When building the menu for Choy — an elevated, contemporary Chinese American restaurant — the priority was clear. Start with the one dish that is rarely found in Nashville — a dish central to Chinese restaurants at every price and service point in major-market cities like New York, Chicago, Washington, D.C., San Francisco and Los Angeles.
Peking Duck traces its origin back centuries to Beijing, marked by the same identifier whether from a takeout-only hole-in-the-wall or a fine-dining destination — shiny, ruddy-hued crackling skin. Carved strips of the roast meat are placed on a steamed crepe-style pancake spread with hoisin, topped with sliced cucumber and scallion, folded and picked up by hand.
Since Choy opened in July, Peking-Style Whole Roast Duck has been the star of the show. Like many of the other dishes on the succinct menu, it culls local product and regional technique to give Chinese American classics a sense of place. Thus, the Peking Duck gets a taste and whiff of good ol’ Tennessee barbecue, which has made fans of some of Nashville’s best-known pitmasters.
Executive chef Brian Griffith refutes the term “serendipitous” to describe the meeting of his bona fides with Choy co-founder/owner Moni Advani’s quest for the culinary leader of the team — but there’s no question the timing was perfect.
Yellowtail yusheng
Advani’s history with the building at 121B 12th Ave. N. dates back to 2008, when he owned the nightclub Anthem. In 2015 and 2017, respectively, he partnered with Maneet Chauhan to open Chauhan at 123 12th Ave. N. and Mockingbird at 121. Anthem ran its course, closing in 2014, and the subsequent Tànsuǒ never really took off. Intent on mining fond adolescent memories he had of mom-and-pop Chinese restaurants in Murfreesboro, but lifting the experience to align with his older, worldlier self, Advani contacted Brandon Jew, the James Beard Award-winning chef-owner of San Francisco’s Mister Jiu’s, the only Michelin-starred Chinese restaurant in the U.S.
Jew agreed to serve as a consultant; better yet, he told Advani and his partner Nishaan Chavda that his executive sous chef of four years was seeking a change and a return home to Tennessee. Enter Knoxville native Griffith, whose national and global résumé lists Denver, Portland, Copenhagen, extensive travel through Asia and legendary Italian restaurant Oliveto in San Francisco. In 2020 he landed at Mister Jiu’s, where he addressed Peking Duck — which he calls a labor of love and hate.
Tiger-Style
The process is intense wherever it is executed, but at Choy, it goes like this: A 7-pound whole fresh duck arrives from Joe Jurgielewicz & Son farm in Pennsylvania Dutch Country. The skin is blown up in three parts to separate it from the meat; the cavity is trussed with a skewer and blanched in vinegar, salt and spices to open the pores. Remove the head, truss the body and pull every single remaining feather with fish tweezers.
The bald bird is glazed in a mix of rice bran syrup, dark soy and spice mix, then hung in the cure room under fans to dry out the glaze, the crucial step to the skin’s glass shatter. In about 10 days, the duck is ready to rumble — a 17-minute roast, then 15 minutes at 450 degrees and a 25-minute rest before being presented in glossy glory to the lucky diners. Then it heads back to the kitchen for carving and is returned with a basket of steamed pancakes, a ramekin of duck-liver mousse, house-made peanut butter and hoisin sauce, pickled cucumbers, cilantro and scallions.
The process and fact that one duck can feed four makes the $130 tag a steal. Here is where I confess that I did not, in fact, have the duck. With my own first memory of Peking Duck at glamorous Shun Lee Palace in New York City as well as cardboard takeout boxes from my own corner Chinese restaurant on the East Side of Manhattan, I longed for that duck. But alas, I was faced with a [Scene-imposed] budget quandary, so I made the executive decision to forego the duck and cover more of the menu. Honestly, I don’t regret it.
From the minute I left behind the cacophony of the uber-developed, traffic-clogged mean streets of the “North Gulch” and passed through the heavy metal door of Choy into the stunning, sophisticated interior reminiscent of midcentury Shanghai luxury I know only from movies, I was in a place of pure Zen. Seated in a plush, leather-upholstered half-moon booth around a table positioned at just the right height, we were served a complimentary flute of fresh-brewed cold tea with a splash of NA bubbles. Now that’s Southern/Chinese hospitality, folks.
Our booth was across from the bar — which runs the entire length of the opposite wall — but not once did we have to raise our voices. Lighting is seductively low throughout the room — the other side has more booths as well as intimate nooks wallpapered in gold — with a dramatic wash of red along the rear wall.
Should you choose not to duck, or if you’re with a large party and want to supplement, here is what you should try.
Do not miss the yellowtail yusheng — a tri-layer of pristine yellowtail, juicy and sweet Asian pear and watermelon radish coins on a pool of white soy and sweet potato vinegar, topped with a delicate sprig of tangerine lace microgreen.
Sourdough scallion pancake does not foretell the puffy round of bread dusted with dehydrated scallion powder; pull off hunks to scoop the creamy onion soubise.
Smashed cucumbers are as close to a salad as Choy comes; these thin-skinned Persians are gussied up with avocado and flash-fried strips of yuba (tofu skin). They lead the menu, but I should have followed my instinct down to the vegetable of the moment, Sichuan-spiced cabbage. (Or the Mapo Tofu, which Griffith touts as the best thing on the menu. Next time.)
Pressed pig ear terrine is a quick no for many. I said yes, and if you’re a fan of offal, go for it — raw celery ribbons add crunch to the slippery slices; chao tian jiao chili oil brings the heat.
Beef Chow Fun is a people-pleasing sure bet. The wide noodles are made fresh every morning, and flank steak is sourced from Evans Meats and Seafood in Birmingham, Ala. With alliums caramelized in beef fat, bright-green broccoli and a handful of bean sprouts, it all hits the wok for a fast, high-heat searing in tallow, tossed with dark soy, oyster sauce and sesame. Served in a shallow bowl, it is showered with grated fresh horseradish.
With one silky bite of the salt-baked whole Bucksnort trout, I forgot the duck. The lotus-leaf wrap is rolled back to reveal glistening coral meat dotted with bright-green ginger-garlic-scallion relish. Spoon salty smoked trout roe across the top, but save some for the layer under the spine, which a server will expertly pull away for you.
The most-asked question of any food writer covering a city without a Chinatown is this: Where can I get good Chinese food? It’s an impossibly subjective question. But if you’re in Nashville, seeking stellar, chef-driven modern interpretations of classic Chinese American, in a sumptuous setting with a sommelier-stocked wine cellar, impeccable service, feet-on-the-floor ownership and Peking Duck, there’s only one answer. Choy for the win.
