I’ve been in Beijing for almost two months and had not yet eaten the famous Beijing kao ya (Peking roast duck, duh). Until tonight.

A few of my colleagues took Chris and me to a nearby branch of Bianyifang. Most people are more familiar with Quanjude, but Bianyifang goes back further in history—like 600 years worth of history. And, well, they make a really tasty duck.

Apparently, what’s special about Bianyifang is that they roast their ducks in a closed oven (not an open pit). Not that I know the difference between the two, but compared to roast ducks back in the States (severely misleading but still the only point of reference I have), Bianyifang’s duck kicks ass. Tender, subtle flavors and crispy-juicy-succulent skin: such culinary mastery barely registered as I gobbled the duck up.

I realized how little I actually knew about the Peking duck tradition. I knew the part where the cook brings out the duck and carves it up in front of you into thin little slices. But apparently it is served and eaten with these very thin steamed “pancakes,” with which you wrap up some duck meat, cucumbers and onions. There’s also hoisin sauce, rose and chrysanthemum petals and sugar for garnish. We went all out and got some buns (that can be used to create a sandwich), duck soup, duck kidneys, duck stomach and these duck rolls that were kind of like egg rolls. I ate half a duck brain. (The duck head is chopped in half, so the inner workings of a duck mind is exposed.)

Pictures are forthcoming.

Chinese beer has its fair share of critics (loaded with preservatives, bland, low alcohol content, etc.), but what are the alternatives? It’s either no beer or expensive imports. But Chinese beer also has a really weird pricing system that doesn’t seem to be governed by a normal market economy. Here is what you can expect to pay:

• 40+ kuai (~$7), small bottle: Tourist-frequented bars, like those along Sanlitun Lu. Not worth it because a) pay just a few yuan more, and you can get a good import; and b) there’s probably a place selling a big bottle for 3 kuai just around the corner.
• 30 kuai (~$5), big bottle: fancier and/or tourist-y restaurants. If you’re splurging already, then you might as well splurge on beer, too.
• 20 kuai (~$3), big bottle: above-average restaurants. Not a great deal, but not especially bad, either. Here, it just depends on whether you want to pay an extra 20, and the answer is usually no.
• 20 kuai (~$3), small bottle: low-key, high-gravity bars and clubs; worth it for the company you keep at the bars and clubs.
• 10 to 15 kuai (~$1.50 to $2.50), big bottle: restaurants; depends on how badly you want a beer with your meal.
• 3 kuai (~50 cents), big bottle: standard at hutong restaurants and roadside vendors. Definitely worth it to go with your chuan.
• 2.50 kuai (~35 cents), draft: found in a hutong restaurant near our work.
• 2.50 kuai (~35 cents), big bottle: small store right outside our apartment; bring back the bottles (which is sent back to the bottling place to be reused), and you get 5 mao back. Which means, the cheapest beer we’ve found in Beijing is less than 30 cents for 600 milliliters. Conveniently, it takes less time than a song to go to the store, buy a bottle and return to the apartment.

Anyway, there’s a beer festival going on somewhere near our colleague’s house. I am obviously off to find it so I can perhaps try out some different (dark) beers. Not now—it’s only 9 in the morning.