Food

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  • Sometimes, acceptance comes in a coffee mug

    It was an ordinary morning at La Paz Public Market in Iloilo City, and just like any other day, it was business as usual at Madge Cafe. As soon as my husband and I entered the iconic coffee shop, we were greeted by a man who was all smiles. He then led us to an empty table and handed us the menu.

    That morning was far from ordinary for me, though. While looking at the list of coffee beverages printed on the menu, all I could think of was how much I’d miss drinking coffee. My stomach had been acting up again in the last couple of days, and it was such a hassle that I thought I should probably put an end to my decades-long coffee obsession. But before giving it up, I wanted to savor one last coffee. Since we were already in Iloilo, I decided to have it at Madge Cafe.

    Of course, the irony of it all wasn’t lost on me. I’d been dreaming of visiting that cafe for nearly a decade. In fact, when we started planning that very trip many months ago, Madge Cafe was one of the first stops added to our itinerary. Knowing the rich history of the place, which has been around for over 80 years, I saw that visit as a kind of pilgrimage—one I needed to complete to further affirm my faith in my favorite drink.

    But what was I to do? I was growing more worried about my health each day, thinking that if I did not stop, I might soon experience the same level of pain that had sent me to the ER earlier that year. I was so afraid of that possibility that as soon as my husband and I agreed on what to get—puro tab-ang (mild black coffee) for me and iced coffee for him—I had to make a disclaimer that I might just have a sip or two of my coffee. I also suggested that we get some bread to soften the blow of the caffeine on my stomach, even though my stomach wasn’t empty to begin with since we’d just had La Paz batchoy and puto at a nearby Netong’s.

    I almost cried when our orders arrived, but I tried my best to not let my tears flow, scared of what the people at the other table might think when they saw me, an overly dressed tourist crying while drinking coffee at Madge Cafe. Instead, I offered a moment of silence. I also took a photo of my drink while marveling at how ordinary it looked, from the stone mug it came in to the blackness of the liquid itself—reminiscent of the barako coffee prepared by my late grandmother in the chilly mornings of my childhood in Antipolo.

    I don’t know what exactly happened, but that morning at Madge Cafe felt like a full-circle moment. And somehow, I found peace. All of a sudden, I was fine with the idea, even telling myself: If this really were my last coffee ever, so be it.

    Comforted by this realization, I picked up the mug and took a sip of the now-cold coffee. Then I took another, completely forgetting about the bread that was also in front of me.

    I succeeded at avoiding coffee the rest of the trip. That was a huge surprise, given the abundance of good cafes in the city. I didn’t become bitter, though, even though my stomach didn’t immediately get better despite the divine combination of my holy sacrifice, my newfound dietary discipline, and some doctor-prescribed medication. I even managed to accept the possibility that we might not be able to travel to nearby towns to see old churches because my stomach issues would probably make commuting difficult.

    But then I had a burst of motivation, thinking that things should be okay soon because I’d already done my part. It happened while we were at Breakthrough in Villa Arevalo District on the last full day of our trip.

    After a hearty meal of sinabawang isda, chicken inasal, and fresh buko juice, I decided that since we were already there, we should at least tick one item from our list: visit the Santo Niño de Arevalo Parish Church. I’d been wanting to marvel at its architectural beauty with my own eyes, alongside four other churches: St. John of Sahagun Parish Church in Tigbauan, San Nicolas de Tolentino Parish Church in Guimbal, Santo Tomas de Villanueva Parish Church in Miagao, and San Joaquin Parish Church in San Joaquin.

    We did exactly that. From the restaurant, we took a pedicab to Santo Niño de Arevalo Parish Church, home to the third-oldest image of Santo Niño in the Philippines. Seeing it got me so excited about visiting more old churches—something I continue to be passionate about even though I now identify as agnostic.

    But before going to the next one, we first dropped by Avanceña-Camiña Balay nga Bato, where we were served tablea tsokolate and biscuits after the tour.

    My stomach stopped feeling weird entirely, and before I knew it, we were on a jeepney to the next church on our list, pumped with adrenaline and optimistic about the adventure waiting for us in the towns we were about to visit.

    In the end, we didn’t just complete our mission; we also made a quick stop in Oton, where we saw the Parish of Immaculate Conception. It might not have been part of our list, but we were glad to also see it with our own eyes, given what we’d learned about it and the old church that used to stand just a stone’s throw away from where it is now.

    While marveling at the new church’s facade, which is far simpler than its predecessor’s, I couldn’t help but be amazed at that day’s turn of events and how they had been made possible by my willingness to go with the flow.

    Still feeling the high from our triumph, we booked a Grab car to take us back to Iloilo City. It was our the last night of our trip, so we treated ourselves to a nice dinner at Muelle Deli and Restaurant while enjoying the view of the river and the provincial capitol.

    Here’s what I didn’t know at the time: It would take only 10 days before I’d start drinking coffee again. But the pain would not return. I’d limit my caffeine intake, give up alcohol for good, and take eating healthy more seriously.

  • Too emotional for food reviews

    In an attempt to satiate my never-ending hunger in my early 20s without having to spend, I turned to blogging. I became a contributing writer for a local online magazine, taking on assignments that allowed me to try trendy restaurants and receive PR packages promoting the latest food products on the market in exchange for food reviews.

    It did not go well.

    On top of my limited vocabulary that kept me from creatively describing how dishes tasted—which, according to a reader, was such a disappointment, given that my profile said I’d majored in creative writing—I realized that I was not so capable of being objective when it came to food.

    Everything was good enough for me. This was no surprise since I’d been hungry almost all my life. Each opportunity to shove food into my mouth was something to be thankful for, and so I’d always approach my assignments from a place of gratitude. It turned out that I was even more appreciative of whatever dish was in front of me if it had been served by someone really nice or if the food came with touching stories.

    I noticed, too, that I had more good things to say about the food or the place if it reminded me of something good from the past—dishes my grandparents, uncles, and aunts loved to cook for me, restaurants and fast food chains I had fond memories of, and foodstuff that transported me back to my younger years, when life was less complicated and full of hope. Sometimes I’d even rave about an item on the menu just because it was a dish I’d long associated with comfort.

    In other words, I let my emotions rule over me each time.

    Now I laugh at that era of mine. I guess I was too foolish to realize that I lacked the objectivity expected of people doing food reviews. I didn’t even have all the technical knowledge necessary to evaluate tell whether a certain dish had been prepared properly.

    What was I thinking? Oh well, I was hungy. And at least I got fed—for free.

    Eventually, I stopped writing for the said publication, thinking I’d rather try out new dishes and places without having to worry about what to write later. Besides, I already had a stable income at the time. I was beginning to afford things.

    It’s been over a decade since, and I am thrilled to share that I have been making great progress in my mission. And it really helps that I’ve lived in some of the most sought-after areas in the Metro when it comes to dining out: Maginhawa in Quezon City in and then Legaspi Village in Makati City.

    Over the years, I have also gained a reputation in the circles I’m part of as someone who tends to splurge on coffee and food and loves to try out new stuff, especially when traveling.

    It’s no wonder then that friends turn to me for recommendations. They seek tips on where to go and what to get at specific places. They ask me about the coolest date night spots and the most remote worker-friendly cafes. They also raise important questions like how much the food costs, what modes of payments are accepted, whether reservations are required and if so, how bookings are done.

    Of course, I also get questions about the food itself: Is it good? Is it worth the price? Is it better than what this other cafe/restaurant? I try to help as much as I can. Yet I also warn them to take my judgments with a grain of salt because while I’ve learned a lot about food over the years, I still lack objectivity. I remain easy to please, and I still get too emotional.

    In fact, instead of sharing my technical assessment of the dishes and places I’ve tried, I usually just tell them about what they remind me of and how they make me feel: The place felt like home; everyone was welcoming; the resto made me feel sad, I don’t know why; it reminded me of that person who’d been dead for years; since dining there, I have been reflecting a lot about X; because of that place, I now feel like doing Y; being there made me so happy to the point that I did Z.

    Despite my doubts, my friends think I’m helpful. Some of them even insist that I should still consider doing reviews. Everyone’s doing it anyway, they say. But while I know I can provide essential information about such places, it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t really be trusted when it comes to critiquing dishes.

    So, I guess I’ll just stick to writing about the restaurants and cafes I visit and the food I try the way I want to and am most capable of: with a lot of feelings.

  • Fellowship around the fire

    Thick, billowing smoke alarmed the passersby on the alley between Coco Grande and Silliman University’s Davao Cottage that Sunday afternoon. One of them, a woman in her 40s, was visibly upset as the smoke engulfed her, likely leaving a scent of something burned on her clothes that looked so pristine. I think she was on her way to church.

    I was looking out of the cottage’s chain-link fence at the time, and our eyes met eventually. Awkward. It then occurred to me that the woman might do something drastic like call the authorities. This idea frightened me, so I started walking away from the fence and turned to my co-fellows. I said we should probably do something about the smoke. I was not even sure whether what we were doing—grilling pork belly at the back of the cottage, our home for the duration of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop—was allowed. And considering the material the cottage was made of, plus the age of the structure itself, it was not hard for me to understand that our choice of cooking method posed serious threats.

    “Aren’t we getting in trouble because of this?” I asked them.

    No one seemed to hear me. But that wasn’t surprising. Amid the frenzy, they were also belting out Britney Spears songs—one of our many common obsessions.

    Still concerned about the situation, I looked out of the cottage’s fence once more, this time to get a better view of the Coco Grande guests hanging out on the hotel’s veranda. Unlike the passersby who immediately showed disapproval in their faces upon seeing the smoke, however, they did not seem bothered at all. Perhaps they were already drunk, or maybe they were just too happy to care.

    There was no way for me to verify either of my suspicions, but their unbotheredness somehow assured me that everything would be just fine. And before I knew it, I was already busy helping my co-fellows with the grilling, completely rid of all the worries I used to have about the smoke emanating from our makeshift grill. Then all I could think of was feasting on those strips of charred meat with my newfound family.

    *

    I have always been drawn to the smell of burned meat and the sight of smoke rising from the grill. I know this fondness of mine goes beyond what science dictates. In fact, whenever I try to find out where it all began, I get a flashback of the celebrations our family had at our compound in Antipolo.

    Grilled liempo was always a staple at these gatherings, particularly those held on New Year’s Eve, as my grandmother believed eating chicken at the start of another year could usher in back luck. This, according to her, is because of the chicken’s habit known as “isang kahig, isang tuka” (one scratch, one peck), a phrase often used to describe a person who gets barely enough to get by.

    Our family’s version of grilled liempo is different from the ones usually served in restaurants and eateries around Metro Manila. It is seasoned only with lots of rock salt and looks rather pale in comparison to the ketchup-stained iterations sold by these establishments. I once asked an aunt about it, and she said it’s simply how people grill liempo in Eastern Samar. I have not been able to verify this, especially since I have not been to our province for more than two decades. And while I found it a little too plain to my liking when I was a kid, I now appreciate it. It is simple and straightforward, and it works like a charm with limited ingredients and low effort, as long as one is working with fresh meat.

    My grandfather, who worked as a cook for a high-end Korean restaurant, drank a lot during gatherings, and he usually wanted this version of grilled pork belly for pulutan. No wonder he and his pals, my uncles, and other male relatives normally started grilling pork belly early into the day, in preparation for the drinking session that could last until the next morning. Sometimes, they would even begin passing booze around the open flame.

    Grilled meat was not just for the drinkers, though, as it was also customary for them to share some with those who didn’t consume alcohol. This is why my grandfather always kept a separate plate by his side and on it piled strips and strips of perfectly grilled liempo until its contents were close to spilling. He would then call someone to take the plateful of meat to the main house, where hungry non-drinkers would usually wait for blessings in the form of ulam.

    There were also times when non-drinkers would simply wait around the open flame, waiting for the plate of meat to be ready. I loved doing this because, apart from watching how the grilling happened, I was also fond of eavesdropping on the drinkers’ conversations. They usually gossiped about people in our sitio or our clan, and I found it so entertaining. This is probably why, to this day, I still love eating barbecued meat with a side of chismis.

    *

    Money became scarce after my grandfather’s retirement, and everyone else became busy with either work or school. With not a lot of cash to burn and leave credits to spend on special occasions, our family began to settle for smaller, simpler celebrations. Drinking sessions were no longer as grand as before, either, as some of the resident drinkers, as they were called, were now getting older and had been warned by their doctors against consuming too much alcohol and fatty food.

    Gatherings grew even quieter after one of my uncles died of a heart attack. It seemed people were finally seeing the link between eating habits and mortality. Even New Year’s celebrations became a little too quiet than I’d been used to—no more merriments around the fire; just humble meals shared in front of the television.

    This did not mean I simply forgot how fun it was to eat charred meat while having a great chat with other people, however. In fact, it was quite the opposite. As I embraced adulthood and began the search for my rightful place in the world, I also started to look for more circles around the fire that I could be part of.

    The university was a perfect venue for this new quest of mine. It helped a lot, too, that I somehow ended up in UP Diliman, where I felt freer to become whoever I wanted to be. On the campus, I met people I’d also consider family, and of course, we all spent a considerable amount of time sharing food, including grilled meat.

    One of my favorite eateries on the campus was the old Beach House Canteen behind the Main Library, which always reminded me of home as an undergrad. The sight of its staff members grilling batch after batch of pork barbecue on sticks underneath a huge tree while patrons patiently waited for their food reminded me of how busy people could get at home when preparing for another grand celebration. The smell it produced took me back to those gatherings, too. Then it made me realize that while the people I was about to share meals with at that canteen—usually friends in the writing program I was enrolled in—were technically not related to me by blood, they were family nonetheless. And I was right. To this day, many of those individuals remain and play important parts in my life.

    I felt the same level of attachment to other places serving grilled meat on and around the campus: Mang Larry’s Isawan, where a good friend brought me once to try not only their isaw but also their pork BBQ; Maong’s in Krus na Ligas, from which my writer friends and I ordered pulutan while drinking at Sarah’s; and Grill Queen along Maginhawa Street, where the same friends and I liked having proper meals before drinking our worries away.

    When I moved to Galas in Quezon City before the eventual death of a four-year relationship in 2018, it was also around an open flame that I was able to find a sense of belongingness. Although I knew someone in the area, I still felt somewhat like an outsider since it was a place where people practically grew up with each other. But as soon as I began frequenting the carinderias and the panaderias there, I became more familiar with these individuals. I started to form not only a transactional bond with them but also a sense of community.

    Yet, I felt I was in the right place when I became a regular at the roadside ihawan right across the panaderia. I think it was because it required customers to literally gather around the fire while waiting for their food to get ready. The thing with this kind of setup is that it makes it a lot easier for people to connect.

    One evening, while waiting for my dinner—two sticks of pork BBQ, one hotdog, and one tenga ng baboy—I overheard a conversation between two other customers about a TV series they were following. Also fond of the same show, I looked at them and smiled. They smiled back at me, and that was it. We did not say a word to one another, but it was so clear to me that at the time, they understood what I was thinking.

    When traveling, I also tend to look for smoke coming from a grill. I think of it as a smoke signal, as though telling me that somewhere in that area, I can find my people. While visiting Cebu with my husband and some of our friends in 2022, for example, I felt at home at Sugbo Mercado in IT Park, where the sight of smoke rising from stalls offering sinugba gave me a sense of comfort despite the language barrier. And although I was expecting something different with the way meat was being grilled in that part of the country, I also got the assurance that something about it would be familiar for sure. For some reason, this sense of familiarity made it easier for me to feel a certain attachment to the place.

    *

    I was scared when I arrived at Davao Cottage days before the grill party. The idea of living under the same roof with strangers in the next two weeks did not seem appealing at all, especially after a global pandemic that had conditioned people to become a little too comfortable with their own worlds. I wasn’t even sure if I was ready to socialize with too many individuals in the next few days, so definitely, this setup seemed like a lot.

    Luckily, I warmed up to them rather quickly. On our first night, over seven bottles of Red Horse Mucho, I already got a sense of how kind everyone was. Even when disagreeing, people remained respectful toward each other.

    Still, I held back. Inside my head, I made up explanations for why they’d kept their cool: Maybe they were just being tolerant to avoid conflict, maybe they did not really mean it, and maybe things would be different the next day.

    But that afternoon we shared around the open flame, grilling liempo under the most bizarre circumstances and exchanging stories and trading secrets, I felt I truly belonged.

    Now, whenever I look back to that writers workshop, what comes to mind first aren’t the sessions in which we discussed each other’s works. Instead, it is that very same afternoon. I remember the smell of the charcoal burning and the sound of it as it crackled in the unforgiving fire. I remember how the meat hissed as it touched the grill for the first time, as well as how our laughter boomed through the cottage as we took a pair of tweezers from the first-aid kit because we needed something to pick up the meat with. I remember how we joked about being dugyot for making such a decision, especially because we did not even bother to sterilize the instrument.

    I remember how the pork smelled on the grill, and how it reminded me of home. I remember singing to “Baby One More Time” while waiting for the meat to cook and how amazed and touched we all were as one of our co-fellows began preparing ensaladang pako and salted eggs with tomatoes using the ingredients he bought from Valencia that morning.

    I remember how smoky it got inside the cottage that I started to worry about getting reprimanded by the workshop organizers. I remember how I almost froze as I looked out of the cottage’s fence, particularly when I was greeted by the furrowing brows of the woman who looked so bothered by the smoke. I remember becoming even more paranoid about the situation and how I lost care, anyway, eventually realizing that apart from the passersby, no one cared. Besides, my co-fellows were just happy. They were still talking, laughing, and looking forward to finally eating some grilled pork.

    As soon as I stopped worrying, I began to fully enjoy the moment. Even my doubts about the people I was with went away—like smoke curling upward and disappearing into the sky.

    An earlier version of this essay was published in Degustación: A Taste of Poetry & Prose, a 2024 zine released by the fellows of the 61st Silliman University National Writers Workshop.

  • What hunger has done to me

    When I talk about hunger, I don’t just mean that feeling a person gets when they forget to eat or intentionally skip a meal for whatever reason. What I mean, instead, is that emptiness that burns in one’s stomach—something that comes with fear and desperation—when they are too broke and helpless to do something about it.

    This hunger changes a person in more ways than they can imagine. It trains them to be on red alert at all times, so they pay attention to every sign that scarcity may occur again very soon. It teaches them to lose their mind as the canned goods disappear from their cupboard one by one or as the fridge seems emptier each passing day.

    It has done the same thing to me.

    It is the reason why I still feel uneasy each time I notice that our rice container is close to being empty. It is the reason why I still slice luncheon meat very thinly as if this mere act could magically give me more grams of it. It is why I still feel guilty whenever I finish a can of corned beef by myself. It is why I still get so emotional about a pack of ramen or a can of sardines, as though I were meeting an old friend who saw me through the toughest of times. It is why I still get a sense of high whenever I come home with a bag of groceries.

    It is to blame for my problematic relationship with food. I think my body remembers everything, so to this day, it still urges me to eat more and more and more. It’s like my hunger never ends.

    Hunger is like a hole in my gut that simply doesn’t disappear no matter how often I try to overeat or even if I consume the fanciest food I can afford.

    But I continue eating, anyway. It won’t miraculously make my hunger disappear, I know, but at least it can give me a brief moment of satisfaction. I feel full and happy even for just a short while. My stomach stops growling. I don’t feel as empty as I did.

    It does not take long, but I will take it. I will cherish it before I start feeling bad about having consumed so much again. I will hold on to it before my hunger burns in the endless pit in my gut once more and before it urges me, again, to eat some more.

  • Watch me eat my feelings

    Food is so close to my heart that almost every memory tucked away inside my head is anchored to a particular dish or food item. When I look back to a memorable meal, what I mostly recall is the way it made me feel as I was devouring it.

    I also remember people by the food I associate them with, like what we ate the last time we spent together. Moreover, I believe that one of the best ways to show someone how much you care about them is by making sure they are fed.

    Obviously, I am very emotional when it comes to food. I think this has to do with some mental health stuff.

    When deciding what to eat, for example, I usually go for whatever feels the most comforting at the moment. I can be at a fancy buffet and still crave a bowl of instant ramen just because it reminds me of when the same cheap noodle soup kept me warm on a cold, lonely night.

    Sometimes, I choose junk food despite being aware of how badly my body would react to it simply because I’m feeling nostalgic and want to reminisce about an earlier time when the only problem I had was I couldn’t convince my mother to let me buy my favorite chips.

    At this point, I think it’s already clear how fascinated I am by the intersections and overlaps between food, emotions, and memories. And yes, you got it right; I wish to talk about these things—and more—in my newsletter called “Eating My Feelings,” which can be viewed for free at minaeats.substack.com.

    I am in no way promoting unhealthy eating habits. In fact, I have been trying so hard to change my ways. It’s just that I know transforming one’s relationship with food isn’t something that can be easily done overnight. It is so much more complicated than that. But maybe, talking about these complexities can somehow contribute to my healing that could, in turn, help me change for the better.

    Who knows? Perhaps, in the course of posting updates here, I can truly make some progress. That would be a great outcome for me.

    Finally, I hope that you can get something from this, too. I hope you join me on this journey.

  • The day I stopped living dangerously

    My family loves to eat so much that its members think of food allergies as gentle reminders instead of ultimatums. No wonder, when everyone learned about my shellfish allergy when I was 5, they told me not to worry because I would eventually “develop immunity” by still eating a little bit of all the food the doctor had told me to avoid.

    I was an obedient child, and I didn’t know any better, so I just did as I was told. Besides, it seemed like the most logical thing to do. Back then, I was still living in my grandparents’ Baclaran home, where food was always abundant and almost everyone knew how to prepare elaborate meals.

    On Sundays, for instance, my grandfather, who used to work as a head cook for a high-end Korean restaurant in Makati, would prepare dishes that usually included shellfish. He would buy fresh crabs and prawns from the nearby wet and dry market and come up with tasty dishes like ginataang alimasag na may labong and garlic butter shrimp.

    Judging simply from how my family members’ eyes would light up soon as they smelled the scent wafting from our kitchen, I could already tell it would be such a shame to pass up on Lolo’s cooking. And so, at lunchtime, I’d eat to my heart’s content.

    Normally, I would start feeling itchiness on my lips shortly after a meal. There were even times when some bumps and rashes would appear on my skin, particularly on the folds behind my elbows and knees. Whenever something like this would take place, I’d simply apply some Chinese ointment to the affected areas and, before I knew it, the itching would stop then my skin would be smooth again.

    I continued consuming shellfish in the years that came. In fact, my list of favorite food included a lot of dishes that had crustaceans in them: my uncle Leo’s prawn tempura, my aunt Irma’s binagoongang baboy, and my grandmother’s sinigang na hipon. Of course, I still loved my grandfather’s ginataang alimasag and garlic butter shrimp.

    Even when I began living in my mother’s home, where food was always scarce, my love for shellfish didn’t die. Whenever we could afford it, we would cook binagoongang baboy and make it so salty so we could stretch it for days. We also added alamang to almost every ginataan dish that mainly involved vegetables, ranging from langka to puso ng saging.

    I got even bolder when I was in college. It was as if my shellfish allergy did not exist at all. When a close friend invited me to her birthday celebration in a private resort in Bay, Laguna, I simply indulged and had as many grilled crabs as I wanted. When I look back to that weekend now, all I can think of is how I laboriously took the grilled crabs apart and scraped off all the meat I could get from every crab I could get my hands on.

    Back then, I was already aware of how fatal allergic reactions could be. But for some reason, I just went on and indulged in crab meat. I didn’t stop, even when I started feeling itchiness around my lips and on the folds of my skin. To be fair, things had not gotten any worse than that, which somehow assured me things would always be fine.

    I did something similar when I traveled to Bacolod for work in 2015. One night, my colleague and I had a late meal at Diotay’s Eatery, which had been recommended to us by a cab driver. Instead of playing things safe and thinking about how difficult it would be to access health services in an unfamiliar place in the event of an emergency, I gave in to my desire and wolfed down half a kilo of garlic butter shrimp.

    My brevity didn’t last that long, however. Several months later, my body finally decided to betray me. After downing a serving of binagoongang baboy from one of the eateries near the condo I was living in, bumps began appearing on my skin.

    At first, there were only a few of them, and they were all so tiny and thin. But eventually, larger and thicker ones appeared until they all covered my entire body. They were all so itchy, too, which kept me from sleeping that night.

    I went to see a doctor the following day, and one of the first things she told me was, “You’re lucky, you can still breathe properly.”

    I suddenly had a flashback of those countless characters I’d seen in TV shows and movies die after accidentally ingesting some pastry or cookie that had nuts in them. It was then that I finally accepted that the whole immunity thing was a lie. I’d just been lucky all along, and I didn’t know when my luck would finally run dry.

    “Should I take more risks?” I quietly asked myself while waiting for the doctor to hand me the prescription.

    I didn’t even have to think about it; I already knew the answer.

  • Prito mania

    Mahilig ako sa piniritong pagkain. Kahit noong maliit pa ako’t nakatira sa bahay ng lolo at lola ko kung saan laging masarap ang ulam, baliw na baliw na talaga ako sa kahit anong pinirito. Ang totoo, sa sobrang kabaliwan ko, madalas ko pang ipagpalit ang masasarap na putahe tulad ng kaldereta at sarsiyado sa piniritong Tender Juicy.

    Mas lalong umigting ang pagmamahal ko sa pinirito nang pumisan ako sa nanay ko. Hindi siya marunong magluto. Madalas ding kapos sa budget, kaya delata ang kadalasang ulam namin. At siyempre, hindi nawawala sa listahan ang mumurahing meat loaf ng Argentina. Sa halagang P14.50, may ulam na kaming mag-iina.

    Kapag may pera, lalo na kung kasusuweldo lang ng aking amain, namimili rin kami ng kung anu-anong uri ng processed meat na masarap ding prituhin. Ham, embutido, longganisa, tocino—sarap na sarap ako sa mga ito. Ni hindi ko nga maintindihan noon yung ibang tao na nagrereklamo sa puro prito. Kesyo tuyong-tuyo raw, kaya naghahanap ng sabaw. Para sa akin, kapag pinirito, panalo!

    Di tuloy nakapagtataka na mas sineryoso ko pa ang pagmamahal ko sa piniritong pagkain noong pumasok ako sa kolehiyo. Napadpad ako noon sa Baguio para roon mag-aral at kinailangang tumira sa isang boarding house. Dahil malayo sa pamilya, mas naging malaya ako pagdating sa pagpili ng pagkain. Siyempre, piniritong ulam ang halos inaraw-araw ko. Bukod sa tipid sa oras ang paghahanda at mura, gustong-gusto ko rin talaga sila.

    Sakto, mahilig din sa pinirito yung isang kabahay ko. Madalas, sabay kaming pumunta sa supermarket at doon, bumibili kami ng iba’t ibang brand ng mga delata at processed meat dahil curious lang kami sa kung ano nga ba ang pagkakaiba nila sa isa’t isa. Isa pa, dahil sa trip naming ito, mas marami rin kaming oportunidad na kumonsumo ng mga piniritong pagkain.

    Siyempre, nalulong din kami sa fast food. Kahit kalagitnaan ng gabi, lumalabas kami’t naglilibot sa mga kalye ng Baguio gaya ng Session Road para maghanap ng makakainan at maibsan ang aming cravings. At oo, fast food chains ang kadalasang takbuhan namin. Sarap na sarap kami sa pagpapakasasa sa fries, burger, nuggets, chicken fillet, at kung anu-ano pang mamantika’t makasalanan pero masarap na mga pagkain. Maluwag-luwag kami sa pera noon sa pamilya, kaya may pantustos sa bagong bisyo.

    Pagkatapos ng isang taon sa Baguio, lumipat ako sa Diliman, kung saan naman tumindi ang pagkalulong ko sa silog at sa iba pang piniritong pagkain tulad ng siomai, lumpiang toge, at piniritong tokwa. Pati ang mga gusto kong meryenda, panay nilublob din sa mantika: banana cue, proben, at karyoka.

    Noong nagsimula akong magtrabaho, mas lalo akong nabuwang fast food. Lalo na noong mapadpad ako sa Makati, kung saan kada kanto ay may McDonald’s at Jollibee. Noong 2013 pa nga, halos cheeseburger lang ang kinakain ko sa araw-araw. Hindi ako nagsasawa. At sa tuwing mag-iinuman kaming magkakaopisina, sa McDonald’s kami laging nagpapalipas ng tama. Habang nagkakape, lumalamon kami ng sangkaterbang fries.

    Ngayon, masasabi kong hindi pa rin kumukupas ang pag-ibig ko para sa piniritong pagkain. Kahit anong pilit ko sa sarili na kumain ng mas masusustansiyang pagkain, lalo na’t marami-rami na rin akong natutunang recipe nitong mga nagdaang taon at sigurado rin akong masarap ako magluto, binabalik-balikan ko pa rin ang aking prito favorites.

    At dahil sa quarantine, mas nawiwili pa ako ulit sa pinirito. Dahil nakakulong lang sa bahay, mas ramdam ko ngayon ang pagkaumay sa tila walang katapusang sikulo ng trabaho’t gawaing bahay. Noong una, masipag pa akong magluto ng iba’t ibang putahe. Pero matapos ang ilang linggo ng paulit-ulit na gawain, dagdag pa ang pagkabagot dahil sa bagal ng usad ng buhay, mas ginugusto ko na lang nitong mga nagdaang araw na magprito lang nang magprito para mapasimple at mapabilis ang paghahanda ng pagkain.

    Kaya nga lang, sa paulit-ulit kong pagpiprito, natauhan ako sa isang mapait na katotohanan: Hindi pala ako magaling magprito. Bukod sa hindi pantay na luto, kadalasang problema ng pinirito ko ang hindi magandang testura. Halimbawa, imbes na malutong ang balat ng manok, nagiging mamasa-masa ito kaya nakatatamad kainin.

    Buti na lang at nadiskubre ako ang “Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat: Mastering The Elements Of Good Cooking” ni Samir Nosrat. Binasa ko ang buong libro sa pag-asang marami akong matututunan tungkol sa pagluluto, lalo na pagdating sa pagpiprito.

    Hindi naman ako nabigo, dahil maganda talaga yung libro at siksik sa kaalaman. Isa sa mga pinakatumatak sa aking tips ay iyong tungkol sa maagang paglabas ng karne mula sa refrigerator para masigurong hindi na ito nagyeyelo sa oras na iluluto na ito. Nalaman ko rin ang magagandang epekto ng paglalagay ng asin sa karne na nakatutulong para magkaroon ng mas magandang luto. At siyempre, naroon din ang paggamit ng tamang temperatura sa tuwing nagpiprito para hindi sunog sa labas pero hilaw sa loob ang karne. Napansin kong umayos nga ang mga lutuin ko nang sundin ko ang tips na ito.

    Pagkatapos, bigla ko namang natutunan ang tungkol sa airfryer. Nalaman ko sa kaibigan ko kung gaano ito kadaling gamitin at kung gaano kaganda ang luto nito. Mas mainam din daw ito sa kalusugan dahil hindi na kailangang gumamit ng mantika. Ang totoo, sinasalo pa nito ang sobrang mantika mula sa pagkaing piniprito.

    Napabilib ako nang husto rito, kaya naman nagsimula akong magtingin-tingin online ng kung anong magandang airfryer ang magandang bilhin. Naghanap din ako ng brand na hindi sobrang mahal. At, matapos ang ilang linggong pagbabasa-basa, nakita ko rin sa wakas ang brand at uri ng airfryer na swak sa amin.

    Ngayon, tuwang-tuwa ako sa mga piniritong pagkain dito sa bahay. Mapa-dimsum, beef strips, french fries, o manok man ang isalang ko sa bagong airfryer namin, sigurado akong maganda ang magiging kalalabasan nito. Dahil dito, pakiramdam ko, nag-level up na ang debosyon ko sa piniritong pagkain.

    Hindi na rin ako makapag-antay pa sa marami pang piniritong matitikman ko sa hinaharap. Pero siyempre, susubukan ko pa ring kumain ng mas maraming masustansiyang pagkain.

  • Our hero is dead, and so is our love

    I didn’t become a fan of Anthony Bourdain until you came into my life. It was you who introduced me to the joys of cable TV, after all.

    It was 2014. We had only been dating for a couple of months but moved in together, anyway. It just happened, and before we knew it, we were already sharing meals in the studio apartment owned by your family and watching the same shows on TV.

    Before that, my idea of television was limited to the shows produced and aired by mainstream networks. While I was not too fond of these programs, I developed a sense of familiarity with them. I was well aware of how convoluted a teleserye plot could be, especially when ratings were high and the producers felt the need to stretch the storyline just to make more money.

    No wonder, lifestyle shows on cable TV seemed like a blessing from the heavens to me. I was especially amazed by Anthony Bourdain’s “Parts Unknown.” I admired how great of a storyteller he was and how his features defied formats usually employed by other television personalities. I also liked how he respected different cultures and how humble he was each time he had to interact with people from the places he was visiting.

    One of the episodes I could not forget about was that one on Glasgow. It was, to me, as truthful as truthful could get. Instead of going for the usual cheap tricks other hosts usually resorted to, he chose to present the place as honestly as possible: He showed how dark and bland the place seemed and why, for many, this wasn’t considered a viable tourist destination at all. But of course, he also told about the beauty he found in it — all those lovely little things that made it unique. And yes, it had a lot to do with food.

    You were so glad to welcome me into the fandom as I grew fonder and fonder of him. Then, eventually, you told me about “Kitchen Confidential,” something you had read and learned a lot from. It was, according to you, what taught you about why one should not order fish at any restaurant on a Monday. It was also where you learned how blasphemous ordering a well-done steak was. These revelations intrigued me, so I read the book as well. And I devoured it.

    It easily became our bible. All of a sudden, our decisions on what to eat and where were influenced by the bits of knowledge we’d picked up from the book. There were even times when you’d call me out for my “boring” and “too safe” food choices. Shame on me, you would say, before reminding me that I, too, would have to explore and strive to become an educated eater to uphold the teachings of Bourdain, our hero.

    It was fun, I must admit. It even changed me for the better. From the overly picky eater that I used to be, I finally started trying new things out. I no longer asked for a well-done steak. I stopped myself from fancying dishes whose meat swam in too much sauce, knowing how chefs typically used those rich liquids to conceal flaws. I also tried to suppress my seemingly endless fascination with fried chicken, especially when eating out. Chicken meat was all about playing safe, as you often said, making a reference, of course, to the book. In other words, it was a boring choice. Something I should avoid, yes.

    With all the bits of new wisdom inside my head, I also became more open to trying out different cuisines. I graduated from being the pasta girl and braved Korean restaurants in Malate, finally able to appreciate the beauty of unlimited side dishes. I also became a bit more daring to try other dishes at Japanese restaurants and broke up with karaage, which had been my go-to order.

    I even agreed to go to a Greek restaurant in Makati once. Although its pretentious atmosphere irked me upon entering the establishment, I soldiered on. I bravely asked for the menu, threw quick yet sensible questions about dishes at the server, and ordered what I thought we’d enjoy. As soon as the food landed on our table, we looked into each other’s eyes, as though we were sending one another an important message telepathically: “Mission successful!”

    Our cooking habits changed, too. Since we were eager to prove how much we were learning, we started buying spices and ensured each of them was used with the right type of meat or in the correct dishes. We also tried, as much as we could, to buy ingredients from nearby wet and dry markets instead of the big supermarkets close to where we were living.

    We also became more appreciative of the people behind the meals we consumed. Now aware of the preparation process as well as the struggles usually faced by the people involved in the food industry, we waited for our orders more patiently, said “thank you” to the servers more often, and gave bigger tips.

    Like many other things, food kept us close and made our relationship stronger. Our shared commitment to educating ourselves on food and the different processes involving it gave us something to hold on to and nourish, besides our feelings.

    However, it came to a point when our shared enthusiasm for food could no longer save us. Perhaps, we simply grew apart. When not trying out interesting dishes or conjuring meals together, we were nothing but two different people with different sets of values and priorities.

    Remember the last food trip we had together? It happened in Manila’s Chinatown on your birthday in 2017. We ate Indonesian Tauhu at Quik Snack along Carvajal Street and wolfed down a platter of Kuchay at Dong Bei. Then we shared half an order of Sincerity’s iconic fried chicken.

    It seemed like a perfect day, except I had already been full of doubts about our relationship deep inside. You had been cold for the past few weeks, and I was getting tired of having to initiate most of our conversations and plan our dates. It was as if you were no longer interested in me and whatever we had. I don’t know if it was because I had chosen to move out of your place, or if you were simply no longer excited to spend time with me. In fact, earlier that day, I had to force you to meet up with me for us to do something together on your special day. You said you didn’t have work that day, it was your birthday, yet you’d rather stay at home and prepare for a company dinner you weren’t even required to attend.

    Your coldness and lack of interest persisted even during the holidays. And then, one day, I just woke up and realized that I no longer cared much about you. Maybe I just got used to not having you around. Or, maybe, I just got tired. Maybe I just realized that enough was enough, that I should devote my time and energy to other things instead of chasing after you. And so I decided to call it quits. I insisted, even if you objected, even if you promised me you’d do better. I was simply done.

    I will remember our love in the same way that I will remember Bourdain’s life, or what I know of it: It was good while it lasted.

    I know that to this day, many people still believe that what we had was too great to be thrown away—just like that. I am sure they remain convinced that it could have not ended if only we had enough courage and drive to fight for it a little bit harder. But what do they know? Our relationship may have seemed ideal from a distance, but they aren’t aware of what we had to go through and how difficult things were for us, especially in the last months we spent together. They may have seen our relationship ideal from a distance, but they aren’t aware of what we had to go through and how difficult things were for us, especially in the last months we spent together.

    In the same way, some people probably still have no idea what Bourdain had to go through while trying to live his life and what really pushed him to the edge, until he could no longer take it. And while they can live their lives wondering about the things they could have done differently in order to save him, one thing will remain unchanged: It is too late now. He’s dead.

    And like him, our love is, too.

    I wrote this essay in June 2018, a few days after Anthony Bourdain’s passing and five months after the death of a four-year relationship.