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Don't confuse Hop Lee with Hop Kee, which is across the street at 21 Mott. Hop Kee has lines, whereas Hop Lee appears less popular. When I called to make a reservation, I was told, "Just come in." The service was pleasant, the table comfortable, the tablecloth pink. I was startled when one table in the main dining room at 9 p.m.
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After roasting, the duck is sliced ritualistically, the meat going into one pile, small pieces of skin with fat removed into another. Not a bad thing, really, though I wondered if some interloper would turn, grab a slice, and scamper away. Bring a group to this crowd-pleasing Midtown restaurant and share a bunch of dim sum and Szechuan dishes. One pal came bearing a bottle of pink Spanish cava, which turned out to be a perfect celebratory beverage, bubbles tickling our noses as we ate a meal comprising three courses. But how would the ritual of the dish be translated into sidewalk service, we wondered as we sat down, popped the cork, and began enjoying ourselves in earnest.
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Next came scallion pancakes ($5.95), intended to help us carbo-load further before the duck arrived, like athletes preparing for a sprint. The two small, thick pancakes, well browned, were not the thin and flaky flatbreads we’d expected, but good nonetheless. At the same time, our vegetable component arrived, a magnificent platter of baby bok choy and black mushrooms ($15.50), with a woodsy savor and a broth worth slurping afterwards. Though eventide was upon us, it was still sweltering as we began with sesame noodles ($7.25). With a sauce composed of both peanut butter and a toasted sesame sauce akin to tahini, this summery dish was supposedly invented in New York’s Chinatown by legendary Taiwanese chef Shorty Tang.
Meat
A night of thumpy-thumpy music had me on the verge of quacking up. Service was first-rate, our waiter a master articulator. The Peking duck was presented like most dishes here, beautifully. As the waiter, wearing his black mask, swept away the dirty dishes, the front door of the restaurant swung open and a chef, wearing a towering white toque and a double-breasted white tunic with black piping, appeared.
I wasn't sure what to do with them, although the cranberry sauce naturally pairs well with the meat. Everything is good here, but the skin transports you to Peking duck paradise. One friend said of his, "It could be a paper towel." The meat was tender, the skin was crisp under all that fat but rather bland. You might find yourself packing the pancake with scallions to enhance the flavor.
I ate mine standing on the sidewalk, dodging hostile passers-by. I was there for a considerable time, because the skin was so tough I had to chew and chew. Make an major effort not to dine upstairs, in the gloom. The next time I insisted on a table downstairs, in the dining room, which is brighter and more cheerful, although our comfortable booth was directly beneath a subwoofer.
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Our newsletter hand-delivers the best bits to your inbox. Sign up to unlock our digital magazines and also receive the latest news, events, offers and partner promotions. Noodle Village serves the best wonton soup in Chinatown. The rather plain outdoor eating area hugs the curb, sheltered from the rain and fringed with potted sansevieria, its green tongues shooting skyward. I paid a visit with two friends to see how this old favorite had survived the coronavirus.
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On a Saturday night was occupied by waiters having their staff meal. One of my friends quipped, "You might want to take note that the waiters have not selected Peking duck as an entrée." They knew. I went in search of the best Peking duck in New York, a journey that took me to Flushing, Queens; Manhattan's Chinatown; and various other restaurants scattered throughout Manhattan.
It took a lot of elbow grease to mix the simple but sticky components, but the noodles were cool, refreshing, and only nominally sweet, the perfect summer starter. One neon sign in a window reads Bar, the other Open Late. The dining area is dark and rustic, with a communal table seating 22, very fifteenth century. The restroom has a Japanese toilet with a control panel, very twenty-first century. One wall features a mural, the Last Supper, with ducks instead of people. You'll get a shot of duck soup that's so concentrated you'll wish you could buy a bottle to take home.
Perhaps that's not a mistake to Chow, who has his own ways of thinking about Chinese food. The pancakes were wonders—light, delicate, strong, easily the best. The hoisin was dark, thick, and very sweet, rather overwhelming, although perhaps not if you're slathering it on all that fat. There are two things you need to know about Peking Duck House.
Finally, a filigreed metal steamer of flaky wheat pancakes arrived and the waiter doffed the lid, sending up a plume of steam that fogged our glasses. The pancakes were outsized — a detail the restaurant is famous for — and so perfectly formed and stacked that we hesitated to remove the first one. When the duck comes out, you'll know immediately that this is the place. Have you ever tasted aged red Burgundy, the kind that seems too light in color and body to be profound but shocks you with its intensity? Decoy's skin was like that, wafer-thin and so exquisite I wanted to kowtow to the kitchen. Other sauces were provided, one an overly potent peanut-sesame and the other cranberry.
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