Nanjing people love duck. From duck blood soup to salt-baked duck to roast duck, they know how to use every last bit — nothing goes to waste. The duck oil pastry (yayou shaobing) is arguably the most elegant finish to this “use-the-whole-duck” philosophy: even the fat that drips off the roasting duck is saved, kneaded into dough, and baked into flaky sesame cakes.
To be fair, the Yangtze River Delta region has no shortage of famous flatbreads. Taixing’s huangqiao shaobing and Huizhou’s huangshan shaobing are both widely loved. But what sets duck oil pastry apart is that singular aroma: duck fat is lighter than lard and richer than vegetable oil, and the fragrance of a freshly baked batch is truly something else.
From Imperial Kitchen to Street Stall
Legend traces the pastry to the early Ming dynasty (circa 1368). When Zhu Yuanzhang made Nanjing his capital, roast duck became a staple of the imperial kitchen. A resourceful chef, reluctant to waste the duck fat dripping from the roasting ovens, used it to make flaky pastries for the emperor’s breakfast. They called it yusu bing — “imperial crispy cake.”
By the Qing dynasty, duck eating was so widespread in Nanjing that rendered duck fat was cheap and plentiful. Street vendors began using it instead of lard, and the pastry’s signature taste was set. Yuan Mei’s Suiyuan Food List (18th century) documents the “duck fat flaking” technique, unchanged to this day.
The Republic era (1912–1949) was the pastry’s golden age. Teahouses along the Qinhuai River served duck oil pastries with shredded tofu skin and green tea as the quintessential Nanjing breakfast. In 1934, the writer Zhu Ziqing noted in his essay Nanjing: “Duck oil pastries, fresh from the oven — fragrant and flaky.” In the 1980s, it was named one of the “Eight Great Snacks of Qinhuai.” From imperial table to street food to city icon — the journey took over six hundred years.
What It Was Like in the 1980s
Decades ago, duck oil pastry was an occasional treat — too expensive for everyday, and too small to be filling. Most people’s morning meal was the plain flatbread that cost four fen, with no oil layers. But the difference then was the oven. Charcoal-fired kilns radiated heat from all sides, crisping the pastry evenly in a way that today’s electric ovens rarely match. A handful of old shops in Nanjing still insist on traditional coal-fired ovens, and anyone who has tasted both can tell the difference immediately.
Where to Find It Today
Duck oil pastry has become quite industrialized. Chain bakeries in southern Nanjing maintain consistent quality, and old establishments like Qifang Pavilion and Yonghe Garden still serve their signature versions. Savory options include scallion and preserved vegetable; sweet versions come with sesame sugar or red bean paste. Skilled bakers can roll the dough to nine or twelve layers — so fragile that the pastry crumbles at the lightest touch.
Meanwhile, trendy food stalls in Nengren Lane and Wufu Street have been experimenting with lard-based miniature pastries. Smaller than the classic version, with the heavier flavor of lard, they have become surprisingly popular among younger crowds.
A Taste of Nanjing
Duck oil pastry isn’t fancy. But layered into each bite are six centuries of history — a Ming emperor’s kitchen economies, Qing dynasty street vendors’ resourcefulness, Republican-era teahouse elegance, and a modern city’s pride in its culinary heritage. If you ever visit Nanjing, find a duck oil pastry shop, buy two fresh from the oven, and take a bite while they’re still hot. That crispy, flaky, fragrant mouthful — that’s the everyday taste of Nanjing.