Going native

Long before organic and free-range became buzzwords, there was bisaya — in this case meaning native or local, as distinguished from Bisaya (capitalized), which refers to a native of the Visayas (region). Take garlic, for instance. If it’s small, pungent, and a pain in the rear to peel, it’s ahos bisaya to a Bisaya. Did you say it came from Ilocos? Make that “ahos bisaya from Ilocos” then, if that makes you feel better. (This article speculates that we have been calling things bisaya since before the Spaniards sailed into our shores.)

My earliest encounter with food emphatically designated as bisaya was at the street-corner barbecue stand a block from Lola’s house. It was one of three grilling stations, actually — the only one we never bought from. It charged more for its chicken, which were more skeleton than meat. “Bisaya,” was all Lita, Lola’s maid, said by way of explanation. It was all the explanation I needed. I was never an inquisitive child.

To compensate, I framed certain assumptions, one of which was that manok bisaya and bihag were one and the same. Naïve, I concede, but you must admit it is harder to mistake manok bisaya for the plumper bantres (Vantress, the common broiler breed). God bless my uncle, Cesar, superstitious as only a sabungero could be, who believed that it brought him good fortune to give us the birds his roosters killed at the cockfights. I gingerly took the proffered carcasses, stowed them in the freezer, and promptly forgot about them. By the time I sorted out my fowl, Cesar was long in the dirt and I had already painted myself into a corner by declaring early on in the life of this blog that I was not into chicken.

I was mistaken, of course. In fairness, that was before I was properly introduced to manok bisaya, and it was the finest chicken I ever had. Yes, I discovered gout and type 2 diabetes before I discovered chicken worth waxing lyrical about. It’s not a perfect world.

Manok bisaya is expensive, which is why people sing its praises even as they reach for regular chicken instead. Besides, where I live there is no regular supply. Once in a while you might see an ambulant vendor with a clutch of bewildered chickens. Chances are they’re native. Chances are that you will have to haggle to get them for a reasonable price. If you’re anything like me, said vendor will leave very happy.

Lately we have been sourcing native chicken through Kap. Sometimes he even delivers it cooked, sometimes in a soup but more often adobo-style (my favorite). When we compliment him on the taste, he dismisses it as binisaya — slang for plain, simple (also: unsophisticated, unhip). The term du jour, I believe, is “rustic.” As far as I can tell there’s only salt and soy sauce in his adobo, plus the usual spices.

You can do without soy sauce, by the way. If you are particular about giving your adobo that nice brown sheen, simply get your chicken as dry as you can — the less surface moisture, the easier it is to brown the meat. Do it before you marinate with salt and as much crushed garlic as you prefer. It's not as much of a hassle as you think, and it makes all the difference. (You can also try brining, which works best on lean meat.)

Sauté the garlic until they release their aroma, then remove from pan. Crank up the heat to high until the oil (just a few tablespoons, BTW) is smoking. Fry the meat in batches (if a lot) to prevent steaming. Notice how the oil does not spatter as much? That’s because your meat is dry. Bonus!

Once you’ve browned the meat on both sides, add a teaspoon of whole black peppercorns and a dried bay leaf (or two), then pour in vinegar — about half a cup for each kilo of meat. Do not stir. Wait until the smell of the vinegar boils off before adding water — not much, just enough to barely cover the meat. Adjust heat to low and cover the pan. Allow to simmer for 30 minutes or so, turning pieces every now and then. Check for desired tenderness (you can add water, a little at a time, if it dries out before then).

Once most of the water has evaporated, return the garlic to the pan. Add soy sauce, if you must, but not much (I find that a tablespoon is usually enough). Fry chicken pieces in the rendered fat until they are browned to your satisfaction. Serve with rice and pickled papaya (my combo of choice). Better yet, sauté rice in the same pan with some of the chicken fat, scraping the tasty bits that have accreted at the bottom. I guarantee you will never look at fried rice the same way again.

Until you taste the chicken, that is.

You can find other adobo recipes in this site’s archives. Crispy pork adobo is a house favorite. Adobo chino is a variation of chicken adobo. Squid also make a great adobo.