McDonald’s lost me at breakfast when it ceased offering tapsilog, but it’s right across where I live in Cebu, so when I’m feeling lazy, which is most mornings, that’s where I go. If asked, I would be hard-pressed to name you one item from its current breakfast menu (it’s that unmemorable), even as my memory of that tapsilog grows more romanticized. Was it that good? I seriously doubt it, but it makes me wonder sometimes.
The woman swore by it. “My kids love the dish,” she said. “‘Nay, make the tahong with ginamós and chili again,’ they say. Na lagi, you should see the sweat run down their faces.”
Of bolináw (anchovy fry) we like to quip that if you are looking for some, you can’t find any, but if you’re not, well, let’s just say that last week at the Bato market, we found really nice ones — just the right size, not too tiny as to turn to mush when cooked, and not too big that they remind you of baby lizards — at ₱180 a kilo. Bolináw by the kilo! Around here, we only get them by the tumbler, which holds about half a cup (take note of the concave bottom), and that depends on how lightly the vendor piles the fish on. “Are you sure you want to sell that stuff?” my mother would ask. “You seem hesitant with the spoon.”
They looked a lot like tamaróng. Was she sure? “Yes; they’re mawnô.” Our hostess pointed out the prominently golden tail. “A cousin, definitely, with more scales. Tastes better.”
“I saw it on Facebook.” I hate that phrase, especially when preceded by “it’s true.” Some people forget that Facebook is not a news site, rather the digital equivalent of your suking barbershop (or parlor), venue for a lot of empty talk, flagrant fanfaronade, salacious gossip, and self-indulgence. If you want to make me skeptical about the latest artista to have “died” (not that I knew who Jessy Mendiola was before it was her turn), you only have to say you saw/heard about it on FB.
Mar Roxas is in town. Remember Mr. Palengke? That’s correct; now he wants to be Mr. President. I happened to be roadside when his entourage passed by yesterday. Although I did not see him — he was on the other side of the van — I did not hear cheering either. Make that at all.
“Let him handle it.”
Leaky faucet? Busted fuse? Rats in the pantry? Pa’s good for all those, but I’m referring to escabeche. As with inún-unán, mine is always “too sour.”
Huh? “But it’s supposed to be sour!”
“Well I don’t like it.”
They’re back! I’m talking tahong, of course. Banned after the latest red tide bloom in Eastern Visayas (the biggest in 30 years), mussels have been declared once again safe for consumption, and they were, at least for a few days, bigger than usual for having been left alone since November.
Did someone say “salty”? Nothing is too parat in this house. Coming from my father, no less. “Excuse me,” I say, “it’s labtingaw.” That’s lightly salted fish, left out in the sun for a few hours, so that they are only semi-dried — in fact still palpably moist — and not as funky-smelling as regular buwad. Meatier, too.
First things first: there is nothing to learn about food (indeed cooking) in Burnt. Oh, there is a lot of it on display, but I will be damned if I can tell you what are on those plates, or imagine how they might taste. The characters mock-lovingly describe their cooking as “old-school,” and I wonder how much I have lagged behind the times. That’s so you know where I’m coming from.
The last time I was in Cebu, I kept asking for latô (sea grapes) in all the restaurants we went to. Gusô, its more (sea)weedy-looking relative, there was a lot of, but no latô. I like gusô too, but it lacks the pop.
I make no bones about the fact that I’m glad 2015 is over. It was not a good year for me — certainly far from terrible, but also inauspicious (and the less said, the better). So while everyone is trotting out their best-of lists, let me treat you to my version of a culinary dump file. These were the dishes that did not make the grade, or need re-visiting, or, in a case or two, literally exploded in my face (I’ll leave you guessing which ones).
