Duck dishes delight at Quanjude eatery

It was a rainy night. The specter of doomsday hung in the air. Streets were outwardly quiet, yet bellied inner rumblings that sent chills through one's spine. Jakarta, put quite simply, was a glacier whose ice cap overlay a volcano.

Yet one tiny, battered car, containing Epicurus and partner, could be sighted braving its way through the dystopia, doggedly in pursuit of gastronomy's Neverland. It was quite alone in that pursuit, mind you, for downtown Jakarta (Kota) was as sleepy as a deserted ghost town. The car cruised at a snail pace along the mighty Mangga Dua street, which during work days encapsulates the term "living hell".

What on earth was Epicurus doing, you might ask, for food is just food, after all, and what good would it do if Epicurus loses its head in the process? (Evidently, Epicurus has seen too many horror movies.)

Aaah, but that's where you're wrong, for what Epicurus found opposite the giant ITC building, just before reaching the Mangga Dua Mall, was a sign that said "Quanjude -- Beijing Duck Restaurant, since 1864". For this is no ordinary food we're talking about here, ladies and gentlemen. Quanjude has not only been serving one of the tastiest renditions of North China's greatest speciality for 133 years, but has now become one of the biggest restaurant chains spanning more than 80 branches worldwide. The sign, therefore, was a gateway to culinary heaven.

As is typical of Chinese restaurants, the real test doesn't lie in the atmosphere, the interior or even the service (which, by the way, conforms to a high standard, especially the service). So this time Epicurus just breezed through all the complementary features -- the ample space, the 50-odd waiters, and the standard Chinese iconography -- red lanterns and paintings of goldfish and Chinese calligraphy -- without giving them much thought. Even if they were the pits, the food alone is well worth your time, money and energy.

First, the Beijing Duck -- the establishment's crowning glory. The half portion -- fitting for two -- stood at Rp 26,000. Epicurus has eaten Beijing Duck in Beijing, Hong Kong, and Singapore, yet familiarity has not taken anything away from Quanjude's meticulous preparations.

But first, true to the epicurean code, Epicurus dutifully played tourist at the meat carving section -- a wide, glass window-partitioned kitchen not unlike those meat carving sections in supermarkets where glimpses of hanging flesh can be sighted.

But in this particular kitchen, the fat, force-fed Donalds were given more respect: they were either roasted in giant wood- fired ovens or laid out before us to be sliced expertly by snowy- white, porcelain-faced chefs from Beijing. And these ducks didn't even need slicing; so tender were they that the meat flaked off gently by itself. It must have been the exclusive soybean and milk diet the poor ducks had to live on.

Epicurus stayed on, transfixed, during the show of flesh -- not to mention the human Veg-o-Matic -- until a waiter indicated that the duck was already on the table. "Savor it, please, when it is still warm." Epicurus heeded the advice.

Soon, thin, unleavened wheat pancakes blanketed the crispy, oil-oozing duck skin, its underlying fat and meat, and slivers of fresh leek and cucumber swathed in sweet, plum-like, hoisin sauce. This did wonders to the soul and sent more shivers through the spine than Jakarta's present eerie gloom. If you order this, do not order too much else as it is very filling, especially if you have a stir-fried dish made from the fleshy remains of the duck as a final course. And don't forget, it is usually the tastiest parts of the duck that are served at the end -- the halved head, strips of "tenderloin" from along the spine and the fatty triangle from near the tail.

Legend has it that Quanjude's Beijing Duck benefits from a special technique taught by the Chef of the Imperial Palace during the Qing Dynasty. The duck's stomach is filled with soup before it is roasted as to render it crispy on the outside and tender on the inside. Well, whatever it is, it works.

Steamed Crabs with Oyster, Chilli and Garlic Sauce weren't actually in Epicurus' plan, yet with democracy (or the lack of it) a much-maligned premise these days, the partner also reserved a say. But it turned out to be an inspired move, for it proved that Quanjude's excellence goes beyond its house speciality.

The crabs were fresh and meaty; sometimes, if lady luck smiles, you get one full of roe as well. After demolishing whatever morsel was left of the crab, Epicurus' partner mopped up every drop of the piquant sauce with his sesame bun like he wouldn't live to see tomorrow.

Still in duck mode, Epicurus ordered duck soup, duck with vegetables, and a tasty duck fried rice, laced with garlic, shallots, onions, sweet peas, scrambled eggs, and red chilies. Epicurus might just die of a duck overdose and would not mind so much (there are worse ways to die). Yet, aside from their winningly "ducky" taste, and their fresh, not overly starchy seasoning, another positive pattern transpired. The dishes were all exceptionally colorful and looked almost Thai in presentation.

The mere mention of dessert, even fresh fruits, was too much after this mind-blowingly delicious yet affordable meal. After parting with Rp 90,000 for two, including 5 percent service charge and 10 percent tax, Epicurus and partner found themselves back in the car. The night was still young. The "we eat to live vs we live to eat" perennial question was temporarily solved in favor of the latter.

-- Epicurus