Humba

Confidence deserts me when it comes to cooking humba. After many an attempt, I know enough to say that I still have to make humba that truly satisfies me. At this point, it’s no longer about what goes into it as much as the how. So when I asked Eva to make yet another batch, I decided to ride shotgun as she worked.

Humba is slow-braised pork. It is traditionally made with pig knuckles (also called hocks), and, in true Pinoy fashion, oftentimes the trotters (feet) as well. While some people liken humba to adobo (especially the stewy kind), to a Bisaya there is a world of difference, although at first glance they look a lot alike, usually when the humba is made with pork belly, pigue (ham), or kasim (shoulder).

The most distinctive difference is in taste. Humba is predominantly sweet (from sugar or molasses) and salty (from soy sauce and tausi/salted black beans), with just a hint of sour. Aside from garlic cloves, dried laurel leaves, and whole black peppercorns (which are also found in adobo), there’s star anise and dried banana blossoms.

We used pork belly for the batch pictured here (marinated overnight in a mixture of salt, ground black pepper, granulated garlic, dried oregano, and dried chili flakes). The meat was sliced into big chunks (it was quite fatty), then shallow-fried in batches until about half of the fat had rendered. “This is why I didn’t serve humba back when I had a carinderia,” Eva mused. “You can’t do the dish justice and still keep it affordable.”

Indeed, when she was done frying, the meat had considerably reduced in bulk — and we were only halfway through the process. (On the other hand, we could just have eaten it as-is.) The rendered fat was poured off except for two or three tablespoons’ worth, then the meat — along with the rest of the spices — was returned to the Dutch oven (Eva had wanted to use a kawali, but I was not about to pass up the chance to season my new cast-iron pot with all that oil).

With the heat set to medium, vinegar was added to the pot and allowed to boil without stirring until its aroma had dissipated. Then followed Sprite, after which the lid was replaced on the pot and the heat reduced to low. In the meantime, we hit the weekend market where we came upon a woman selling pots of gorgeous-looking welcome plant/Zanzibar gem for next to nothing. “Are you sure these aren’t stolen?” Ma said. She bought the whole lot.

We got back home just in time as the liquid had all but evaporated, leaving behind fork-tender meat and more rendered fat. It was at this point I had a brainstorm to use kecap manis (Indonesian sweet soy sauce) instead of the usual Silver Swan and sugar. I probably should not have been improvising, considering I still have to get a firm grip on the dish, or that I was supposed to be an observer in this exercise. Eva said nothing, even though I could tell she was not comfortable with my meddling. She’s too polite, really. In any case, the kecap manis gave terrific color to the meat (I had to add more dark soy because it was too sweet).

I suppose you want to know how it tasted. Far better than any humba I had made so far, but that’s because you asked me instead of my mother. She was not impressed, pronounced the dish bland. Sure, it wasn’t quite there yet. Still, would it have killed her to be more constructive? I would write down the recipe if I weren’t too busy picking bits of my ego off the floor.