FN Blog - Seven heads are better than one!

Asking a foodie to pick a favorite Pinoy dish is just plain unfair. That would be like imposing monogamy on a 16-year-old guy…after shipping him off to the The Playboy Mansion. It simply can’t be done. But a gauntlet has been thrown and one must simply step up. Plus I’d like to think I have more evolved faculties than the walking hormonal landmine that is every 16-year-old male.

And so with a heavy heart, I called to memory all my beloved homegrown eats, subjecting them to a cruel showdown in my head with such banal dog-eat-dog savagery second only to the power bulemics on America’s Next Top Model. There was kare-kare thickened with only the lardiest Ludy’s peanut butter, Visayan-style kinilaw with gata and chopped nuts, humbâ (Region 7’s toyo-free version of the classic adobo made from morsels of pork hand-rubbed with salt, pepper, and spices, slow-cooked to shreddable tenderness in its own fat), all the possible permutations of sinigang (na baboy, na manok, na baka, na hipon, sa miso, sa kamias, sa sampaloc, sa ibâ, sa Knorr Sinigang Mix!), inihaw na talong ensalada with gata and minced tomatoes and onions, the simple yet savory fried tilapia with a siding of chopped red eggs, minced onions, and tomatoes, bagnet with sukang buro…

I haven’t even gotten into merienda yet and already there’s a mad brawl on the culinary catwalk.

There’s Ateneo’s inihaw, U.P. Diliman’s fish balls, just-made suman and tsokolate, Via Mare’s bibingka with kesong puti and choco fudge, my cousin-in-law’s biko with molten dark chocolate on top, pako salad with homemade kesong puti, the-real-deal pancit molo with toasted garlic, Lola Idang’s authentic Pancit Malabon (yeah, with the fat noodles, as opposed to palabok’s sotanghon-like fare), Razon’s simplified halo-halo (just minatamis na saging, macapuno, leche flan, lots of ice and lots of milk), my late lola’s leche flan (not the death-by-umay kind served in cafeterias, think a cross between crème brulée and pana cotta, and just a bit more firm), my mom’s yemma balls (no crystalized sugar coating, just honest to goodness malinamnam dairy richness), and my tita’s moist, you’ll-never-believe-it’s-cassava-cake cassava cake.

I haven’t even reached half of the top of my list, yet I have to pick one. And so I do. One may never guess, but the one Pinoy edible that has endeared itself to me most won’t be found in any of the gastronomic muses mentioned above—I choose the lowly pandesal. Comfort food it is…but unimaginative it definitely ain’t. Its simplicity makes it the most versatile food item this side of the tropics, bar none, enjoyed by both the hoi polloi and the jet set.

Pandesal, dip it in diluted coffee or extra virgin olive oil with balsamic vinegar—call it a social equalizer in a bun. Photo nicked off flickr.com/photos/santos.

I recall how our lavandera’s merienda consisted of dipping the doughy treat into a Blend 45 tumbler filled with the warm and sweet swill of too much water, too much sugar, just enough evap, and way too little coffee. (At a time where Starbucks wasn’t even a notion and the only way to have brewed coffee at home was to get one “Stateside” and plug it into a transformer, everyone knew that Blend 45 was the proletariat’s choice while the moderately sosyal drank Nescafe).

Pandesal con kape, Juan dela Cruz’s merienda of choice—mine, too! Photo nicked off freefoto.com.

Meanwhile, a five-star hotel will charge you 600 bucks for a Tea Time set of either tea or coffee and open-faced palms of freshly toasted pandesal gourmetized by a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, herbed feta cheese, plump black olives, sun dried tomatoes, and a modest smattering of only the finest politically incorrect black caviar (the kind that’ll get you stabbed by any card-carrying PETA-member—with a twig, most likely).

As a student living off a dwindled down allowance by the end of the week, a medium brown bag of pandesal and a can of 555 sardines in tomato sauce would last me more than three meals at my dorm. When friends would drop by unannounced, I’d opt for the economical yet Epicurean route instead of dialing for pizza delivery, popping into the oven toaster a few sliced pieces of that morning’s leftover pandesal topped with thick Camembert slabs, tomato wedges, and garlic. When toasted, cubed, and seasoned, stale pandesal can be reincarnated as a stand-in for salad croutons. Now well into my adulthood, pandesal and just about anything edible and microwaveable has served me well during post-inebriation munchies, or during nights I come home from a long day, on the verge of another ulcer attack, but too tired to have to cook anything.

However, I choose this shamelessly unsophisticated baked good not only because it is a great social equalizer, not only because it is the ultimate meal when one is ultimately broke, not only because it requires all the kitchen skills of a toddler to prepare, and definitely not because of any sense of culinary exotica. Pandesal will always be my homegrown fave because it evokes all sorts of memories.

When I was around 6, during those afternoons our lavandera would share her modest grub with me, I felt like a grownup doing as the elders did, “having coffee” with my pandesal, the sweet and milky taste gradually enabling my palate to acquire appreciation for coffee’s fuller flavor. Yes, my honed fondness for Blue Mountain arabica brews was born in a Blend 45 tumbler.

For the record, I was born way after these bottles were still in circulation…I just took advantage of the trippy antiquated stuff you stumble upon on a Google image search. Photo nicked off diamoncokecans.com

As a 12-year-old enjoying the novelty of staying out past curfew whenever I’d spend summer in Dumaguete with my older cousins, traditional midnight snack runs entailed chipping in all the loose change in our pockets, then visiting the bakery at 2 in the morning for a dozen from a newly baked first batch. Our convoy of motorcycles would then head out to a nearby fishing village, where we’d settle ourselves on the sand beside a rundown bangka facing the water. We didn’t have palaman, but the bread was warm and fresh, and we all washed it down with a shared bottle of ice cold Coke litro. Up to this day, this meager snack enjoyed with cousins, over tales about crushes and truth or dare and tips on how to French-kiss and all forms of small-town chismis, remains to be one of the best meals I’ve ever had. I still spend summers with my cousins, but we’re all grown-up now; most of them have their own families, and we can all afford more decent fare…it’s a sad day when you can finally swipe your credit card for a steak and gravy meal, to have outgrown, completely against your will, that age of innocence where pandesal and Coke litros at 2 in the morning made for a king’s banquet.

When I take a spoonful of kare-kare prepared by a Michelin-trained chef, I remember good food. When I take a bite of pandesal fresh out of my Aiwa-manufactured toaster, I remember great stories.