The Nanjing Snack That Spawned a 45-Minute Queue

When I visited eastern China last year, I snapped a photo every time I saw people queuing for food. By the end of my trip, I had a finger on the pulse of the hottest food trends of the day: teahouses with Han Dynasty decor, cracker-thin pancakes stuffed with beef, complicated creamy beverages served in bamboo tubes and storefronts dedicated to single-item specialties from other regions, such as Hong Kong-style pineapple buns. 

While most of these trends were driven by young people chasing 网红 (wǎng hóng), “internet-popular,” street snacks, I noticed that the Chinese weakness for food FOMO doesn’t only afflict Douyin-addled teenagers. In fact, it seems that anyone can start a mini food fad just by starting a line: One day, while I was walking down the street, I caught a whiff of fragrant meat and noticed a new stall selling ducks fried in very expensive-looking industrial pressure fryers. The shop was empty, but I made a mental note to return. The next day, when I passed by again, I saw an auntie placing an order there and asked if she’d tried the product before. “I have!” She said. “I think it’s good, but it’s my daughter who loves it. I’m buying it for her because she’s at work.” Convinced, I placed an order. While we waited, a gentleman poked his head in to ask us how the duck was. He, too, stayed and ordered. My duck took 20 minutes to cook, and by the time it was done, there was a small crowd of retirees eagerly waiting behind us, presumably enticed by the little line we’d created. 

Trends have always moved fast in China, but everything feels ultra-accelerated now. I doubt there will be longevity to those sugary bamboo drinks or anything else that feels made for a photo opp. But a studious line-watcher learns that the lines with middle-aged or elderly folks buying homely foods are usually worth waiting in.

The first time I came across a line like this, it was for duck fat shaobing. 

I first tried Nanjing’s signature duck fat shaobing (yāyóu shāobǐng, 鸭油烧饼) in 2011, when I moved to China for culinary school—long before Douyin, TikTok, and even Instagram. A few days after I settled into my apartment, I noticed a line in my neighborhood that never seemed to get any shorter, no matter the time of day. It was for a shop that sold shaobing, and the choices were savory (flavored with duck fat and scallions) or sweet (flavored with sweetened black sesame paste). Curiosity took hold; I had to taste this shaobing. It took 45 minutes to get to the front of the line, and I spent each minute weighing my faith in all the aunties and uncles ahead of me (“surely they know what’s good”) against my skepticism that a mere shaobing could be worth this level of effort (“surely this is just bread”).

Shaobing simply means “roasted bread,” and the name’s broadness offers a clue to its history: Prior to contact with outsiders from Central Asia and the Middle East, China’s repertoire of wheat foods were all boiled or steamed. Baked cakes, breads and bings did not exist. Then, sometime in the early CE centuries, migrants and traders from the West brought many food items into imperial China—such as black pepper (hujiao), carrots (huluobo), and cucumbers (hugua)—many of which still have the word “barbarian” (hu) in their names. They also brought clay-oven technology and introduced the first baked breads, which were flatbreads similar to modern pita, pide or naan. China now has a plethora of baked wheat goods, but shaobing feels close to those Middle Eastern roots: still flatish in shape, still often tandoor-baked, still crusted in sesame seeds (another import from Central Asia). 

Beyond those shared elements, regional shaobing variations abound. In Nanjing, the duck capital of China, cooks use duck fat to laminate shaobing dough the way a patissier in Paris uses butter to make a flaky croissant. 

When I finally tasted the shaobing that inspired that long line in my neighborhood, I understood the fuss (and the 45-minute wait). The savory ones were impossibly fragrant, owing to the duck fat and the minced scallions studding its layers. And the texture! Each bite generated a tiny shower of crispy shards. I bought extras and took them home, and, magically, the shaobing was almost as good fridge-cold as it was hot and somehow suffered zero quality degradation a day, two days, even three days later. The bread, infused with duck fat, simply refused to go stale or dry. In fact, this shaobing achieved such perfect 酥 (su), “crisp-soft” texture, that it became a favorite snack of both my grandparents, who had dentures and couldn’t eat anything with resistance. They’d lived in Nanjing all their lives but never had shaobing that good, so all year, I’d wait in the shaobing line at that shop, with all the aunties and uncles, before I went to visit them.

The shaobing shop that I first visited, over a decade ago, 小朕酥烧饼 (Xiǎo Zhèn Zu Shāobǐng), is still there, and it’s now a bonafide social media destination. The business has grown, new fillings, such as red bean paste, have been added to the menu, and prices have gone up (slightly). When I was there last year, I snapped a photo of the line (of course), still long and still mostly older folks. It moves more briskly than it used to, because they now cap orders at 20 shaobing per person. The duck fat shaobing is still my favorite.

Tips and Tricks for the Home Baker

In China, baking is still the domain of professionals. Most home kitchens are not outfitted with ovens. As a result, Iris never made duck fat shaobing before we moved to the U.S., but she developed her own recipe after the move because she could no longer buy shaobing—and because baking turned out to be kind of fun. We won’t pretend our version achieves the ethereal heights of Nanjing’s best professional shop, but we can promise it’s absolutely delectable if you enjoy the aroma of duck. The process may seem complicated at first, but we can assure you that it’s very forgiving compared to, say, sourdough or croissants. Here are some of the tricks we’ve figured out over the years:

• Duck fat has a lower melting point than butter. You could smear it directly onto the dough, but you’d risk it melting and making a mess during the shaping process. It’s better to deploy a roux, or 油酥  (yóusū), “oil crisp,” to keep the duck fat solid. This method also allows you to pack in more duck fat than you could if you used it on its own and results in much more fragrant shaobing.
• We have experimented with different “turns” of dough—aka the number of times you need to fold, roll and refold the dough to create layers. Ultimately, we wrote this recipe with just one turn, which we feel is enough to create fluffy layers that give the yeast some room to breathe. 
• Don’t worry about your kneading skills; this dough is all about softness rather than chew, so you’re not trying to develop the gluten. Handle it gently and minimally. 
• Shaping is a matter of preference; Iris prefers long skinny rectangular shaobing, while Zoe likes a gentle ovoid, as pictured. After you have completed one “turn,” you can roll the dough into whatever final shape you desire.

For other flavorful stuffed Chinese breads, try Taylor’s Steamed Bao (Foldover Buns, Guabao, 割包) filled with Crispy Sichuan-Pepper Pulled Pork or Kathy’s Chasiubao (叉烧包) BBQ Pork Buns.