Beyond the duck
eat what locals actually eat

If you want to start understanding home-style Beijing cooking, order this first. Pork tenderloin is cut into fine strips and stir-fried with sweet bean sauce (甜面酱 tian mian jiang), a paste fermented from wheat flour, until it turns dark, glossy and rounded between sweet and savoury. It arrives over a heap of shredded scallion, with thin tofu sheets (豆皮) or soft wrappers on the side. You lay some pork and scallion on a wrapper and roll it up — basically a Peking-duck pancake in miniature. The first bite is the sweet sauce against the sharp freshness of raw scallion, and somehow the plate empties before you notice.

Four fist-sized pork meatballs in a single dish — the name "four joys" (四喜) refers to four blessings: happiness, wealth, health and long life. It's an auspicious dish that turns up at banquets and Lunar New Year. The pork is minced at just the right fat-to-lean ratio, hand-rolled into big balls, fried so the outside takes on aroma, then braised in soy-and-sugar sauce until tender and plump, soaked through with gravy and set over leafy greens or napa cabbage. The inside stays juicy; you spoon it apart and eat it with hot steamed rice. This is the kind of homey comfort Beijingers grew up on.

Let's be honest: this is offal — but don't skip past it, because it's the plate locals use to judge a kitchen. Pork large intestine is cleaned several times over, blanched, deep-fried, then braised in soy, sugar, vinegar and more than ten seasonings until a single bite carries sour, sweet, savoury, fragrant and a faint heat all at once. The name "nine turns" (九转) nods both to the coiled shape and to a process so elaborate it's likened to alchemy. It's a classic of Shandong (Lu) cuisine that became a Beijing-restaurant staple. Done well, the intestine is tender and springy with no off smell at all.

Picture slabs of tofu, lightly seasoned, dipped in beaten egg and pan-fried until golden, then simmered in a gentle chicken stock until they drink up the broth right through. The outside keeps a little crispness; the inside turns soft and custardy. "Guo ta" (锅塌) is a Shandong technique in itself — coat in egg, fry, then braise down until the stock is nearly gone. The dish was even elevated to court cooking back in the Qianlong era. It's mellow and gentle, the perfect light counterpoint to the heavier meatballs and intestine.

They look like golden fried bricks — the name "da lian" (褡裢) comes from a long cloth money-pouch worn over the shoulder in old times, because the shape is similar. Thin dough is wrapped tight around a filling (minced pork with fennel, pork and cabbage, or lamb and scallion) and pan-fried so the wrapper and filling cook together: crisp on the outside, juicy and soft within. You dip them in black vinegar just like jiaozi. They've been a Beijing restaurant snack for over 300 years, going back to the early Qing — order a plate alongside a soup or a stir-fry and you're nicely full.

This is the plate that separates a real Beijinger from a tourist. Ma doufu is made from the mung-bean residue left over from making vermicelli and douzhi (the strong-smelling sour drink Beijingers have at breakfast) — except here the solid dregs are stir-fried with oil (often mutton fat), soybeans and dried red chilli until thick, soft and grey-green, mildly sour and richly savoury. The aroma is far gentler than douzhi. Older Beijingers call it something like "Beijing hummus", and it's superb with hot steamed rice. A warm, nostalgic side dish that tastes of the city itself.

The bowl every Beijing household can make at home. Fresh noodles are topped with zhajiang (炸酱) — fatty minced pork fried down with fermented yellow soybean paste (黄酱) until deep and savoury — then crowned with a ring of fresh toppings: shredded cucumber, bean sprouts, soybeans, radish. You toss everything together before eating, the salty-rich sauce meeting the crunch of raw vegetables. In a sit-down restaurant it usually arrives with the toppings in a circle of little dishes around the bowl. Have it as the carb to close a meal, or as a one-bowl lunch on its own — we go deeper on zhajiangmian in the main Beijing food guide.

Close the meal with a cool sweet that Beijingers have loved for generations. Hawthorn fruit (红果 hong guo, the small tart red berry) is pitted, sliced and stewed in sugar with a little ginger until it turns glossy and jelly-like, bright red and refreshingly sweet-sour, served chilled. It was a favourite dessert in the imperial palace, and locals eat it to cut the richness after a heavy meal — and because they reckon it helps digestion. It looks plain, but the flavour sticks with you: just-tart, never cloying. A neat, balanced way to end an old-Beijing meal.

A level above the home plates sits "aristocrat cuisine" — when the Qing dynasty fell, the palace chefs scattered and opened restaurants. Tan family cuisine (谭家菜) grew out of the household of a Cantonese official who served in Beijing, so it marries southern Cantonese flavours with northern technique: light seasoning, the true taste of premium ingredients (today it's famously served at the Beijing Hotel). Li family cuisine (厉家菜) descends from an ancestor who ran the kitchen for the last emperor, served as set menus in a small hutong courtyard. These aren't everyday plates — but if you want to know how high Beijing's kitchen can reach, this is the top floor.