duck is also complicated. It requires last-minute assembling, sometimes in the kitchen by cooks, more often tableside, either by a waiter or the customer. A pancake much like a crepe is packed with a few standard ingredients: skin, sauce, scallions. Then it's folded or rolled up. (Some restaurants serve their Peking duck in pillowy, white, steamed clamshell buns, the kind made famous by Momofuku's pork buns.) If the restaurant does the job for you, the result might be deft but the proportion of ingredients might not be to your taste. Doing it yourself is simple, inasmuch as all of us have hands-on experience with tacos and fajitas. Peking duck might go back to the Yuan Dynasty, but it's a dish for the twenty-first century, where so much eating is utensil-free.
How it is assembled is also a source of debate among aficionados. The complication, unresolved after centuries, is what to do with the meat. Clearly, the skin is the soul and substance of the dish: thin, crisp, fat-free, glazed, roasted, mouth-watering, and beguiling. The meat, to me, is merely a sturdy accompaniment.
In Beijing, the restaurant Quan Ju De serves the meat as a separate course, stir-fried with vegetables, while the restaurant Bien Yi Fang serves the meat in the pancake with the skin. I'm firmly in the Quan Ju De camp, believing that the meat is at best an accessory. When I tell friends that, most ignore me and stuff the meat in with the skin.
If you're making your own, here's how the packaging proceeds: Gently remove a delicate mandarin pancake from the basket and lay it flat on your plate. Add the sauce, almost always hoisin, a thick Chinese barbecue sauce that can be purchased or made by the restaurant. (In Beijing, sweet bean sauce is preferred.) For elegance, apply the sauce using a scallion as a brush. If you're like me, use a spoon. Finally, add the slices of skin, but not too many—this is a delicacy, not a hoagie.
I went in search of the best Peking duck in New York, a journey that took me to Flushing, Queens; Manhattan's Chinatown; and various other restaurants scattered throughout Manhattan. I also stopped at the much-praised Peking Duck Sandwich Stall, located on Main Street at 40th Road in Flushing, where you can get duck for a buck—yes, a modest-sized steamed bun filled with all the requisite Peking duck ingredients for one dollar. I ate mine standing on the sidewalk, dodging hostile passers-by. I was there for a considerable time, because the skin was so tough I had to chew and chew. An elite Peking duck experience this was not.
I went to ten restaurants, some that specialize in Peking duck, some that simply have it on the menu. I judged the Peking duck by the quality of the pancake (or bun), the hoisin, the presentation, and the duck, a perfect score in each category being 10. All categories were not equal. The duck, as is proper, counted for twice as much as anything else, the meat of minor interest and the skin most of all.
No. 10
Peking House
18523 Union Turnpike
Flushing
Listed under Chef's Specials, the Peking duck sounded irresistible: "Young duckling...crispy and golden brown...crepes...house-made hoisin sauce." Hard to imagine anything better. The place looks like a repurposed diner from the outside, but inside it's shiny with lacquer, mirrors, and reflecting lights. Our waiter was brusque, barely making contact long enough to take our order. He rushed us through our meal, never changing plates as we made our way through several courses, each hideously prepared.
Out came the duck. The waiter immediately started assembling jumbo Peking duck packages the size of burritos. The pancakes were oversized, gummy, cold, and tasteless, the worst of any I had. We wondered why he added so little hoisin and then realized he knew best, because it was one of the sweetest sauces ever made, overwhelming whatever it touched. The duck meat was decent and the skin was blessedly fat free. It was also tasty in an odd way, like no other skin I've eaten. I wondered if a secret ingredient had been added, maybe MDG, or monoduckling glutamate. It will forever remain a mystery, because I won't be going back.
RATINGS Duck: 5
Pancakes: 2
Sauce: 3
Presentation: 3
SCORE: 3.6
No. 9
Hop Lee
16 Mott St.
Chinatown
Don't confuse Hop Lee with Hop Kee, which is across the street at 21 Mott. Hop Kee has lines, whereas Hop Lee appears less popular. When I called to make a reservation, I was told, "Just come in." The service was pleasant, the table comfortable, the tablecloth pink. I was startled when one table in the main dining room at 9 p.m. on a Saturday night was occupied by waiters having their staff meal. One of my friends quipped, "You might want to take note that the waiters have not selected Peking duck as an entrée." They knew.
The duck arrived on a platter with orange shrimp chips as a garnish. The meat was bland, the all-important skin tough, rubbery, cold, and tasteless, approaching inedible. The hoisin was rather perky and the steamed buns fresh and warm, better than most. Even if the Peking duck wasn't profound, my fortune cookie was: "Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding."
RATINGS Duck: 2
Buns: 5
Sauce: 6
Presentation: 5
SCORE: 4
No. 8
Peking Duck House
28 Mott St.
Chinatown
I'm a long-time patron, so I was impressed with recent renovation that made the two dining areas attractive and the bathrooms tolerable. The food remains exactly as it has always been. New Yorkers come here because prices are reasonable and it's BYOB. The bird that emerges from the kitchen is exceptionally attractive, first presented whole and then carved nearby. An unsmiling cook wearing a big toque will cut large, even slices, but he will make no effort to remove the fat.
The pancakes were big, soft, and neutral. One friend said of his, "It could be a paper towel." The meat was tender, the skin was crisp under all that fat but rather bland. You might find yourself packing the pancake with scallions to enhance the flavor. Peking duck House is a bargain, but it's no banquet.
RATINGS Duck: 5
Pancakes: 4
Sauce: 3
Presentation: 6
SCORE: 4.6
No. 7
Buddakan
75 Ninth Ave.
Manhattan
Make an major effort not to dine upstairs, in the gloom. The table offered me the first time I went—I didn't stay—appeared to have been cobbled together in a corner at the last minute, the way folding tables and chairs come out of the garage when too many relatives show up on Thanksgiving. The next time I insisted on a table downstairs, in the dining room, which is brighter and more cheerful, although our comfortable booth was directly beneath a subwoofer. A night of thumpy-thumpy music had me on the verge of quacking up. Service was first-rate, our waiter a master articulator. The Peking duck was presented like most dishes here, beautifully.
The pancakes came in steamer baskets, but they were too firm and so small a friend described them as "Pringles." Scallions, cucumbers, and hoisin arrived in a three-part ceramic dish. The sauce was very thick and intense. The duck had been carved and reassembled, meat on the bottom and fat-free skin layered over the top, a meticulous process that probably accounted for the skin being cold and flabby. The sections of skin had been poorly cut and required yanking to pull apart. The meat was moist and tender, with hints of spices, the best I had. Overall the dish was so insubstantial one guest said, "It would have been okay if I'd gotten the whole thing for myself."
RATINGS Duck: 5
Pancakes: 3
Sauce: 5
Presentation: 7
SCORE: 5
No. 6
Phoenix Garden
242 E. 40th St.
Manhattan
This warhorse of a restaurant is located on an obscure block in midtown Manhattan. Years ago, when it was in Chinatown, it had a higher profile, but that was so long ago the hostess couldn't remember when it moved. The restaurant does something that Cantonese restaurants in Chinatown have difficulty accomplishing: serving respectable, reliable, old-fashioned cuisine. The décor isn't much: plain tables, track lighting, brick walls. I was talked into trying a special, herbal chicken soup, and it was wonderful—dark, fragrant, and exotic.
The Peking duck was served in steamed clamshell buns. The waiter did the assembling while we watched, creating little sandwiches with scallions sticking out every which way, the porcupine look. The buns were fine, exactly as they always taste, not bad. The hoisin was thick and unusually tempting; if it's straight out of a can, my compliments to the factory. The meat was slightly overcooked, the skin a little tough and not quite crunchy enough, but almost all the fat had been removed.
RATINGS Duck: 6
Buns: 4
Sauce: 7
Presentation: 6
SCORE: 5.8
**No. 5 **
Shun Lee Palace
155 E. 55th St.
Manhattan
Shun Lee Palace suggests the stateliness of a China long gone. It's serene and grand, with an extraordinary little bar just inside the entrance where a Chinese gentleman of indeterminate years serves cocktails at the four seats. I practically shivered at the perfection of the experience. The dining room is elegant, the service unlimited, the chairs unusually comfortable, the experience as gracious as almost any in New York.
The duck was served in a traditional manner, in three courses: first the duck skin with pancakes, second the meat sautéed with slightly hot green peppers and bean sprouts, third a duck soup. I didn't count these last two dishes in the scoring, but I wondered why the second course contained so little duck meat and why the soup had so many additions, including cellophane noodles, cabbage, and tofu. The pancakes were disappointing: tasteless, tough, and slightly oily. The hoisin was served warm, an interesting idea, but it appeared to have separated slightly, or perhaps duck fat had dripped in. The skin was not fat-free. Still, it was crisp under the fat, with exceptional depth of flavor.
RATINGS Duck: 7
Pancakes: 3
Sauce: 6
Presentation: 8
SCORE: 6.2
No. 4
New Imperial Palace
13613 37th Ave.
Flushing
Imperial Palace is a high-end seafood restaurant, the kind that appears to offer Peking duck as an afterthought. When you approach the place, your hopes will fade, because the exterior is exceptionally drab. Inside, it's brightly lit, with well-dressed waiters in bow ties, the requisite fish tank, crystal chandeliers, and walls festooned with glittery good luck symbols. We were seated up front, where the big, round tables have white cloths. Next to us was a children's birthday party with a Hello Kitty cake. The cake looked good.
The duck came out pre-assembled, on a platter with crunchy, multi-colored shrimp chips. The warm, steamed clamshell buns tasted fresher than most. The hoisin was thick and less sweet than usual, rather lip-smacking. The meat was slightly too salty but without fat, and the skin was fine and crisp, well above average. New Imperial Palace did a solid job unceremoniously.
RATINGS Duck: 7
Buns: 5
Sauce: 7
Presentation: 6
SCORE: 6.4
No. 3
Mr. Chow
324 E. 57th St.
Manhattan
Mr. Chow is an odd joint but a fabulous one. It belongs to the highfalutin world of Michael Chow, which means art deco ornamentation, Richard Smith flying wings soaring across the ceiling, and multiple rolling carts—for champagne and for pastries. If you want the duck, you're required to have much more: appetizers, then duck, and finally main courses, all part of a set menu. Your good-natured waiter will hover, encouraging you to pick out the most expensive items (at no extra cost). He's like the rich uncle who took you toy shopping when you were six.
The duck was big, fat, and golden, lovely enough to pose for a poultry portrait. It was carved tableside, the slices fanned out on a plate in artful little packages. Each piece contained meat, skin, and, unfortunately, an abundance of fat. Perhaps that's not a mistake to Chow, who has his own ways of thinking about Chinese food. Both the meat and the skin were excellent. The pancakes were wonders—light, delicate, strong, easily the best. The hoisin was dark, thick, and very sweet, rather overwhelming, although perhaps not if you're slathering it on all that fat.
RATINGS Duck: 6
Pancakes: 10
Sauce: 3
Presentation: 9
SCORE: 6.8
No. 2
Chef Ho's
1270 Second Ave.
Manhattan
This Upper East Side Chinese stalwart calls itself a Peking Duck Grill, which is at best confusing and at worse misleading, since Peking duck isn't grilled and I couldn't see where anything else on the menu might be. I anticipated culinary confusion but found myself in a fine little restaurant, the most pleasant surprise of my quest. The room is orderly and well-maintained, the waiters friendly (if a little bewildered by the simplest tasks), and the food uniformly good. You might want to try Ho's Beef (pan-seared with orange peel and ginger) after you've polished off your duck.
The pancakes were steaming hot, perfectly thin, somewhat aromatic, and so large the waiters proved more proficient at filling them than any customer. The sauce was unaccountably tasty and appealing. The meat and the skin were both expertly cooked and free of fat, the skin correctly thin and crisp. Both were underseasoned, the single flaw. Most of the flavor was delivered by the scallions and the sauce.
RATINGS Duck: 7
Pancakes: 7
Sauce: 8
Presentation: 7
SCORE: **7.2 **
No. 1
Decoy
529 1/2 Hudson St.
Manhattan
Decoy is subterranean, with a dive bar look. One neon sign in a window reads Bar, the other Open Late. The dining area is dark and rustic, with a communal table seating 22, very fifteenth century. The restroom has a Japanese toilet with a control panel, very twenty-first century. One wall features a mural, the Last Supper, with ducks instead of people. You'll get a shot of duck soup that's so concentrated you'll wish you could buy a bottle to take home.
When the duck comes out, you'll know immediately that this is the place. Have you ever tasted aged red Burgundy, the kind that seems too light in color and body to be profound but shocks you with its intensity? Decoy's skin was like that, wafer-thin and so exquisite I wanted to kowtow to the kitchen. It had almost no fat. It was gone too soon. The hoisin was fine. Other sauces were provided, one an overly potent peanut-sesame and the other cranberry. I wasn't sure what to do with them, although the cranberry sauce naturally pairs well with the meat. The pancakes were light and soft, with grill marks. Everything is good here, but the skin transports you to Peking duck paradise.
RATINGS Duck: 9
Pancakes: 7
Sauce: 6
Presentation: 7
SCORE: 7.6