My prerogative

A line of vendors occupy the sidewalk across the street from the wet market. Presumably they can not afford the rent inside, because, really, why would they rather be at the mercy of the elements, sitting on their haunches all day, nose-level with the exhaust pipes of passing vehicles? Even the flies leave them alone — no offense meant, but the stench is so much riper on the other side.

I have a suki here, a corpulent lady with a big smile and a hearty laugh. She sells molluscs, lukot, sea urchin roe (“Ser, better dan Biagra, ser!”), and the occasional crayfish and small shrimps, all collected from the sea (or river) near her home and displayed in small buckets. It’s not much. If it weren’t for my gout I would purchase more from her. I feign dismay at the prices to get her out of my hair, but she’s too shrewd for that. “Sige na, ser. Gib me a price and you can hab it ol. I jas wan to go hom.”

She’s a character, all right. If I told you to go to the market and look for “that big dark woman who wouldn’t stop talking,” you would be able to pick her out of the crowd in no time at all. She stands out just by being herself, whereas some people literally stick in your craw for what they have done to you. Like Mussolini, the shrimp lady, who rigs her scale (I suspect), or the cute fishmonger with the million-dollar smile who once sold me anemic red snapper (it had looked okay, okay?). They’re on my permanent shit list. With the big, loud manang, I can’t help feeling like a jerk each time I decline her offer of anínikád, dirt-cheap at ₱20 a can. Does she have kids? From her sagging waistline, I’m betting on more than a few. Do they even go to school, given her income?

Fact is, ours is not the most affordable place to live in. Everybody forks up to keep the city humming, even the grizzled crone who goes from one office to the next selling sweet mung bean porridge by the cup. If your idea of leisure is to forage for shellfish during the low tide, you need to buy a permit for that as well. Meanwhile the drug dealers are doing brisk business, making one wonder if they, too, have permits. A visage of our mayor hangs on every available post, Big Brother-like, exhorting citizens to love their city. Unfortunately, he chose to employ the Tagalog word for “love” instead of the appropriately Visayan gugma — because, well, using the Bisaya would have spoiled the resulting acronym, which only happened to spell out his nickname. For this piece of vanity, his slogan is often taken literally: “This is our city. Let’s make it expensive.” The joke’s on us and we know it, but we laugh anyway.

We live along the coast, so people are understandably scandalized when shrimps sell for up to ₱500 a kilo. Granted, that was last Christmas, and Mussolini was not the only vendor gouging prices, but with her air of untrustworthiness and dour countenance, she was a convenient target. “Do you think I’ve lost my mind?” I said to her face. Then I walked over to the old lady who also sold shrimp and bought three kilos. At the same price, but her I liked.

So I’m a prisoner of my prejudices — aren’t we all? Speaking of shrimp, my father likes his fried to death, without batter or breading. They turn out more petrified than crispy, if you ask me, their juices having been leached out by the hot oil. I choke just by looking at them. Even my dry-seasoned version, well-received by others — they’re perfectly crispy on the outside and juicy inside (and you can eat everything, from head to tail!) — holds no appeal for him. I bow to seniority, but it is with fried shrimp that I truly resent having to.

Big Manang knows none of this, of course. She sees me from a mile away and flashes me a grin. “Here, ser,” she says, uncovering a bañera. “Your peborit.” They’re small shrimps, fresh as the mayor’s retouched face on his billboards, but with ten times the appeal. Pa would be delighted. “How match wil you hab, ser?”

“Ay, Manang,” I say, properly apologetic, “I can’t. Not today; my gout’s acting up.” It’s not at all, really. Some days I just want to spare myself the heartache — and what my father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Crispy Fried Shrimp

To prepare shrimps, snip off their pointy beaks and antennae. You can eat these shrimps whole, shell included, so you do not want those sharp beaks poking holes in your mouth. You may skip the brining stage but I wouldn’t recommend it; proper brining takes the guesswork out of salting. Add any other spice you fancy to the breading mix.

• ½ kilo fresh medium shrimps, cleaned and rinsed
• oil, for frying

For the brine:
• ⅛ cup salt
• 4 cups water

For the breading mix:
• ½ cup flour
• ¼ cup cornstarch
• 2 teaspoons salt
• 1 teaspoon ground black pepper
• 1 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1 teaspoon paprika
• 1 teaspoon turmeric powder
• ½ teaspoon cayenne

1. In a bowl, stir ⅛ cup salt into 4 cups water until salt has completely dissolved. Immerse cleaned shrimps in the solution for up to 30 minutes, then drain well.
2. In a separate bowl, combine breading mix ingredients.
3. Heat two cups of oil in frying pan. When ready, dredge each shrimp in the breading mix, shaking off any excess powder. Fry in batches (do not overcrowd pan), turning once, until golden brown. Remove shrimps from pan and transfer to a plate lined with paper towels to drain excess oil. Serve immediately with your choice of dipping sauce.