Roasted Ducks, Rolling Donkeys, and Waiting, Waiting, and Waiting

When in Beijing, one is spoiled for choice with restaurants serving the famous Beijing roasted duck. Quanjude (全聚德), for example, is a well-established brand with many locations across the city, though it seems to have become a bit out of touch with the younger generation. Da Dong (大董), with an impressive 160-page menu full of duck dishes, has earned a Michelin star—which also means its prices can be higher than many others.

In the end, we decided on Siji Minfu (四季民福), one of the most popular chains in Beijing, with 19 shops across the city, known not only for its ducks but also for good food in general and great value for money. The downside is: you have to wait.

When Chinese people queue for a restaurant, they mean serious business. According to online stories, the average wait time for a table at Siji Minfu is at least two hours. On busy days, four hours is not uncommon.

Where there are needs, there is technology—especially in China. To our great relief, we discovered that we could take a queue number on WeChat, the Chinese super-app that combines messaging (like WhatsApp) with social functions similar to Instagram and Facebook.

In fact, we could draw queue numbers at several different branches, meaning we were digitally standing in multiple queues at the same time. But that also meant many others were doing the same. By the rules of dynamic equilibrium, we had to settle for the shortest queue we could find—70 tables ahead of us, equivalent to a wait time of roughly three hours.

Alleyway snacks

With the WeChat screen blinking, counting down our distance from a delicious plate of Beijing duck in the form of table numbers, we set out for Guozijian Street (国子监街) to hunt down some traditional Beijing snacks. Guozijian Street, meaning “Imperial College Street,” is a historical street (naturally, once home to the Imperial College) and also home to China’s second-largest Temple of Confucius.

Hidden inside an unassuming Beijing hutong courtyard on the street is one of the earliest shops of Sanyuan Meiyuan (三元梅园), a well-established chain renowned for its Beijing imperial court–style snacks. Here, we tried almond jelly with osmanthus flowers and double-skin milk with red beans.

Thanks to the osmanthus flower syrup, the almond jelly had a faint sweetness and a floral fragrance, offering a refreshing taste. The double-skin milk, on the other hand, is a traditional Chinese dessert made of steamed milk, egg whites, and sugar. Slightly sweeter than the almond jelly, it had a smooth milk custard texture, topped with red beans.

On our way out, we also picked up a portion of Lüdagun (驴打滚, meaning “Rolling Donkey”), a traditional Manchu snack rumored to have been invented in the imperial court. It is a glutinous rice roll stuffed with red bean paste and dusted with yellow soybean flour. The name comes from its appearance—rolling in the flour like a donkey rolling in dust.

Sharing the courtyard with Sanyuan Meiyuan was a middle-aged Chinese auntie, standing at the entrance with a table and a green box. Her stall might have looked simple, even a bit shabby, but she was actually quite popular and well-known on Chinese social media for making some of the freshest and most authentic “Rolling Donkey” rice rolls in Beijing.

For 10 RMB (17 NOK, paid by scanning the cashless QR code on WeChat or Alipay), she would fetch a portion of warm glutinous rice rolls, chop them into small pieces, and toss them into a pile of soybean flour. When she finished, the rice rolls were still lukewarm. Slightly sweet and chewy, mixed with peanut and soybean flour, the snack had a distinctive flavour and texture. If you like Japanese mochi, you should definitely give it a try.

The art of waiting

Finally, when the table count dropped below 20, it was time to head to the restaurant. Hailing a taxi only required a few taps on the Didi mini-program—the Chinese equivalent of Uber—again, on WeChat. Given the widespread use of digital queue numbers, restaurants now enforce strict rules: if you don’t show up when your number is called, you’re out. This may seem obvious in the West, but considering the long wait times, the Chinese passion for food, and their general comfort with direct confrontation, restaurants used to be more lenient.

The last 15 tables were where the real waiting happened. The restaurant actually has two waiting areas: when you’re more than 20 tables away, you wait downstairs; when you’re within 10, you can move upstairs.

In both waiting areas, there are small snacks—sunflower seeds, candies, simple drinks, and even power banks. I noticed that groups of diners were generally more talkative, sitting around a table gossiping non-stop, while pairs were often more quiet, each absorbed in their phones.

Some girls found the drinks too simple and ordered bubble tea via WeChat. Within 15 minutes, delivery guys in uniform arrived at the restaurant, handing over drinks in paper bags. It reminded me of an old sci-fi movie, where time is traded for physical materials. The act of waiting, both a means and an end within this limited time and space, seemed to take on a deeper layer of meaning. It had become a recursive process: one waits through a series of smaller waits and, in the process, accomplishes a longer one. And who’s to say the meaning of life isn’t hidden in this long, seemingly endless sequence of waitings—at airports, train stations, cinemas, and restaurants?

Beijing duck

At last, the loudspeaker announced our number, granting us long-awaited access to the previously restricted dining area. After several rounds of snacks, we were still a bit hungry—but not starving. A quick glance at the menu led to three dishes: half a Beijing duck, a Beijing royal-style barbecue (贝勒烤肉), and a plate of green pea sprouts (巧拌豆苗).

The first dish to arrive was the Beijing royal-style barbecue. Supposedly invented by the Mongolians and brought to China by the Manchus, this dish features mutton or beef sliced thin and marinated in a sauce made of soy sauce, cooking wine, ginger juice, sugar, and sesame oil. To prepare the barbecue, a generous amount of scallions and onions is first added to the grill tray. Once they soften, the marinated meat is added. The result is a dish with strong, distinctive flavour—and thanks to the vegetables, which you’re meant to eat with the meat—it doesn’t taste overly oily.

The green pea sprouts were served cold and fresh, mixed with deep-fried shredded potatoes. The combination of something tender and something crunchy, together with the sweet and sour sauce, made for a very refreshing taste.

As we neared the end of the second dish, the half duck finally arrived. If you order a whole duck, the chef brings a cutting station to your table and slices the bird in front of you. All the chefs here are well-trained, and the duck was cut into thin slices before being served. Having lived in Oslo for 12 years, I couldn’t even remember the last time I had an authentic Beijing duck—but one bite, wrapped in the warm thin pancakes served in steamers, reminded me of exactly what it should taste like: juicy, flavourful, slightly fatty to preserve that moist, bouncy mouthfeel, and yet not too greasy so that you immediately want more.

The total bill, including a jar of Beijing sour plum juice, came to 331 RMB (466 NOK)—a great value for money.

On our way out, I couldn’t help but notice four women chatting by the roadside. Two clearly came from the South, judging by their strong southern accents; the other two from the North. It turned out they were all tourists visiting Beijing, who had become friends while waiting at the restaurant—first sharing snacks, then eventually a dinner table. When you think about it, it’s hardly surprising. There are so few things that truly bring people together—but waiting for food, and food for waiting, are definitely among them. After all, perhaps all this waiting—beyond the delicious ducks—was never for nothing.