The Whole Duck

Peking duck—its name alone begged us to try.

A waiter handed us menus.

“A whole duck serves four or five people.”

Dani looked at me.

“We’ll take one.”

Behind him, rows of lacquered ducks hung from steel hooks in the kitchen. Somewhere among them, ours waited.

~

While we waited, Dani ordered the roasted-grain tea she’d discovered in the lobby.

At last, She lifted the pitcher with a grin.

“I found it.”

A skinny man wearing a knee-length white uniform with a tall paper chef’s hat approached.

In front of him, he pushed a cart with a silver serving platter to the edge of our table and lifted the lid.

With three quick swipes, he removed strips of crispy skin from the undisturbed muscle.

He moved his hand over the strips as servers set plates of wafer-thin pancakes and condiments at our table.

“Please.”

Dani followed his lead and dipped a thin slice of fatty skin into the granulated sugar.

She looked at me. Then at the bird. Her eyes wide.

“You have to try this.”

So I did.

The duck dissolved in my mouth—a perfect balance of sweet, salty, and savory flavors.

While we tasted, the chief continued carving .

Then he bowed again and disappeared to the kitchens.

Once we started eating, we couldn’t stop.

~

At the end of the meal, the chef returned carrying a small round object.

He split it in half.

A pale, creamy center glistened inside.

“What is it?” I asked.

Dani shrugged.

Then I turned it over.

A broken beak.

An eye socket.

A spinal opening.

“We ate its brains.”