“Tsk, tsk! Director Zhu, you’re taking us out for roast duck? Looks like you’re going to be bleeding money today!” The production crew’s van pulled up in front of a roast duck restaurant, and Sa Ning teased him lightly.
Director Zhu waved his hand dismissively, completely unfazed. “No worries! Eat as much as you want today—especially you, Shuwen. Make sure you have plenty!” he said with a casual flick of his hand.
“So, from the sound of it, we have Shuwen to thank for getting to eat Director Zhu’s roast duck today? I mean, Lao Li, Xiao Li, and I have been your permanent guests for so many episodes, and you’ve never treated us? Should we just skip next episode then? What do you all think?” Zhou Hongbing said, shooting a meaningful glance at Li Mingyuan and Li Yunshang.
“Exactly! Director Zhu, we’ve been on so many episodes—even if we haven’t made great contributions, we’ve put in the hard work. You can’t play favorites!”
“Professor Zhou and Professor Li are absolutely right,” Li Yunshang chimed in.
“Alright, alright! Next time, I’ll treat you all separately, okay?”
“That’s more like it!”
Laughing and chatting, the group made their way into the restaurant.
This place wasn’t one of those famous, big-name roast duck spots. But judging by how naturally Sa Ning and Lin Shuyue navigated the place, Luoming could tell they’d been here before—more than once.
That meant the duck here was definitely worth eating.
When it came time to order, Luoming picked a fruit-infused roast duck, leaving the rest to Director Zhu’s discretion.
While they waited for the duck to arrive, Li Yunshang mustered up her courage and sidled over to Luoming. “Miss Lin… would you mind if I added you on WeChat?”
“Sure!” Luoming agreed without a moment’s hesitation.
“Thank you.”
“What’s there to thank me for? It takes ten years of cultivation to ride the same boat, and we’ve spent an entire morning filming together—and now we’re sharing a meal at the same table. That’s way more fate than just being boatmates, don’t you think?”
Hearing those words, Li Yunshang felt her cheeks grow warm.
She really was so free-spirited. That brisk, decisive tone of hers was incredibly charming.
“What a pity I’m not a man,” Li Yunshang sighed to herself for the second time.
“Here it comes, here it comes—the roast duck is here! Shuwen, you’ve never been to this place before, have you?”
Director Zhu was clearly gearing up for a bit of storytelling, and Luoming wasn’t about to brush him off. Playing along, she said, “No, I haven’t. Judging by the look of it, this place isn’t very well-known, is it?”
“It’s not famous, no. But the roast duck chef here uses a technique passed down from the time of Emperor Zhu Di. Legend has it that their founding master even made roast duck for the emperor himself! This place’s duck is way better than that overhyped Quanjude. Once you’ve had duck here, if you go try Quanjude, you’ll probably find it hard to swallow.”
“Wenwen, Director Zhu tends to exaggerate—he’ll make three out of five and five out of eight. But this time, he’s not exaggerating at all. This place is unanimously loved by everyone at our station,” Sa Ning said with a grin.
“Hey! Lao Sa, what’s that supposed to mean!”
Luoming could tell that Director Zhu and Sa Ning were good friends; their banter was just the way buddies razzed each other.
She listened to their back-and-forth while enjoying the roast duck.
To be honest, the duck here was genuinely delicious—better than any roast duck Luoming had ever had.
In her previous life, when Luoming had traveled to the capital for work, colleagues had taken her out for roast duck—more than once, and to more than one place.
Quanjude went without saying—it was the first place she tried, since she was an outsider who didn’t know any better and naturally went to the most famous spot. As for the taste? It was… edible.
Later, a colleague took her to Sijiminfu. That place had great ambiance and service, and though the wait was long—nearly two hours—the flavor and overall experience were well worth it. That was Luoming’s favorite roast duck place by far.
Then there was Dadong. Dadong’s atmosphere and service were even better than Sijiminfu’s, but the duck itself was slightly less impressive. The prices, however, were significantly higher. Luoming felt that kind of place was better suited for special dates.
Aside from those two, Bianyifang and Liqun were also solid choices. They had a simpler, more rustic vibe, but the roast duck was incredibly authentic. Liqun, in particular, offered the added charm of experiencing Beijing’s hutong culture while you ate.
(PS: This is the author’s personal experience—feel free to use it as a reference if you’re planning to try roast duck in Beijing.)
“Wenwen, what are you thinking about? Director Zhu asked you something!” Lin Shuyue’s voice snapped Luoming out of her thoughts.
Luoming gave an embarrassed smile and scratched her head. “Sorry, Director Zhu. The duck is so good I was just pondering how they make it!”
Director Zhu found that amusing. “You think you can figure that out just by thinking? That’s their secret recipe.”
“Fair enough. I won’t overthink it then. Director Zhu, what were you saying?”
“I was asking if you’d be interested in coming back for the second season next year.”
“Of course I would! Director Zhu, if you’re inviting me, you’re honoring me—I’ll definitely be there!” Luoming replied without hesitation.
“Great! Our theme for next season is going to focus on rites and music. Shuwen, I’m really looking forward to you bringing us another great song.”
Luoming furrowed her brow slightly at that. Rites and music? Something about that idea felt like it might flop.
“Shuwen, what’s wrong? Don’t you like the concept?”
“A little, to be honest. Director Zhu, I feel like music is fine—we have so many distinctive traditional instruments: the guzheng, pipa, xiao, flute, and even massive ones like the bianzhong bells.
“But when it comes to ancient rites, modern people don’t really have the patience to dive into them.”
“And precisely because so few people are interested, the higher-ups want us to create a show like this,” Director Zhu said meaningfully.
“I see. I understand what you’re saying. But we could still promote rites and music—just in a different way.”
“A different way? Like what?”
“Through cultural relics. Famous, well-known ones. We can use the historical stories behind these relics as a narrative thread, dramatize those stories, and bring in seasoned actors like Teacher Wu and Teacher Liang to perform them. We can weave ancient rites and music into the storytelling. That way, we’re promoting traditional culture in a narrative-driven format.
“This approach would be much more appealing to younger audiences. Some rituals, if done beautifully, are stunning—and young people love beautiful things. I’m sure some of them would take the initiative to learn more.
“As for the music, we can use traditional instruments for all the background scores. That sense of historical weight will resonate with people too.”
At first, Director Zhu hadn’t taken Lin Shuwen’s suggestion too seriously. But as she spoke, his eyes grew brighter and brighter.
This idea—this was a golden idea!
The rest of the table also wore varied expressions.
Lin Shuyue, who had recently transitioned into screenwriting, felt as if a fog had lifted. Why hadn’t she ever thought of making a show this way?
Li Yunshang, meanwhile, was gazing at Luoming with something close to infatuation. The way she spoke so confidently and eloquently was utterly captivating. She suddenly felt the urge to ask: “Sister, does your preference have to be so rigid?”
