I remember, crisply

There was this restaurant near the Tacloban Astrodome that Jerome and I once ate at. After three hours on the road, we were early for his flight but late for lunch. We thought nothing about the empty parking lot. When my mother called, we were still waiting for the food to arrive and I groused about the glacial pace of the service. “Serves you right for not asking,” she said. “That place is on its last legs.”

I had imagined as much as we made our way through the dim foyer. It was lined with glass cases filled with windowpane oyster shells, or what we call capiz, which might have looked half-interesting if they had been fashioned into something — anything, really — instead of being displayed individually like they were goddamned Fabergé eggs. We emerged into the dining hall, similarly dreary but for the unobstructed view of nearby Cancabato Bay. I don’t exactly recall why, but we ordered two shrimp starters: tempura and camarón rebosado.

When the dishes finally arrived (it was a long wait, no BS), we might as well have made a game of telling one capiz shell from another, they looked and tasted exactly alike. The shrimp were coated in what you could charitably call a heavy batter. As for crisp or crunch, there was none. I suspected the cook mistakenly made a double batch of camarón rebosado and decided to pass the other off as tempura (they’re both battered, right?). In any case, it was no way to serve shrimp. Both dishes even came with fry sauce (if you have to ask, that’s the one with one part ketchup and two of mayonnaise). Tempura with creamy dip? Had our waitress insisted the sauce was made with kewpie, it still wouldn’t have been right. Was it any wonder the place was going bankrupt?

Oh, I’m aware how difficult it is to cook anything crispy (much more have it stay that way) in this humidity. In fact, that’s why we go to restaurants: we expect them to know better — or at least the basics. Camarón rebosado is very basic. Instead, the place had me thinking I could have done better — a mouthful, considering I had never attempted camaron rebosado before (or ever). My tempura is passable — for the mess it takes to make, it damn well better be.

But I’m not here to talk about those dishes. Not exactly, anyway. If you ask me, shrimp is too expensive not to eat whole, so if I can find a way to make it crispy enough to do that, all the better (it’s also a pain in the rear to peel, so there). In that regard, I like to think my crispy shrimp crispy enough. My father, however, complains about the taste of cornstarch, of which there is indeed a fair amount.

Pa is what you could call a tough customer, but the truth is that he is more forgiving of restaurant food. I don’t take his criticisms personally, if only because I have found myself eventually sharing more and more of them as I get older, and not with a little alacrity. So kids, listen to your parents; you will sound just like them before you know it.

Last week being full moon season, I went home from the market with some shrimp (the fish section was literally deserted). This time, I decided to use a beer batter recipe that I vaguely remembered from somewhere. Unsure of the proportion, I settled for a combination of ½ cup AP flour, 3 tablespoons grated Parmesan, and ½ cup plus two tablespoons cold beer (I only had San Miguel Light). Unlike my tempura batter, this one I whisked until smooth, then left in the refrigerator for 30 minutes. Meanwhile I brined the shrimp in a solution of water (4 cups) and rock salt (¼ cup), 15 minutes, then gave them a quick rinse.

While I’m sure that the batter can still be improved upon, it was far better than most I have had in some restaurants: light, crispy/crunchy, and, most remarkably, it stayed that way, holding up against the humidity for a good long while (I was not able to time just how long; the shrimp were wiped out before the batter could turn mushy). If you want to understand how beer accomplishes this wonderful effect, see this article. I confess I didn’t quite grasp the science, but do you really think that’s what people will go “wow!” over? Every time we pass the derelict building that had housed that late, unlamented restaurant, Eva would turn to me with a knowing chuckle (did I mention she was there, too?). Then we thank heaven for Ocho.