In a parallel world and a parallel life, I’m a shapeshifter who turns into a werewolf during full moons, during which I retire into a cave and hunt baby panda bears, fruit bats, and other delectables in bamboo forests.
Into this parallel world I retreat now, but decide to forego my prowl. My favorite bamboo forest is so far away anyway. I don’t think my hunt will be successful tonight. Instead, I’ll just get a great fire going in my cave hearth, make myself some nice and thick fruitbat stew, and be friendly to visitors who want to admire my kitchen. I’ve been meaning to post the recipe here. This seems a good time to do exactly that.
My ex-girlfriend M. and I started on the opposite side of the foodie fence when we began what others call “dating”. She was an exacting gourmet, and I was a slob. But we settled on a happy compromise apart from standard, home-cooked native Pinoy: we both liked Chinese. We made the rounds of cheap Chinatown restaurants in the sidestreets of Binondo-San Nicolas, Sta. Cruz and Quiapo, where to be a gourmet is to eat heartily with soupbowl slurps, chopstick ninja, endless pots of tea, sometimes a final steaming towelette. Plus take-home hopia or siopao.
A quick glimpse into the ambience of our favorite cafe, January 2014.
Like many other denizens of the metropolis in the early 1980s, and as a new couple adjusting to each other’s tastes, we also liked Max’s, Little Quiapo, Savory, Moderna, Ma Mon Luk and all that traditional stuff. We partook of them all occasionally, when we had money to spare. But we soon settled into regular budget haunts — many of them tiny holes in the wall or half-forgotten sleepy noodle houses a only a few of our acquaintances knew — where the waiters knew our tastes like Mama’s favorite Sunday lunch fare.
If you’ve been to Ramon Lee in Quiapo and Canada Cafe in Ongpin (are they still open?), you’ll know what I mean. Like I said, M. is proud of her cooking, and didn’t shirk from pointing out the merits and demerits of each dish. I, on the other hand, would grin and nod contentedly at the waiters, even burp and tap my full stomach in appreciation. Continue reading “Rainbow Café forever!”
When bloggers strain to write “something, anything,” we often presume they’re doing so for money or fame and viral glory. But no, it’s not that simple. Writers continuously chase their muse, as mountaineers climb their summit “because it’s there.” Sometimes they succeed, sometimes not.
Before blogging was invented, every aspiring writer’s journal—and wastebasket—was their private domain. Now blogs and email groups and Facebook posts are in the public realm, where one’s trash is another’s gem. You never can tell what diamonds you might find amid the muck.
Writing is breathing, even if it means jotting down a one-paragraph entry every day on a personal journal eked out from cheap notebooks of assorted sizes, accumulated from one year to the next.
