The Travel Critic

I didn’t have the duck.

Let me just get that out of the way before we go any further. I went to a restaurant called Demon Duck and I didn’t order the duck. What was I thinking? I love duck. I’ve always loved duck. Crispy duck pancakes, duck à l’orange, duck confit, duck fat potatoes, Donald bloody Duck. I am practically a human foie gras machine. But on the night in question, for reasons I still cannot explain—jet lag, temporary insanity, spiritual possession—I went rogue. I ordered beef.

It’s one of the maddest things I’ve ever done. It’s like flying all the way to Sydney and not seeing the Opera House. It’s like going to the Louvre and staring at the gift shop postcards. It’s like going to watch Evita and deciding to pop to the loo literally as she starts singing “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina”.

It’s not the biggest mistake of my life (that’s still that week I went vegan), but it’s up there. Especially when, as I’m spooning the last scrapings of coconut brûlée into my mouth and wondering whether it’s possible to sort of like a dessert and still feel hollow inside, the table next to me—clearly seasoned professionals in the field of not being a prize tit—have their duck wheeled over and carved tableside with the sort of reverence usually reserved for Japanese tea ceremonies or heart surgery.

The lights hit the crisp skin just so. The waft of five-spice and umami and smugness drifts across. I lock eyes with it. It knows. It knows. I feel like I’ve wasted the best part of the evening watching the support act while Bowie was playing in the tent next door.

Which is a shame, because Demon Duck—aside from the haunting, duckless void I created for myself—is a riot of a place. The right balance of trendy, quirky, and modern. There’s an open kitchen that pulses with energy but doesn’t shout, neon signage that’s just the right side of Instagram-bait, and duck-themed art everywhere. Everywhere. It’s like someone asked Damien Hirst to redecorate a Chinese banquet hall with a K-pop budget.

The staff are chirpy, friendly, and clearly enjoy being there—which is rarer than you’d think and twice as valuable. There’s no slick, soulless choreographed ballet of service here. They’re just good people who are happy to be serving you things you should have chosen more wisely.

The food? It’s good. Solid. Nicely done. It’s just that everything I ordered—soft-shell crab rolls to start, beef with egg-fried rice for main, the aforementioned coconut brûlée to finish—was playing second fiddle in a band whose lead singer had stormed off to sulk backstage. The crab was crisp and salty and fresh, the beef tender and glazed in all the right places, the rice fluffy and eggy, the brûlée cracked perfectly under the spoon like some tropical crème caramel in sunglasses. But they were all, quite literally, bit part players to the main event.

And I missed it.

You go to Demon Duck, you order the duck. It’s not a suggestion. It’s the law. It’s in the name. They don’t call it Demon Beef, do they?

So I’ll go back. Of course I will. I’ll sit down, I’ll look the duck right in its demon eyes, and I’ll say: “I’m sorry. I was weak. I’ve learned. I’m here now.”

And this time, I’ll let it change my life.