In the cramped kitchen of the Scarborough takeout shop East Court and Mike’s BBQ, owner Jack Tsoi pulls one of the whole pigs that’s been hanging in the walk-in fridge to dry overnight towards the oven along an overhead track.

Hanging the carcass is a necessary step to rid the meat of as much moisture as possible to achieve that delicately crunchy, reddish-brown skin that makes Chinese roast pork such a beloved dish.

Tsoi then uses a nail-studded paddle to poke little holes all over the skin. This allows excess moisture to escape as it cooks, preventing the skin from bubbling and separating from the flesh. He sprinkles coarse salt all over the meat before hauling it into a giant hanging oven the size of two giant refrigerators. In two to three hours, the roast pork will be ready to eat.

“Even on a slow week we roast at least 10 pigs,” Tsoi says in Cantonese, a row of pigs ready for roasting hanging behind him. “At the shop we always have at least one pig in the window, the rest are for special orders or parties.”

There’s nothing quite like Chinese barbecue, or “siu may” as it’s called in Cantonese. The sight of glistening racks of barbecue pork with that distinctive red tinge and cognac-coloured ducks hanging in a window alongside the piece-de-resistance, the whole roasted pig, is all a Chinese butcher shop needs to draw in customers. No Chinatown or Chinese-heavy neighbourhood is complete without at least one of these shops. It’s where students and office workers go for a quick and affordable takeout meal (Tsoi sells barbecue pork at just $7 per pound).

Chinese barbecue is one of the greatest achievements of Chinese cuisine yet, few know about the work that goes into preparing it.

Chinese barbecue consists of roasting whole ducks, pigs and chickens in giant vertical gas ovens. Unlike the kind of barbecue synonymous with the southern U.S., there is no smoke involved and it is prepared indoors. American barbecue commonly uses spices such as paprika, black peppercorn, oregano and celery salt whereas Chinese barbecue utilizes star anise, Szechuan peppercorn, green onion, ginger, and various fermented sauces made from bean curd and soy beans. Chinese barbecue also goes easier on the sauce compared to American-style barbecue and is served with plain white rice and steamed vegetables, making it more suitable to eat every day.

While every chef has their own closely-guarded recipes, Chinese barbecue is fairly traditional with every spot having roast pork (siu yook in Cantonese), roast duck (siu ap), barbecue pork (char siu), chicken marinated in soy sauce (si yao gai) and the lesser known offerings of fried tofu, duck feet and duck wings cooked in what literally translates to Chinese marinade sauce (lo sui), a flavourful sauce made from simmering aromatics such as star anise and peppercorns along with meat scraps for hours.

Chinese barbecue may be a Chinatown standard, but few chefs are willing to talk to food media. Restaurateurs are reluctant to give their chefs the spotlight fearful that other restaurant owners will poach them. It’s understandable: few, if any, younger cooks are taking up the low-paying art, leaving a shortage of these food masters across the GTA.

Tsoi opened his kitchen to me to show his diners the amount of work required to run a restaurant even as small as his — a tiny takeout operation with a small counter and a few stools.

Tsoi learned the Chinese barbecue method while working in restaurants in Hong Kong. He watched the masters and gradually learned about ingredient ratios and technique. “If you do it every day and have the passion for it, I’d say it’ll take a few years to master,” he says.

When Tsoi immigrated to Toronto in 1990, his limited grasp of English meant that he could only work in Chinese restaurants. About four years ago, he took over East Court and Mike’s BBQ on the northeast corner of Sheppard Ave. E. and Brimley Rd. where he’s built up a loyal clientele who are drawn in by the affable Tsoi as much as they are by his food. Tsoi has one or two helpers when it gets busy but often he works alone.

In Hong Kong, he says, restaurants can typically afford a larger staff and have cooks devoted to specific barbecue duties such as cooking the ducks or pigs. But in the GTA, he says, food costs are high and prices have to stay low to remain competitive, so it’s hard to hire additional staff.

“You have to do everything: marinating, basting, roasting, butchering, serving the customers, making the rice, vegetables and tofu to go with the takeout barbecue. A big part of the job is planning to make the most of the day. If you hire too many people, you can’t pay yourself. If you don’t hire anyone to help, you suffer.”

It’s a problem plaguing a lot of Chinese restaurants in the GTA whether they’re serving dim sum, hand-pulled noodles or barbecue meats. Branded with a cheap-eats label, owners are reluctant to raise prices which is necessary to increase profit margins and attract a new generation of cooks.

In recent years, giant Asian supermarkets have made it harder by offering an in-house Chinese barbecue counter to lure in shoppers.

“It’s tough work so we don’t get a lot of people interested in learning what we do anymore,” says Tsoi, who doesn’t expect his two kids to take over the business. “Once we’re gone, and I’m going to be 60 this year, there isn’t anyone to pick it up.”

Still, Tsoi continues to do it because it’s all he knows and doesn’t have much of a choice when it comes to alternative careers at his age. “The hours are long but it’s steady. When you have a family and are in good health, you keep on going.”

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Chinese barbecue is an art form that is not taught in culinary schools here and can’t be duplicated at home. Tsoi wants people to understand that every bite of his succulent roasted pork or crispy roast duck, takes at least a day to prepare and is the result of decades of calibrating spice levels to perfect it. It is increasingly hard to find a spot that does it well.

“I don’t need to write any of my recipes down, I know everything after more than 20 years,” he says, rinsing a selection of pork tenderloins ready to be turned into barbecue pork. “If I retire, that’s it. There’s no more. It’ll be someone else’s recipes.”

Correction - May 18, 2018: This article was edited from a previous version that misstated the Cantonese word for marinade sauce (lo sui) as “nam yu.” In fact, “Nam yu” is a fermented bean curd condiment.