65. Adobo is French?

(Adobo by La Seda Hotel Davao City)

Someone wrote that adobo is of French origin, which I think may have some truth to it, considering that braising the protein in vinegar, soy sauce, and spices is peculiar to this Filipino dish. This chemical process of braising the protein, be it pork, chicken, or beef, has the effect of infusing the color, taste, and the spice on the meat and magically appetizes the foodie's palate. This is similar to how braising meat in wine does the trick. Whenever I travel around the country for work and I see the adobo  on the menu, it is, hands down, my chosen meal. Some of the more memorable ones is the adobo I order from a hotel in Pagadian City, which, although a little bland, is full of aroma because of the bell peppers they mix in it. Pamana Restaurant in Tagaytay serves it three ways of which what stands out is the one braised in coconut milk. Coconut adds the sweet coco flavor that is a Bicolano staple.  By far the tastiest adobo I have eaten is the one they serve in Cabiao, Nueva Ecija, which is made from the meat of farm rats. I told my wife, Celeste, to credit the culinary genius of the people from Cabiao to cook adobo rats.  They removed the hairy skin, chopped off the head, tail, and legs so what remained are little drumsticks no different from the drumsticks we derive from small gaming birds. I asked them if there was any other way to serve farm rats, and the people I met in Cabiao said the adobo way is the only way, as it removes the stench of the meat completely. Cooking adobo rats not only puts food on the table, it also eliminates the pests. The Cabiao folks have turned the problem of pestilence into a feast. How much more Filipino can they get? Perhaps, Albert Camus's The Plague may have ended differently if the French author casted somebody from Cabiao to turn all those pests into an exotic culinary dish as adobo rats. It hits the existentialist school in the gut.  If such were the case, then there is more compelling reason to say that adobo is French.

47. Sunday Meal

My wife, Celeste, and I would be on our way to the market before the sun is up. Crabs, shrimps, mussels and some other new seafood -- who knows what we would find? -- are on the "to buy" list. The other day they had angel wing clams, which made me remember that Chef Chris Locher, then from the fabled C' Italian Dining of Angeles, once cooked this for us, and we could not have enough of it, because of the heavenly way he cooked it. Sometimes it's the sea mantis -- cooked with salt and pepper, deep fried until crispy -- and other days it would be just lobsters or curachas -- not enough meat as my son, Anselmo, puts it. The boys, Ben, Anselmo, and Agustin, welcome these culinary adventures, but the girl, Regina, would only have pork. The kitchen would be busy as soon as we arrive with our finds. Turmeric is our "go to" seasoning, because it adds that ginger kick and that marvelous yellow hue to any dish that it touches. And white wine brings the sweet sour sophistication to the seafood chemistry. All of these would be cooked, recipes in hand, with rice and grilled pork on the side. The dishes are then placed in hand made colorful clay plates, which Celeste took pains and years to find. Rosemary and basil leaves then garnish the meals fresh from the garden pots. At about noon, the members of the family take their designated spots with their sauces, salt and pepper in vinegar, and soy sauce, on their places. Nobody starts unless everyone is on the table and has prayed. This is our Sunday lunch meal. This is how I hope my kids would remember their Sundays growing up in the early 21st Century.  It took years for Celeste and myself to develop this ritual of a meal, and I reckon it's still a work in progress. I'm still working on the live string quartet to boot. Seriously, the complicated detail and the time and attention we put on this meal measure up only to the importance that we put on the occasion. It's the only time in the entire week that we are gathered together as a family to talk. The rest of the week is the time we get lost in the mess of our daily individual lives, the kids with schoolwork, computer games and anime, and the adults with their jobs, duties, and their budgets. But the Sunday lunch meal is when we all put everything aside. This is where Regina talks about her mangas and the anime, Attack of Titans, where I learn about the latest football news, or the new Ipad game, or that UP is not such a hard school according to my college level son, Ben. The dog takes some attention too as it barks for some bones. We all laugh and cheer together at its antics.  This is also where we talked about our successes and tragedies and challenges. It's not always fun. But always, it's us talking. The rest of humanity have their meal rituals too, like Christ and his disciples and the Last Supper. State dinners for the heads of state, "kauntians" for the poor, boodle fights for the men in uniform, no matter how modest or elaborate, the Sunday meal is the most impressive meal of the week. But I have a suspicion it's not about the food. It is about the satisfaction, not only of the need for nourishment  of the body, but also of the spirit. For meals are not only about being  hungry, but also about being together with the people we love and respect who  also share our hunger no matter what our faiths. And that is as much human as we can get. 

9. Mantequilla

 

I was eight years old when I had my first encounter with mantequilla. It was in a corner of my grandfather's gas-fueled fridge -- this red can with a plastic cap. My grandfather said I could spread it over bread and I did. It lit up my face after the first bite and henceforth it did wonders to my breakfasts, humble or otherwise. When I got married and I had the chance to do groceries with my wife, I was amused to see this product again, the red can with plastic cup, still in the same  trade dress after all these years.  When most butters are sold as blocks or sticks, this one the deviant red can, presents itself as butter in a container. I dip a knife into it and scrape off a portion, spread it on hot bread. It melts and that familiar creamy, salty, light-textured, semi-solid, semi-liquid indulgence caresses my tongue. I wash it off with coffee and the memory of the mantequilla of my youth -- and probably my grandfather's too -- brings all those feelings back, a legacy that can be passed on to the next generation of butter fans. Never mind the hypertension.