PEKING DUCK
My best sandwich, sometime after which I fell into a depression and have written very little.
We were shopping for twice-baked potatoes and what was needed to make Alison Roman’s The Dip when I saw ducks were on sale for $35 at the Whole Foods. I’d never cooked a duck before, but I’ve eaten plenty, having worked at an office just above Seattle’s international district where several times a week I would pick up duck or soy sauce chicken and Chinese sausage with rice for what used to be $5.99. The fewer people between you and crispy duck, the better.
I was worried it had gone bad sitting in its own blood for two nights after purchase, but a thorough rinse and few extra dowsings with boiling water, which makes the skin tighten up almost like a balloon—almost because whoever butchered my duck had cut too deep into the cavities at either end—it smelled tolerably like dead poultry. That’s where I and the recipe diverged. I didn’t have maltose and didn’t want to look for it, assuming it was what it sounded like, just a different type of pure sugar syrup. So I concocted a mixture of dark and light soy sauce and set it on the stove to thicken with a scoop of brown sugar and some shao xin wine for added depth.
This was a mistake, though not so severe. But I wouldn’t know that for another day as the duck would have to rest uncovered in the fridge overnight where it would dry out and disgust Susanna with its limp, pudgy appearance and sweet funk. Whenever she would open the fridge, each of its dark brown, marinating follicles stared up at her. I’d had my hands in its guts and so was immunized by the semi-processed look of the thing.
Krista dropped off Arcadia the morning of the duck, and I had a meeting but not until the afternoon, so after I wrapped up some work, we took her to the new cafe down the street. I had never fed a baby a morsel of my own food before, and I asked Susanna if I could give Cadie some of the egg from my sandwich. Maybe it’s that by not being our own, such experiences with a nine month-old remain uncommon and thus retain their magic. She spit the egg out—it was not so uncommon to her—and it had to be reoffered in smaller bits.
We left the coffee shop giddy at the thought of being perceived as new parents, and Susanna took Cadie to the library and I went home to rush through enough work to ease my pre-meeting nerves. The meeting was fine, even dull, but I continued my hurried pace, until the baby, fresh from a long nap, was plopped down on the rug next to my yoga mat. Half-hearted stretching could wait. Then Cadie’s brother arrived from school, and we worked on the barely started puzzle on the coffee table until Krista got there to pick them up.
All this seems important to mention despite this story being about a sandwich made from a meal I, to this point, have still cooked. Maybe that is the mushroom chocolate I had earlier, or a sense of duty to story. Either way, duty eventually caught up to me as I got lost in the shaving of a quickly drying clay cylinder that I was attempting to perfect, and failing to finish, before dinner, and which cracked through the middle the next morning.
It was supposed to be an easy meal, and it would have been had I committed solely to the task. Distracted, I oversteamed the mustard greens, which always should have just been quickly blanched. And while the cucumbers and rice were impossible to ruin, the bird gave me anxiety. The skin was growing too dark too soon to become crispy—the reason against using such a dark and viscous basting liquid—and it had to be shielded with aluminum foil to prevent it from burning.
Only the forward skin of the breasts crisped up, and the meat was slightly overcooked, but for a first try, it was quite good, and I ate loudly once it had been plated. There was no chance I was going to try making those thin pancakes that Peking duck is traditionally served with—one thing at a time—but I regretted only having one packet of take-out hoisin sauce. The combination of duck meat and hoisin sauce is natural enough to be revelatory. Susanna stared humorously as I reacted to perfect bites.
Poor sleep and an all day headache followed. I went back to the new cafe and worked at the communal table opposite the bookshelves featuring the work of local ceramicists. I spent the afternoon cleaning the wooden surface of small kitchen island with Murphy’s Oil, setting up the espresso machine that had been collecting dust in the closet where I have my workbench, and singing 70s Billy Joel with the aid of the kitchen’s acoustics.
A run to the park did nothing for the headache but make me woozy—I’d missed lunch—and it was crescendoing still when Susanna got back early from her nightly babysitting gig. I was painting the head of a small clay mushroom with a deep and glossy purplish lipstick red, and I’d still not made the sandwich this piece is about. Susanna said she wasn’t hungry, that she just wanted a bit of mine, so I knew to make her a whole one, if a bit smaller than my own.
More committed to this meal than the night before’s, I spread all the ingredients out on the countertop, and cut the burner on under a pan for toasting the sourdough that Susanna’s other sister had brought the day before—after the other had left with the children and before we took a walk to the hardware store where I bought a sander and some paint intended for the chest of drawers.
Genius struck when I saw the drippings pan still in the oven from the previous night’s roasting, and I strained the fat before brushing both sides of each slice of bread with it. I balled what meat I could pull from the duck carcass into aluminum foil and stuck it where the pan had been to steam itself warm with its own moisture while the bread fried.
I made two mayos, one with an equal amount of hoisin, another with sriracha. I tore some leaves of iceberg and sliced a few shallots lengthwise. I spread the hoisin mayo on the bottom—the sweet should hit with the warm duck—topped the meat with the shallot slivers and iceberg and the sriracha mayoed sourdough slice.
I served Susanna her sandwich before making my own. She became silent. I heard her take another bite sooner than expected and smiled. When I sat down, she tried not to give it away, but I already knew.
To be honest, the first flash of flavor evoked Big Mac—the sauces had run together, sweet and tang drooled over twice-roasted meat—but the mellowed gaminess of the duck clarified and came forward. It was too small a sandwich, the second half went quickly, and I wanted fries to prolong the thing. Susanna finally admitted her feelings.
Neither of us bothered with the dishes, and I stopped painting my mushroom when she called me to bed. The next morning—this one, in fact—I fried our last egg in more of the duck fat and ate it over another slice of toasted sourdough along with the fried remainders of the thigh meat. Tomorrow, I will simmer the carcass for soup and marvel at the length of $35.
The Recipe
Sam’s Peking Duck Sandwich
Shreds of fresh Peking duck meat (get from your local Chinatown purveyor or make yourself — I used this recipe, obviously I made changes)
Sriracha mayo
Hoisin mayo
Sourdough slices (toasted, preferably in duck fat)
4-6 scallions (sliced lengthwise)
Iceberg lettuce leaves
Ngl, I think I need to try this.