It wasn’t until I was fifteen that I had my first hamburger. Some of you will doubtless scoff at this claim as another of my exercises in creative license, but it’s cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die true. Burgers weren’t always a big thing in this country. The same could be said of lechon manok. Or pizza. I’m old, see: I can imagine life without them because I was there when they weren’t. Now shut up and read on.
Anyway, this was on my first visit to Manila as a budding adult. The year was 1986 and Cory Aquino had been president for less than two months. There was definitely something in the air: a giddy, nervous hope. And why not? Marcos had fled the country, good had triumphed over evil, and things could only get better. Like, right?
What I remember the most, though, was the heat. We had arrived during the dog days of summer (it was an El Niño year). I was wearing my best Collezione shirt, hoping to make a good first impression and hoping to be impressed in return. Instead, I was miserable. The sun burned into my scalp, my neck, my arms — everywhere. The streets steamed. I couldn’t breathe for the fumes and my feet ached from too much walking. I wanted to go home, wanted nothing to do with that torrid and noisome hellhole.
I was jolted out of my reverie when Ma grabbed my collar and pushed me through a door. At least it was cold inside — mercifully so. “Welcome to Jollibee!” someone chirped. We maneuvered our way through the mass of brats, yayas, and tetchy parents to place our order. “Langhap-sarap!” proclaimed the posters on the walls. Tastes as good as it smells! I contemplated my burger. It was soggy and greasy, looking nothing like its gussied-up cousins on the menu board. Over at the next table, a kid screamed. In terror. At the sight of the store mascot.
“Will you stop dawdling?” Ma said. “Your food’s getting cold.”
And that was how I came to eat my first beef on a bun. It wasn’t bad. Not at all. But it didn’t have me dancing in the aisles either. What did I know about hamburgers, anyway? I went fifteen years without their acquaintance, didn’t I? I couldn’t say the same for the mascot-averse kid. He was busy regurgitating his Jolly Meal onto his lap. Now there was history in the making. He would be, what — about thirty now? I wonder if he still remembers that incident. If his mother is anything like mine, he should. Let’s hope his name isn’t Norman.
Me, I’ve consumed my fair share of burgers since then, although not as much as Jollibee would have liked me to. Not my thing, really. If it’s meat in a bun I crave, there’s always siopao, thank you. Otherwise, give me rice. Rice hits the spot every time.
Which leads me to ask: What took Jollibee so long to connect the dots? It hardly takes an epiphany to see that Pinoys love rice. Rice makes the Filipino meal. I admit that I eat pancit with rice, although I draw the line when it comes to spaghetti — but if that’s what floats your boat, hey. Beef patty with rice? It’s not even original. The Cebu-based Brutus chain has had that on its menu for years. Theirs comes with a side of steamed vegetables that’s supposed to allay your guilt at ingesting all those calories. Nice touch, that.
The bad news is, Brutus is no more. In our corner of the woods, at least. What do you think happened? Jollibee ran it out of town, that’s what. You don’t mess with the Bee. For this reason, I have decided to boycott, if not Jollibee itself, then at least its burger steak. Wanna join my protest? Let’s make our own.
You will need half a kilo of lean ground beef, one sweet onion (finely chopped), a dash or three of Worcestershire sauce (optional), and some salt and black pepper to taste. Mix everything in a bowl, top with oil to keep it from drying out, cover, and let sit in the refrigerator for eight hours (or overnight).
To make your patties, divide mixture into six equal portions. Shape each portion into a ball and flatten into a disc. (The patties may look big but they’ll shrink as they cook.) Place patties on a tray lined with grease-proof paper and stick them in the freezer for fifteen minutes so they’ll hold together better.
Heat a non-stick pan on medium-low and brush with oil. Cook patties until browned on each side. Meanwhile, in another pan, melt two tablespoons of unsalted butter over low heat. Add a tablespoon of flour and stir into a paste. Add half a cup of chicken stock and keep stirring until you get the consistency you desire (I like mine a tad watery). Put in some sliced button mushrooms and a tablespoon of oyster sauce to taste.
To serve, refer to the photo above. Don’t forget the steamed veggies. Your kids (if any) may resent you for it. What kid wouldn’t? Who cares? Pardon my French, but kids don’t know shit (that’s why they’re kids). I’m turning forty in a few weeks and I still don’t know the half of it.
My mother was right. “I want you to have the opportunity that your father and I never had,” she had told me 25 years ago. At Jollibee, of all places. “You better not mess this up, you hear? Hey! Jesus, will you stop dawdling? Your food’s getting cold.”
So I ate my burger. And forgot about the rest. I skipped school, dabbled in substances, drank myself into a stupor. Had a good time, basically. I was young, the world was at my feet, and I had all the time that was in it.
That’s the thing about dawdling: You will always find time for it if you are so inclined. You stop for time, but time never stops for you. It flies, for crying out loud. Then all of a sudden you’re forty. Forty is a big number — big enough to inspire a lot of could-haves: Could’ve finished college. Could’ve learned how to drive. Could’ve found a proper job. Could’ve gotten laid more often. The list goes on and on and on.
At least I found time to learn how to cook. Sometimes I wonder about that.
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