“For the love of God,” Eva muttered as we made our way towards T.G.I. Friday’s, “let’s eat at Jollibee. I’ve had it with Italian food.”
“Shut up,” I hissed. “You're not paying.” But what I was thinking was, Hold on, T.G.I.’s Italian? I had never been there. As long as they did not serve sheep bladder or snake blood, I figured it couldn’t be bad. And it wasn’t (Italian, as well), although the crostini (or bruschetta, I wasn’t sure) was a disappointing start to the meal.
“See? How much for that? 175?”
“Excluding taxes and tip.” That was a cheap shot. Eva is the type who scans a menu from right to left; she looks at the prices first, zeroes in on the lowest, and orders that, never mind what that turns out to be. It used to drive my sister nuts. “I told her to order anything she liked and she picked jackfruit salad. Jackfruit salad! It was embarrassing!”Not to Eva. “Some tomato on three measly slices of bread,” she said of the crostini (or was it bruschetta? I should be more attentive). “I could feed my family for the price of that.” She took a bite, made a face.
“Come on, it’s not that bad. Besides, ever heard of ambiance?”
“Ambiance?” We were seated al fresco. There was a light rain and it was humid as hell. “The only good thing out here’s our waiter.”
“Who?” I strained for a good look. “Ugh. He looks like my cousin.”
“Whatever. He’s cute. Take our picture later.”
I slept fitfully that night. Traveler’s constipation. Not usually that big a deal, if it also did not come on the heels of bingeing at Sbarro, Conti’s, and the aforementioned T.G.I. Friday’s. You know — “Italian” food.
“I should’ve stopped with the squid,” I said, referring to yesterday’s dinner entrée at Conti’s. I had followed that with ox tongue. Eva had baked prawns, which she did not want in the first place (“Mahal!”), so I ordered that simply to spite her. She didn’t like it (“I told you, didn’t I?”), so I ate that as well. And there I was the morning after, feeling as if I had a plug up my ass.
“No kidding,” she said. “You should smell my farts. They’re vile.”
“Please, please let’s eat in today. I can’t go out like this.”
“And I thought you’d never ask. So, which is it — Jollibee or McDo?”
“Fuck you.” The mere mention of fast food made me light-headed. “I want to eat law-oy.”
“We’re cooking?”
“Yes.” (We were staying at my best friend’s.)
“And spend more for fare to the market than we would on the meal?”
“Yes, dammit.”
I don’t know about you, but I never feel so ancient as when I surprise myself craving for food I did not care much for as a child. As vegetable dishes went, law-oy offered as many reasons to dislike it as the cook put in, usually (but not limited to) kalabasa (squash), sikwa (sponge gourd), string beans, and malunggay and pepper leaves — each none too appealing on its own, never mind all together in one bowl. It was not exactly the soup from Hell, but only because I was never forced to eat it. The adults seemed content to have it all to themselves. I should have wondered about that.
Boys and girls, be prepared to discover surprising things about yourself when you reach your 40s. For instance, you may discover that you have grown up to be just like your parents. Don’t wince — stranger things have happened. At least you have to concede that your taste in food has changed from when you were younger. Note that I said “changed,” not “improved.” Go ahead and give yourself credit for your new-found appreciation for vegetables, but do not forget that a lot of your taste buds died to make that possible. That’s right: the older you get, the less taste receptors you have, plus your sense of smell decreases, thus making you less sensitive (or more receptive — take your pick) to food you once found bitter, earthy, or unappetizing. Enter law-oy.
Traditional law-oy isn’t 100% vegetable. It has a suba, usually buwad (dried fish), although any leftover fish will do. Not ours. Instead, we sauté sliced ginger in a little oil to give the dish a cool, peppery punch (flat-out boiling does not quite yield the same result). Water is added to the pot along with squash (cut into bite-size pieces, like the rest of the vegetables) and allowed to boil until squash is fork-tender but not cooked through. Then follow sliced onion, diced tomato, sikwa, and string beans, simmered until the vegetables are just cooked. The soup is seasoned to taste before adding malunggay and pepper leaves, then left to sit for a minute or two before serving.
“Taxi: ₱160. Assorted greens and spices: ₱75.” She was at it again. “This is the most expensive law-oy, ever.”
“And the best meal I’ve had so far,” I said. “You know, T.G.I. isn’t Italian. Conti’s as well.”
“Oh, I know. They just taste the same to me.”
“So Jollibee is different… how? No — don’t bother. I get it.”
I did, and more: Jollibee is as far from Italian food as you can possibly get, their spaghetti notwithstanding. Are you kidding me? That sweet, hotdog-studded pile of pasta is as Pinoy as law-oy!
This post has no comments.
Post a Comment