Page 43 of From Beijing, With Love

“Oh,” Daniel said as the faces of foreign leaders and movie stars smiled back at him. He spotted at least three American presidents. “Then why are they looking at me like that?”

Yang shrugged. “Probably just how you look.”

“How do I look?” Daniel asked after they were seated at one of the many tables in the grand banquet hall. He was probably terribly underdressed in his vintage T-shirt and thrifted jeans. The red pillar next to their table literally had gold etchings on it. Then he saw the withering look on Yang’s face. “What?”

“I refuse to stroke the ego of someone who pretends not to know how good he looks,” Yang said as he flipped through the hefty menu bound in gold brocade that perfectly matched the floor-to-ceiling curtains, not even bothering to look up.

“You think I look good?” Daniel grinned as Yang turned crimson, like he was trying to blend into the walls around them.

Yang closed the menu. “Have you figured out what we are eating yet?”

Daniel was the king of changing the subject; he wasn’t going to let Yang off so easily. But then he spotted the approaching trolley carrying a whole duck. Glistening. Picture-perfect, like a cookbook Thanksgiving turkey.

“We’re having Peking duck?” Daniel stared at the bird and its plump amber skin.

Yang nodded, a grin blossoming on his face. “After seeing whatever that was on your breakfast plate, I thought a trip here was essential. After all, you can’t come to Beijing without having Beijing kaoya.”

Yang ordered for them in Mandarin, the syllables rolling out like a strand of pearls. Daniel tried to pull up snippets of his dad speaking Mandarin in his head but couldn’t. It had been two decades and every memory had a fuzzy edge, like it could just as easily have been imagined.

When their duck arrived on its own trolley, it was accompanied by a chef in a pristine black jacket, golden neck scarf, and pleated white toque.

“Get ready for the show.” Yang tilted his chin toward the duck.

As if on cue, the chef unsheathed his knife, slicing into the poultry. His movements had the precision of a surgeon with the grace of a dancer. The first carving was the skin just above the breast. It was then sliced into bite-size pieces and served with a saucer of crystallized sugar.

“Course one,” Yang said, picking up a piece of skin and dipping it into the sugar. “It’s considered the best part of the duck.”

Daniel followed Yang’s lead. As he raised the sugared bite to his mouth, he felt Yang’s eyes on him, expectant.

He was about to eat a piece of duck skin dipped in sugar. It shouldn’t work, but the moment he bit into the crispy yet melt-in-your-mouth morsel, he knew he was wrong in a thousand ways. Somehow, the smokiness of the fat paired perfectly with the sweetness of the sugar. It sent Daniel into a dopamine bliss. For a man who lived to eat—and ate a lot—this bite came close to life-changing.

“That was ducking amazing,” Daniel said, louder than he should. He grimaced at his own joke before he spotted Yang’s amused smile.

Next, the chef carved out the duck breast in one fluid motion before slicing it on a bias. The meat was served with a steamer of pancakes, julienned scallions and cucumbers, a saucer of glossy black sauce, and a dollop of minced raw garlic that Daniel was not going anywhere near.

“Clean hands.” Yang made a show of cleaning his hands with the supplied hot towelette before reaching into the steamer.

It was a small gesture, but it was also a whole lot—getting what he needed without having to ask. Daniel didn’t want to think too deeply about it, because he was here to take a break from work (involuntary sabbatical), see the country his dad had grown up in (from the inside of his hotel room), and hang out with his best friend (nowhere to be found), not to pine after some guy he’d just met, even if the guy in question was smart, sexy, and incredibly considerate.

Daniel cleaned his hands and reached for a pancake—soft and piping hot. He knew the general gist of how to eat Peking duck, but his execution was a hot mess. His overstuffed wrap was bursting at the top and leaking at the bottom. Daniel shoved his failed DIY project into his mouth anyway and moaned in pleasure. When he looked up from his messy plate, mouth still full of food, he caught Yang’s grin.

“What?”

“You are doing it all wrong,” Yang said, professor-like. He then took another pancake, smearing it with the black sauce before filling it with a modest amount of meat and toppings. “The secret, besides not being too gluttonous, is to fold the bottom before the sides.” Yang held the finished product out to Daniel like a perfectly wrapped present. “Now try this.”

Daniel marveled at the masterpiece that was made for him—with clean hands. It tasted even better than it looked. Apparently, proportions and ratios mattered in Chinese cuisine. Each bite delivered the perfect balance of all the ingredients—the juicy duck meat, the crunchy cucumber, the subtly pungent scallion, and the sweet yet umami sauce.

Just as Daniel finished the first wrap, practically inhaling it, another one was placed on his plate. He should’ve told Yang he didn’t need to be taken care of, but it felt too good, like a warm blanket on a winter night, and he didn’t want to let it go.

“We did it,” Daniel said, sighing as he stared at the empty plate. They had won the hard-fought battle against the duck.

“Not quite. Two more courses to go.” Yang looked better than Daniel felt, probably because he hadn’t eaten like he was on a mission.

“Fuck me,” Daniel said with a groan, and Yang choked on his water. Heat rose in Daniel’s face. “Sorry, I meant I’m totally stuffed. Promise I didn’t just … proposition you at a duck restaurant.”

“I know,” Yang said, the tips of his ears pink. He cleared his throat. “After they serve the breast meat tableside, they take the rest of the duck back to the kitchen and use half of it to make a soup and flash-fry the other half with spices. No part of the duck is wasted.”

Despite being stuffed, Daniel was excited to see what came next. He wanted to experience it all.