Restaurant Review: Peking Duck at Juqi Passes All Tests

Peking duck enthusiasts in New York have had reason to be nervous of late. In the fall, a kitchen fire brought down Lure, the little sunken rathskeller below the RedFarm in the West Village that once served what many people considered the best version of the dish in town. The restaurant is expected to survive, but it probably won’t reopen until this summer.

The fire followed the Covid lockdowns, when Peking duck, almost the definition of a restaurant dish, was impossible to find. And the pandemic came on the heels of the failure and bankruptcy of the Midtown beachhead of dada Beijing-based chain that couldn’t seem to replicate the formula that makes its lean, golden birds so highly regarded in China.

But finally there is good news. Juqi, in Flushing, Queens, is the first edition in the United States of a restaurant with nearly 20 locations in Beijing, all of them specializing in that city’s cuisine. And while it’s nice to have a new place to eat zha jiang mian and jiaozi, not to mention cumin lamb and crab-flavoured fish, the most impressive item on the menu is the Peking Duck. I don’t know of another restaurant in town that overcomes the classic Peking Duck hurdles—all the finer points of roasting, carving, and serving—so consistently and satisfyingly.

Juqi is inside the hotel and condominium complex called Tangrams, in a two-level skylight shopping center. Upstairs there is a brewery; a sprawling branch of a Chengdu hot food restaurant; a branch of thai restaurant zaab zaab of Elmhurst, Queens; banh mi stalls and Hong Kong-style egg tarts and matcha ice cream; and a vending machine selling toy robots.

Juqi is on the lower level, along with a Orangetheory Fitness center, an inner courtyard, a branch of Famous foods of Xi’an and a hmart which is still under construction. Next to Juqi’s entrance is a sculpture of a sofa occupied by what appears to be a giant rabbit.

Like other nearby new restaurants catering to the same young Chinese students and professionals who might buy a condo in downtown Flushing, Juqi uses something akin to theme park architecture to evoke a fast-vanishing traditional China. In the case of Juqi, the settings that are recreated are the hutongs of Beijing, neighborhoods with alleyways and courtyards where some of the city’s ancient culture survives. This means that, in addition to the expected hanging lanterns and carved wooden screens, a partial brick wall runs through the main dining room, whose corners are inhabited by life-size replicas of pigeons.

The restaurant is also populated with figurines of Tu’er Ye, a minor rabbit-headed deity. (That was Tu’er Ye on the sofa.) Tu’er Ye’s cult is said to be unique to Beijing, where he is worshiped during the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival. Juqi has contributed a tradition of his own to the cult, an edible Tu’er Ye made of cold mashed potatoes that stands several inches tall, its pointy ears and other features precisely drawn with colored cake decorating gel. It’s stuffed with bacon and sweet peas, surrounded by a creamy toasted sesame mayonnaise, and tastes almost exactly like German potato salad.

Mr. Rabbit Mashed Potato, as the dish is known, is not the only visual allusion to the culture of the Chinese capital. Juqi’s mock pig intestine sashimi, concocted in homage to a joke by a Beijing comedian, seems to have never made the trip to Queens, for better or worse. But the black drums of fried rice, served in a two-foot-tall column of flames, are reminiscent of the honeycomb charcoal briquettes that Beijing elders remember as the main source of home heat. Wandou huang, slightly sweet pastries of yellow pea flour, are molded into minutely detailed mahjong tiles.

Both are nice enough, but easily my favorite optical illusion at Juqi is the sweet, juicy shrimp balls that are rolled in puffed grains of red yeast rice to look like lychees.

Chuanming Zhu, the chef, offers excellent interpretations of delicate dishes that originated in the imperial court. Zhua chao yu pian, or sweet fried fish fillets, are covered in a sauce the color and consistency of maple syrup; the garlic helps prevent the sweetness from becoming cloying. Created more than a century ago to satisfy the Empress Dowager’s craving for crab when there was none, the crab-flavoured fish is a minimalist marvel: tender egg whites and yolks, cooked separately, with strips of sole. It is completely free of crabs, except for the crab-shaped clay pot in which it is served.

Tougher northern Chinese dishes also make an appearance, like the aromatic cumin lamb that sizzles on a fluted iron plate that draws out the melted fat that sometimes makes the dish too rich. Beef brisket is cooked until tender with fried potato wedges in a wintery stew flavored with star anise and cinnamon; The fried beef is cooked with strands of dried chilies and green clusters of fresh Sichuan peppercorns, which taste more lemony than dried berries.

If you’re interested in kung pao chicken, you should know that it’s made with more sugar than a Sichuan chef would use, reflecting Beijing’s sweet tooth.

There are also good takes on Beijing street foods, like the robust jiaozi dumplings stuffed with Chinese pork, shrimp, and leeks, with the standard soy sauce and garlic vinegar; or zha jiang mian, wheat noodles dressed at the table with a savory sauce of minced pork and pine nuts and mixed with fresh vegetables.

But just about anything you eat at Juqi will likely become a side dish once the Peking duck arrives. A squad of Bluetooth-headphone-wearing waiters will pull down menus on your iPad and assemble at your table, briskly rearranging plates and bowls to create a smooth runway for the duck to land on. Meanwhile, a chef with a long, sharp blade will take the bird apart (slice, cut, stroke) with the same fluidity as a magician shuffling cards.

You can see right away that this duck has been roasted by the book. No sticky white fat has been left unprocessed; everything has been transformed into a thin sheet of solid amber. As for the leather, it is so taut that you could engrave your initials on it.

The first rectangles of skin will be covered with caviar and will sit on dry toasted bread chips. My advice: leave the toast, take the caviar.

Other slices of duck will be distributed on plates. It’s fun to dip a corner of the skin in sugar. The meat can use the help of Juqi’s soy sauce, saltier and less sweet than hoisin. Or you can wrap both in a tissue-thin pancake with slices of green onion and sticks of cucumber or, better yet, honeydew.

Eventually, you’ll be interrupted by the remains of the duck, either turned into soup or fried into a bony, salty mound. You can try to get the meat out of dark notched bone fragments and reward yourself from time to time with another square of sugared skin.

It can take a long time like this before anyone thinks about dessert. Pea mahjong paste is worth trying at least once in a lifetime, but I think the most refreshing way, especially if you’re serious about fried bones, is a simple dish of fresh watermelon juice turned into a jelly brittle. It’s partially liquid, barely sets, and if you don’t have a steady hand, it will slip off your spoon.

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