Foodfest in Baguio

I went to Baguio last Friday with my sister Alma and 2 friends from our book club, Czar and Marie--- all gormandizers. Not even an hour after getting off the bus, we went in search of merienda. We had lumpiang shanghai, each roll the size of a baby's forearm, steaming bowls of arroz caldo with big chunks of chicken, a tureen of pancit molo soup, plates of tokwa't baboy, laing and rice to quell our ravenous cravings. Green tea flavored melon seeds sustained us until our next modest meal of chapati and hummus, downed with cups of strong coffee. Looking back, it seemed that all our thoughts were of food. We made plans for the next day: breakfast somewhere close to the hotel, lunch at Oh My Gulay along Session Road, merienda at O' Mai Khan across Burnham Park and, anticipating that we'd still be full come dinnertime, beer at Chill Out Bar later in the evening, where we can order rice if the pulutan did not suffice. Having decided on those, we mapped out our itinerary and arranged trips to Tam-Awan Village, the strawberry fields, the Good Shepherd convent and the market around the foodfests, figuring out the least circuitous routes. Later in the evening, we headed for Chill Out Bar earlier than we had planned, because we were all hungry so soon. We ended up with two platters of delicious isaw, barbecue, french fries, grilled tuna, half a buttered chicken and two buckets of beer. Gluttony got the better of us, causing us to forget that we were there primarily to drink and we had to--- short of physically--- restrain Czar from guzzling up all the vinegar (the pulutan, after all, tasted infinitely better with vinegar than beer) on the table and point out to him the right bottle to hit. Satiated rather than drunk, sloshed with cholesterol rather than alcohol, we went back to the hotel only to emerge minutes later craving for coffee. It was Czar's bright idea to make a dash for it at 11:40 p.m. because Starbucks, though it was within walking distance, took last orders at midnight. And dash we did, at least for the first minute; we discovered that we couldn't keep up the pace, and definitely not uphill. We egged Marie on, because she had the longest pair of legs in the group, and we theorized that what ground she could cover in a single stride took us three. Fortunately, she made it in time but, not knowing our coffee preferences, had to stall the barista until we came in. I got there next, sweating profusely despite the chilly night air, gripping the counter for balance because I didn't trust my knees. Ate Alma followed, dragging in a breathless Czar who had attached himself to her bag. Luckily, the baristas had exemplary communication skills--- they were fluent in the local dialect, Filipino, English as well as sign language--- the latter being the only manner by which we could place our orders. We spent the first few minutes at our table waiting for our lungs to regenerate. Czar broke the silence by commenting that Ate Alma turns a pretty shade of pink when exhausted, to which she replied succinctly, breathlessly and laced with disdain: "High blood." I think it was all that isaw...

Oh My Gulay

Walking down Session Road, I was distracted from the items on display at the ukay-ukay stalls that seem to proliferate in Baguio by an interesting work of art at my feet. The length of the side walk was made up of rows and columns of tiny squares the color of old clay pots chafed by pedestrian activity and soused in the early afternoon rain. Right at the heart of it was a mosaic made conspicuous because the pieces were slick, almost liquid, amid the drab clay-pot tiles. My friends and I entered the building that claimed it, passing over the restaurants and other businesses that seemed incongruent to the artwork out front. I climbed up until my knees threatened to give out, and came face-to-face with a gallery/restaurant that promised even more brilliant creations than the heart of the sidewalk. Although I was expecting a name with more drama than "Oh My Gulay"--- it struck me as being too tacky--- I concede that at the very least it is appropriate, because the restaurant served no meat. Despite being a meat-eater, I was excited to see what the menu could offer that would satisfy my hunger. There weren't too many choices--- a few appetizers, pasta dishes, sandwiches and desserts--- but it was still difficult to choose because they all sounded (the pictures were not appetizing in the least) delicious. Well, maybe with the exception of the OMG salad which was described as having "assorted market vegetables".

My friends and I finally decided on anak ng puttanesca, pasta prima donna, talong parmigiana and the OMG salad. Of the four, my hands-down favorite would be the talong parmigiana. It's an open-faced sandwich served in a big, shallow bowl, with perfectly-grilled slices of eggplant on top of crusty bread, bathed in sweet tomato sauce and a sprinkling of herbs and cheese. It was a generous enough serving, filling in spite of the absence of meat and my customary cup (or two) of rice. The "assorted market vegetables" of the salad were crisp and cool to the palate; the mustard and herb vinaigrette in tart contrast to the subtle sweetness of the fresh salad greens. Though the pasta prima donna was served in meager portions, it looked delicious and tasted even better. The pasta was the color of sunshine, clean and pure with a liberal dusting of parmesan and tossed with golden young corn, cauliflower, baguio beans, bell peppers, onions and, I'm guessing, some parsley.

We tackled our food with implacable relish, coming up for air only to marvel at the breathtaking view of Baguio in a shroud of rain and to glance, surprised, at various sculptures throughout that were hardly noticeable because they seemed to blend homogeneously with the interior. We walked around the gallery after lunch, but the room which housed the pieces that were supposedly for sale was empty. There were steps made of thick, asymmetrical slabs of wood that led from one mezzanine level to another, with the longest flight connecting the topmost level to the ground floor in a serpentine fashion. All the levels were designed to have a good view of the stage on the first floor, where musicians were setting up their instruments presumably to give customers a treat later in the day. Adjacent to the stage was a small pond with a bridge traversing its breadth. There were plants surrounding it, providing a softer, more natural-looking niche for a pond that, in different circumstances, would have looked out of place in a building of hard rock and aged wood.

On the whole, the spectacular view from the terrace, the whimsical design of the interior, the ambrosial menu offerings complemented by the chilly air and laid-back charm that is the city's trademark are compelling reasons to pack your bags and take that 6-hour trip up to Baguio for a little taste of heaven.

food thoughts

This month, my book club is going gourmand, with the theme Philippine food and culture. We're supposed to read a book about food, but not to confuse it with a cookbook. It took me a while to pick out what to read because I was on a budget, I didn't want to spend on a title I wasn't sure I'd enjoy, and because 4 out of 5 food books in the bookstores ARE cookbooks. After browsing through shelves and shelves of books and salivating over more than a few cover photos, I finally settled on Tikim , a collection of essays on, serendipitously--- Philippine food and culture--- by Doreen G. Fernandez. It proved to be a very interesting read. Her essays on the durian farms of Davao, on Philippine wines, on shrimps in Manobo folktales and as part of our culture, on haute and indigenous cuisine, and on the influence of flavors of foreign origin on Philippine cooking are as entertaining as they are informative. Her descriptions of the typical Filipino kitchen, of the centerpiece on a fiesta table, of noche buena traditions, and of dipping sauces or sawsawan evoke nostalgia, filling me with vivid memories of past Christmases, ambrosial tastes and smells, shared experiences with loved ones while preparing to cook a meal...
I only just realized that a lot of my childhood memories revolve around food. We used to live in a house with a spacious yard littered with plants and trees of different kinds. We had roses, orchids, santan, calachuchi, poinsettia, sampaguita, ylang-ylang and other plants I can no longer identify. Throughout the year, the garden yielded papaya, langka, dayap, macopa, chesa, coconut, starapple, mulberry, kamias, guava, tanglad and siling labuyo. The most assiduous in producing were the coconut trees in the front yard, and it really is the Tree of Life. I learned how to be handy with a knife very early on because I was tasked to trim the leafy part off the twigs of a huge palapa to make walis-tingting. The coconut shells were left to dry in the sun, and later used to feed fire or as parikit when grilling. When the fruits were in abundance, my mother went wild with gata, cooking anything whose recipe called for it: kalamay, cassava, guinataang halo-halo, kanduli with gata, guinataang kalabasa and sitaw,guinataang mais or monggo, puto maya cooked in gata and topped with shredded coconut and sugar just before serving, biko, adobo sa gata, and creamy pastillas you scoop out of a jar.Though I sometimes hated being asked to help out in the kitchen, especially when I would rather be reading or doodling away quietly in one corner, I generally enjoyed riding the small kabayo to grate the coconuts. It made me feel special, as if the kabayo contraption had been designed for me, being just the right size for a child. It was tedious work to squeeze milk out of the grated coconut flesh: my 8-year old force wasn't strong enough. But when I managed to coax out the thick, creamy liquid, the feeling of triumph was unparalleled. When my mother extracted oil from the coconut milk over low fire, I loved the smell until the latik
started to form. At that point, it gave off such a strong fragrance that stuck to the walls of the house--- though not really unpleasant, it smelled thick and hot and oily and invasive--- that I had to resist the urge to gag. I've since learned to love latik, especially on sapin-sapin and biko, but the fragrance still affects me; more out of memory than its actual smell.

My sister told me that most of her memories are associated with smells: the pungency of newly-cut grass, the smell the parched earth exuded when it drizzles, oil of wintergreen on an aching body part, my lola's signature scent which Ate Alma remembers as a mingling of fresh laundry and Ivory soap. Most of my own are kitchen smells. When, unexpectedly, a familiar kitchen smell wafts through the air and beckons--- I succumb, and return to the time when life was simple and without care, food was uncomplicated and nourishing, and I was young and contented.

Wicked Food

Wicked Kitchen is a cozy little restaurant in Quezon City. It's very homey; with a large chunk of the first floor taken up by the kitchen, making you wonder if someone's grandmother is back there whipping up dinner. The second floor is more spacious, and there are 3 more small tables on the veranda, where it's surprisingly cool even on these summer nights.

Wicked Kitchen offers a tasty selection of sandwiches, pasta, rice meals and bar chow to accompany their different beers, wines and cocktails. Though I'm not a big fan of green mangoes, the first meal I ever had there was the Crunchy Bagoong Rice (which is served with just that). The polite waiter, RJ, managed to convince me that I'd love it despite my aversion to all things sour. And love it I did. The dish is served in an interesting bowl tilted at an angle that shows off the immaculate jasmine rice topped with crunchy liempo bits sauteed in delicious bagoong, with slivers of green chili adding a welcome kick. The addition of green mango strips complements the salty-sweet flavor of the bagoong, making it all the more mouth-watering. The shock of red from the single siling labuyo is thrown in for good measure, to add contrast in color and to entice you to a more wicked dining experience. The meal was sooo good I had to order extra rice even if I was already a bit full, because such good food --- even just the liempo and green chili stragglers --- should not go to waste. Another favorite of mine is the sisig which, unlike in other restaurants, is not swimming in oil on a sizzling plate. It has the perfect balance of salty and spicy. I also appreciate the fact that they cook their egg first rather than break it raw on the meat to cook in its heat, which oftentimes leaves you with a half-cooked egg (I generally like my food cooked because I believe I've evolved since the Stone Age).

The restaurant also offers desserts named after the 7 Deadly Sins --- my top 2 (coined most appropriately) being Lust and Gluttony. Lust is actually rich chocolate fondue with fresh fruits, marshmallows and tiny cakes in perfect bite sizes meant for the average human mouth, allowing you to savor the marriage of fruit/marshmallow/cake and chocolate on your tongue without gorging you from teeth to tonsils, rendering you speechless and temporarily asphyxiated. The latter is the classic chocolate cookie ala mode, except that their cookie is really warm when served, fresh and fragrant from the oven. It comes single or for sharing. Now here's the thing. The picture on the menu is not to scale so I wasn't really sure how big or small the serving sizes were, so I ordered a single, hoping it would be enough to satisfy my sweet tooth. I thought the waiter must have misunderstood because he presented me with a huge cookie (topped with a generous scoop of mantecado ice cream, whipped cream and chocolate sauce) that I was positive nobody with a single stomach AND having just had dinner could finish. Then I glimpsed at the Gluttony meant for sharing being brought to another table --- it was roughly the diameter of a frisbee, but thicker. That's one huge cookie. Having confirmed that my gluttony was meant for one, I summoned the glutton in me and relished bite after sinful bite while, across the street from the ABS-CBN compound, a Fitness First sign beckoned in vain...

(For those who can put off their diet 'til tomorrow, Wicked kitchen is at 143 Mother Ignacia Ave., South Triangle, QC.)