The Perfect Poultry for Roasting: A Thousand-Year Chinese Delicacy!

Nothing can't be cured by a roast duck,

the tender and juicy Nanjing roast duck with savory marinade.

Perhaps the vitality of cuisine is always passed down through the hustle and bustle. In today's Nanjing, roast duck remains deeply embedded in daily life. Want to find the best roast duck? Head to the depths of alleyways or local markets, pick the duck shop with the longest queue, and whisper the code: "Zan (chop) a roast duck, with the breast!" In a blink, half a duck—complete with breast, neck, and wing roots—will be handed to you, steaming hot.

Many imagine roast duck with slightly crispy skin, but Nanjing roast duck will redefine your expectations: the meat is soft, plump, and bursting with juices, chopped into large pieces and neatly arranged in a box. At first glance, it doesn’t seem fatty, yet beneath each piece lies a thick layer of fat, exuding an irresistible aroma. The crowning glory is the marinade—glossy red, thick, slightly sweet, and rich with duck essence. With this sauce, you could devour two bowls of rice even without the duck.

The unique texture of Nanjing roast duck comes from the "closed-oven" technique: no open flame, just residual heat from charcoal to slow-roast the duck, testing the chef’s mastery of fire. Before entering the oven, the duck is glazed with syrup and filled with hot water. As the temperature rises, it achieves an "outer-roast, inner-steam" effect, ensuring the meat stays moist. Once out, the cavity water becomes duck broth, blended with aged marinade—no soy sauce needed—for astonishing umami. Poured over the duck, it’s perfection; saved for braised duck wings and feet, it’s a match made in heaven.

Legend has it that Zhu Yuanzhang, founding emperor of the Ming Dynasty, adored this roast duck, demanding "one roast duck daily." Whether he truly had such an appetite is unknown, but the rich duck was indeed favored by Nanjing’s elite. When Emperor Yongle moved the capital to Beijing, this Nanjing tradition followed—during his reign, Beijing’s first documented roast duck shop bore the signboard "Jinling" (Nanjing’s ancient name).

China has many roast ducks, but undeniably, the world’s idea of "roast duck" is largely shaped by Beijing roast duck. A state banquet star, it enjoys global fame, elegant yet robust, still reigning as the most iconic "Beijing flavor."

As mentioned, Beijing roast duck’s closed-oven technique traces back to Nanjing. Yet Beijing imprinted its own palate: northern, wheat-loving, deeply influenced by Shandong cuisine. Local chefs naturally adapted the duck, evolving it into today’s version—wrapped in pancakes with scallions and sweet bean sauce—hardly betraying its southern roots.

Represented by time-honored Bianyifang, Beijing’s closed-oven roast duck is unforgettable. Like Nanjing’s, it prizes plump, juicy meat, dripping with richness. Though lacking the aged marinade, sweet bean sauce adds depth, pairing perfectly with the clean aroma of lotus-leaf pancakes. Scallions, ideally from Zhangqiu, are sweet with a hint of spice, cutting through the duck’s richness.

The Beijing roast duck most recognize is the "open-oven" style epitomized by Quanjude. Open flames lend the skin a unique char and crispness. Aged fruitwood like jujube or peach burns cleanly, adding aromatic depth to the skin.

Open-oven duck is also pancake-wrapped, but includes a side of skin dipped in sugar. First-timers may balk—fat and sugar seem cloying—yet it’s startlingly refreshing. The skin melts like sweet dew, gently coating the tongue.

Open-oven duck’s flaw is its steep decline when cold. Freshly sliced, the skin is crisp, the meat juicy; left too long, they merge into greasy limpness. Hence, it’s best eaten out, unlike closed-oven duck, which suits casual deli sales. Vacuum-packed open-oven duck? Spare your expectations.

Another Beijing duck trait: it’s *extra* fatty!

Roast duck must drip with fat to be fragrant!

Crispy skin demands thick fat. Since Ming-Qing times, Beijingers perfected duck fattening, pioneering "force-feeding" and breeding the ultra-plump "Peking duck."

By the Qing Dynasty, "Peking duck" spread globally, ancestor to many meat ducks. Today’s dominant white-feathered "Cherry Valley duck" is its hybrid descendant—most affordable fatty ducks trace back to it. A modest pride for China’s duck-devouring legacy.

"I’m fat and proud, quack!"

Roast duck: The undisputed king of Cantonese roast meats.

Guangdong’s roast duck stands apart, yet ties to Nanjing—late Qing and early Republic-era shops in Guangdong and Hong Kong still advertised "Jinling sliced-skin duck."

Gourmet Cantonese chefs refined northern imports, elevating roast duck into a Cantonese culinary star.

Cantonese roast duck also boasts a crispy skin achieved through open-flame roasting, but it utilizes a "closed oven" with a sealable door, ensuring more even heating, uniform coloring, and juicier meat. The ultimate delicacy of crispy skin, tender meat, and fragrant bones is just the basic pursuit of Cantonese chefs.

The seasoning of roast duck is also meticulous. First, the "skin glaze" brushed on the duck isn’t just simple syrup—it incorporates red vinegar and rice wine to remove gaminess and enhance freshness, while also developing an enticing rose-red hue under high heat, instantly whetting the appetite. The duck is gutted, its cavity evenly rubbed with five-spice salt and stuffed with sauce, scallions, ginger, and garlic. Finally, the duck is inflated to a plump roundness, ensuring crispy skin while keeping the meat succulent and juicy.

Since ample spices are already added during roasting, no complex sauce is needed after cooking—just a touch of sweet-and-sour plum sauce is enough to delight the taste buds. The duck’s skin is taut and crisp, while the rich fat melts under high heat, releasing an irresistible aroma. There’s no need to distinguish between lean and fatty meat, as the two meld seamlessly, delivering an explosion of flavor and juiciness with every bite—a truly top-tier indulgence.

Despite such meticulous preparation, this duck isn’t reserved for grand banquets but is instead a humble staple of street-side eateries. The most ceremonious debut for a fine roast duck is hanging in a siu mei shop as a living advertisement. When a customer walks in and orders a "top portion" (the front half with wings and breast) or a "bottom portion" (the rear half with legs and tail), the duck is quartered and chopped into bite-sized pieces, becoming a meal that brings joy all evening.

How many more ways are there to enjoy roast duck?

Nanjing roast duck, Beijing roast duck, and Cantonese roast duck each represent the culinary traditions of Jiangnan, northern China, and Guangdong, forming the three major schools of China’s roast duck scene. But as roast duck has evolved over millennia across the country, many unique variations have emerged that defy categorization.

Take Sichuan and Chongqing’s "mao roast duck," for example. If you’ve tried mao cai (a spicy boiled dish), you’ll understand the concept: roasted duck is dunked into a fiery broth, transforming the crispy-skinned, fatty meat into the star of a bubbling pot.

Doesn’t soaking roast duck in hot broth ruin the crispy skin? That’s precisely the magic of mao roast duck: the skin, roasted until dry and puffy, eagerly soaks up the flavorful broth while retaining a smoky char, creating a uniquely satisfying texture. Add some crunchy duck intestines and tender bean sprouts to the broth, pair it with a steaming bowl of rice, and you’ve got a meal that fulfills every craving.

Today, roast duck in northern China mostly resembles Beijing’s "menlu" (closed-oven) duck, served with lotus-leaf pancakes, scallions, and dipping sauce. But it’s not accurate to say these are mere imitations of Beijing roast duck—rather, Beijing roast duck itself borrowed flavor secrets from many northern regions.

Kaifeng’s roast duck is a prime example. The Dongjing Meng Hua Lu (Dreams of Splendor of the Eastern Capital) mentions a dish called "yu duck" in Kaifeng, the former capital of the Song dynasty. Scholars speculate it was a slow-roasted duck, tender and juicy, possibly an early precursor to modern roast duck techniques. Today’s Kaifeng roast duck indeed emphasizes a "fluffy softness," with meat roasted until plump like steamed buns. During the Republic of China era and after the founding of the PRC, Beijing’s roast duck chefs frequently traveled to Kaifeng to learn its methods.

Wuhu’s "red-skin duck" in Anhui looks somewhat similar to Nanjing roast duck. But take a bite, and you’ll find the skin extra crispy, chewy, and infused with a rich, oily aroma. This is because red-skin duck is first roasted and then deep-fried to tighten the skin and meat, creating a full-bodied texture.

Yunnan also has its own roast duck, with Kunming’s Yiliang roast duck being a local specialty. Legend traces it back to northern techniques brought by Ming dynasty armies, though documented records point to locals learning it in Beijing during the late Qing dynasty. Whenever it arrived, Yiliang roast duck is notably served with scallions and sweet bean sauce, giving it a whimsically "exclave" flavor.

Yet Yiliang roast duck isn’t just a northern copy—it surpasses its inspiration in flavor. Small, tender-boned "hemp ducks" are roasted with a honey-lard glaze for natural richness, then slow-cooked in a closed oven for unparalleled tenderness. The duck is chopped into large, rustic pieces that fall off the bone with a gentle shake. Instead of pancakes, it’s dipped directly into dry or wet condiments—typically sweet bean sauce for the latter and a meticulously blended spiced salt for the former, which highlights the duck’s natural savoriness.

Ducks are amiable, adaptable creatures, and while roast duck is a challenging dish to master at home, it’s far from being a banquet-exclusive luxury. It’s the straightforward delight of fat meeting fire, the simple joy of hearty meat-eating.

Amid bustling streets and rising smoke, there’s always a duck that makes life feel worth living.