We had been on the road nearly five hours, slowing down in the vicinity of every school we came across, searching for a smoking grill. Still: nothing. “Lord,” I cried, “why do I see ginanggang everywhere except when I have to have one?”
Eventually I settled for banana cue at a roadside stall in Hinunangan town, 175 kilometers from where we started. To make banana cue, peeled whole sabá (cardaba/cooking banana) are deep fried with dark brown sugar until coated with the resulting caramel. Depending on how hot the caramel is, it either stays on as a syrupy glaze or hardens into a shell. I prefer the latter.
Ginanggang, on the other hand, is char-grilled on the skewer, brushed with margarine, then dusted with sugar. Simple? Very. It’s not the kind of snack you’d find in a restaurant (or on that particular day, anywhere), and yet it’s very satisfying — a triumph of rustic synergy (as in humble parts forming a greater whole). It’s not even my favorite way to eat banana (simply halved and fried is more like it), but there are days, you know?
Of course you do.
By the way, I mentioned school earlier. That’s because ginanggang is most often sold in or around schools. At ₱5 a stick, it is very affordable, not to mention healthier and more filling than the other processed food on offer — and by that I don’t just mean corn- and potato-based chips and sugared biscuits, but the bastardized street versions of tempura and fish or squid balls, which for all we know are made with synthetically flavored flour and preservatives. Ever wondered why they’re so cheap? Ick.
Fast-forward to last weekend. Early for dinner invitation at a neighboring town, we were on our way to kill time at the local market when we passed a ginanggang stall. The bananas were near-ripe and mushy (that’s them in the topmost pic), but that’s how Jenny likes hers so she was happy. I don’t, so I wasn’t. Still, it was better than nothing. Or was it?
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