The Mighty Adobo

Every Filipino, by blood or birth, knows his adobo. Local culinary experts claim that adobo comes from our Spanish forebears who landed on Philippine
shores in the 1500s. It has since evolved into its present-day Fililpinized version, which is the heart and soul of traditional Filipino cuisine.

Lily Gamboa O’Boyle writes in Pacific Crossings (Acacia Corporation, 1994): “Adobo is considered the National Dish of the Philippines. This dish consists of chunks of chicken or pork or both cooked in soy sauce, vinegar, bay leaf, lots of garlic and whole peppercorns. The stew is allowed to cook until meats are tender and the remaining sauce is slightly thickened. Some people prefer their adobo dry, which may entail frying them afterwards, while others prefer them moist and served in their original sauce. As a style of cooking, it can be applied to fowl, shellfish and vegetables.”

Adobo is esteemed by all Filipinos, some more than others. The pinoy gourmand elevates his by substituting duck for chicken, while the minimum wager, whose adobo is de facto daily fare due to economic constraints, regards his with indifference. The health-conscious may insist on using free-range, organic chicken, while the poverty-stricken, apathetic eater, grateful to have something at all to fill his stomach with, enjoys his helping of chicken scraps and bones atop a mountain of steamed rice, smothered in adobo sauce just as well.

The socialite matron trains her maid to ladle her adobo using only Christofle silverware onto flawless Rosenthal china; while her trusty gardener quietly feasts on adobo, tomatoes and rice on a banged-up enamel plate, squatting in the dirty kitchen, ingesting mouthfuls with the graceful precision of his bare hands.

Malacanang occasionally includes adobo in its state breakfast repertoire, to the delight of visiting foreign dignitaries, while Aling Loleng’s carinderia around the corner dishes it out with a cup of rice and a finger of banana for twenty pesos a pop to the barangay tanods and the pinoy everyman.

Variations of the dish are about as diverse as the idiosyncrasies of every Filipino family, depending on its provenance, social class, and culinary persuasions. Most households remain steadfast in their adherence to the original chicken and pork, soy and vinegar recipe. The less queasy includes chicken heart, liver and gizzard. The sweet tooth adds sugar, which makes the stew an entirely different culinary experience. The Makati dona, who maintains a full kitchen staff, demands her adobo meats to be fried to a crisp, enhancing this already complex gustatory symphony with yet another dimension: texture. The Batangueno cooks his with vinegar alone and simmers the dish to veritable dryness, whence the meats have all but absorbed only the very essence of the vinegar. The innovative, fresh-out-of-culinary-school kitchen neophyte substitutes the sophisticated aceito balsamico for the de rigeur suka, only to eventually concede to the superior culinary merits of the native suka on Filipino cuisine. The copra farmer from Mindanao who lives for his mid-day cocktail, spikes his adobo with tuba (fermented coconut juice) to lessen his guilt over his alcohol intake with the it-doesn’t-count-as-liquor-if-not-ingested-as-a-drink mentality.

The Filipino never parts with his adobo. He lugs it with him to the ends of the earth. At any pinoy gathering abroad, be it on a beach, a picnic, a dinner party, or a civic function, the adobo is the center piece of the buffet, majestic in its stove-to-tabletop kaldero (cauldron). Chances are, right beside it, standing proud, would be its first cousin, the rice cooker.

One of the main reasons why this savory dish is widely cooked is because it does not require refrigeration; it is good to go anywhere at anytime. Its ingredients of vinegar, soy sauce, salt, and spices, act as natural preservatives so that it stays unspoiled for days at room temperature. In fact, the longer one keeps adobo, when all the flavours have completely blended together and have permeated deep into the meat fibers, the better it tastes.

In this country of 7,107 islands and 91 million people, who are regionalistic in sentiment and sensibility, who consider themselves Ilocano, Capampangan, Batangueno, or Cebuano first before being Filipino, and who speak 175 different native languages, the dish and the word—adobo—is the one consistent thing in the entire race. Be it the version of the northern mountains, the central plains, or the coastal south, the dish is still called adobo and whether it is kangkong (swamp cabbage), sitaw (string beans), pork belly, bangus (milk fish), tilapia, hito (catfish), bamboo shoots, prawns, squid, game meats, or crickets, it keeps its name. For a heterogeneous people separated by geography, language and subculture, adobo is the one unifying factor. It defines us; it burrows deep in our soul from the very first taste and we carry it in and with us for life.

But cooking adobo is not without its perils. The wafts of fermented vinegar from the pot as it hits boiling point, are unforgiving to the nostrils. The fumes from the vinegar and soy sauce emitted at length because of the required simmer period permeate the thickest of furniture upholsteries, drapes, carpets, clothing and hair, positioned within a fifty yard radius of the casserole. This aroma stays and is the dead giveaway of the homeowner’s nationality.

When preparing garlic for adobo, the peace-loving and laid-back, inner Juan Tamad in
the pinoy is transformed into a violent kitchen commando. He can never be content with
daintily peeling the garlic cloves with a paring knife and mincing it into neat little squares
of equal size as seen on the food network. Armed with mortar and pestle, he pounds the
garlic unto death, until the peel voluntarily separates from the pulp. He then pulverizes it
to smithereens and plunges it into a sizzling hot pot. Cursed is the sucker who is
burdened with this task for on his fingers will linger the offensive odor of macerated
garlic indefinitely. But the amount of effort one expends in the preparation of adobo, and the consequences involved are a pauper’s ransom compared to the bounty of pleasures one derives from the burst of flavours and play of textures in its every bite.

No matter his position in society, no matter his persuasions, and no matter his taste, there is no parting the Filipino from his adobo—every taste and every whiff of which is so uniquely Filipino and so utterly sublime.

The Best of Filipino Home Cooking

LZM restaurant, a Filipino lutong bahay specialty restaurant, recently opened its doors in Magallanes Square, Tagaytay City. LZM started as a backyard operation in the owner, Mrs. Zenaida Anciro's, home in Silang, Cavite eight years ago. Her scrumptious, authentic pinoy dishes have gained a loyal following through the years and the fruits of her labor have now given rise to a new branch right along Tagaytay’s Aguinaldo highway, right off the rotunda.

LZM stands for Luzviminda, Zenaida and Manolita, three sisters who opened a tiny eatery in the veranda of their home along the highway in Silang. Luzviminda Anciro, 68, the oldest and most skilled among the sisters in all matters culinary, is the heart and soul of this operation. Stories have it that she hardly left the kitchen in the eight years that LZM has been open in Silang, so she saw no need to change out of her duster, her everyday uniform. Until one day, when a table of appreciative customers clamored for her presence, she was forced to grace them tableside in her duster. The duster has since gained as much popularity as her cooking. Along with this, customers christened her with the moniker “Mommy” because of her maternal inclinations and her doting personality. Thus, the restaurant exudes a casual family atmosphere, where customers repeatedly come back as much for the good food as for the familiar, warm and welcoming ambience that comes with the dining experience reminiscent of one’s childhood.

Some say that her “magic” duster is the secret to her delicious dishes but she says it is the sangkap and the timpla—her trade secrets that make her concoctions stand out.

LZM is famous for its outsized bangus Dagupan, and by this I mean serving-platter sized, really huge and thick. The length of one open-faced bangus is over 12 inches and the thickness is never less than one inch, a good portion of it being the belly. “Talagang mataba,” as Mommy says. One fish is enough for a family of six and comes only at P220 per order. They serve their bangus in various ways: daing style, sinigang style, even sisig style. LZM is also well-known for its unadulterated bulalo at P280 with the broth simmered with beef bones for days in gargantuan cast iron vats. The chunks of meat are so tender that they crumble off the bone when pierced with a fork. The bulalo soup tureen is refillable so one can have one’s fill of this comforting broth. There is their chicharon bulaklak priced at P160 per huge platter and which everybody claims has a clean taste (no unappetizing aftertaste of innards). The secret, Mommy confides, is in the meticulous, multi-stage cleaning process.

The success of LZM has prompted a structural extension that ate into the back lot of the sisters’ property. The continued surge of clientele inspired Mommy to open up another branch, and this she has entrusted to her daughter Merle, who like mother, is a genius in the kitchen. LZM’s second branch now sits on the second floor of the Magallanes Square Building along Tagaytay’s Aguinaldo Highway. Merle Anciro Caliskisan, LZM’s charming second generation proprietor says in jest that although the restaurant is not along the ridge where one gets prime view of the volcano and the lake; she is unfazed. “Pag view ang hinahanap ng customer, doon sila sa kabila kakain pero pag ulam na masarap and hanap, dito sila sa amin kahit na walang view.”

Mommy visits both restaurants everyday but Merle is quick to add that she changes from her legendary duster when she visits the Tagaytay branch. Mommy still cooks and overseas all operations and goes to market with Merle day in, day out.

If you are only driving through Tagaytay and do not have the luxury of time to dine in the restaurant you can just their ready-to-cook bangus Dagupan and enjoy it at home at your leisure. If you are staying within the area, LZM will deliver to your door step.

Other must-try dishes at LZM are the bulalo steak at P220; the sisig, a personal favorite at P150. The kare-kare at P270, peanutty, thick and just heavenly and the boullabaise soup at P190 are house specialties. Their sweet and sour lapu-lapu, P270 and crispy pata P270 are totally irresistible. Forget your diets when you find yourselves at LZM. Be prepared to be thrown back to your childhood of comfort food and of familiar lingering kitchen aromas with LZM’s excellent home cooking and the doting presence of Mommy, Merle and their staff.

LZM is on the 2nd floor of Magallanes Square, Aguinaldo Highway corner Magallanes Drive, Tagaytay City. Tel. no. (46) 413-4593. Cell phone no. (0918) 368-7947

The Best Hotel Beds in the Philippines

What else haven’t you heard about The Shangri-la Mactan Island Resort and Spa? That it is a paradise resort on a paradise island? That it looks out into the vast, aquamarine, Visayan sea? That it had recently completed a three-year major renovation program on its 547 rooms and suites? That the resort now features cutting-edge design and sleek modern furniture? That its Chi Spa village offers the ultimate in spa experiences? That their newest landmark, the Marquee, a multi-function tent has raised special occasions to a higher bar and an even grander scale? That is has been repeatedly recognized as the top three of Asia’s leisure and resort destinations and is a three-time winner of Time Magazines’s Readers’ Choice Awards? We know all that. Just by looking at photos of the Shangri-la Mactan Resort we clearly see how breathtaking it is. But there are some things that one might never find out unless one lives the experience. Here’s letting you in on a few secrets about it.

I have not had as restful a night’s sleep prior to flying down South. But there was something about their bed, the pillows, the linen, which just had me feeling like I was swathed in layers of clouds. I couldn’t get up in the morning; didn’t want to. I wasn’t willing to shed off the cocoon of comfort that the sheets and the bed provided. But then like all good things…

And so I bounded out and kicked off the sheets because I just had to see for myself what was underneath all that. I stripped the mattress of its linen and investigated the brand to figure out the source of all that comfort. It was not a regular run-of-the-mill bed. It was a Simmons orthopedic bed and they have this same top-of-the-line set-up for each of their 547 rooms and suites. And it doesn’t end there. On top of the mattress are three, yes, three, layers of mattress pads that are down-filled. It is these that give that extra-luxurious feel to the supine body at rest. It also must be noted that their all-white cotton sheets have 800 thread-count, which means that there are 800 all-cotton threads per square inch of fabric. When these sheets are rinsed in their laundry system, the staff uses a special rinsing process which neutralizes the fabric texture to match the PH balance of the human skin, which is 6.5. This process is tested every week to make sure that the 6.5 balance is consistent and maintained.

The feel of the bed, the mattress pads and the linen is comparable, truly amazing to the ones in Raffles hotel in Singapore and at the Ritz Carlton in Boston. It is with much pride then, that in our very own Philippines we have this as well.

Now the pillows are quite tricky to describe because words won’t do them justice. They are both firm and supple. They are filled with 50% goose down and 50% feather so they conform to the natural contours of the body. They cradle the curves of the head and the neck and remain firm when a certain position is held over a period of time. They have hypoallergenic fiber-fill or buckwheat ones for those with allergies.

And the bath and hand towels are just as posh with a decadent feel to it. The 100% terry cotton looped threads are thick and soft and as you wrap yourself in a towel you feel as though you were enveloped in a bear hug.

One other remarkable item in Shangri-la Mactan’s arsenal of luxurious linens is the Chi Spa’s Kashwere robe, which is exclusive to them—I’m sure it is available at the EDSA Shang branch as well. The robe feels like panels of marshmallows but is surprisingly very absorbent. It is made of 100% polysynthetic Kashwere microfibre that has been patented by its manufacturers because of its exact same feel as natural cashmere. The advantage of Kashwere is that it is machine washable. It doesn’t shrink nor wrinkle, in fact it is best tumble dried because the fabric reacts to heat in a way that makes it revert to its original softness. The Chi robe feels exactly like the famed Loro Piana 100% cashmere robe but which costs ten times as much. So for the ultimate in luxury linen, there is Chi’s Kashwere robe—only you will know it’s not cashmere. It was too good I had to get one for myself. Try it.

Putting your life in the hands of a man

I had just gotten back a few hours ago from the now world-famous and much-talked about adventure vacation package in Tuguegarao, Cagayan. It involved two days of kayaking and white water rafting in the Pinacanauan and Chico Rivers. I went with a group of friends—all middle-aged city folk—to celebrate the birthday of our dear friend, the godfather of white-water rafting vacation packages in the country, Anton Carag.

The weather was far from ideal. The rains were relentless. But we proceeded as planned because our guides, Anton with Argel Gerale and Herbert Perez--seasoned river denizens, who have been doing this for decades and have shepherded hundreds of clients to safety--are the best there is. They were trained by American and Australian experts not only in kayaking, river rafting, and caving, but also in rescue operations and first aid.

The river had swollen to hostile heights (five meters higher than usual); the current, raging and unforgiving with class 3+ rapids. But we all came out of it in one piece—yes, drenched, spent, and yet triumphant and exhilarated, all because we surrendered ourselves to these men. Yes, Argel and Herbert were total strangers but when you choose to put your life in the hands of another man, nothing else matters except your complete trust in him and your unconditional cooperation.

There were many moments as we hit gargantuan rapids when I felt that I was definitely going to be thrown off the raft and that the river would swallow me alive. But Argel, the river guide, was at all times in supreme control, barking precise orders. And so again, because I kept my mouth firmly shut during the pre-rafting clinic, paid full attention during the run, and most importantly obeyed every word without question despite the gnawing urge to interrupt and drop in my two-cents worth of womanly nonsense to do otherwise as my instincts dictated, I lived to tell, yet again. As I trudged to base camp after the three-hour feat I asked myself, “Why the hell did I go into the river?” The answer that immediately popped into my brain was, to borrow from British mountaineer George Mallory when he was asked why he wanted to climb Mt. Everest in 1924, “Because it’s there.”

Yeah, yeah, sure. How unlike me, you say, to relinquish control with absolutely no resistance to them pseudo-Nazi supremacists; these members of THE opposite sex that we always gossip about, but it was the most fun I’ve had in my life, along with skydiving, of course. The excitement of facing the unknown, the adrenalin rush during the run, the self-satisfaction of completing a daunting task, and the memories that are yours to keep and take to your grave is the priceless, inalienable, irreplaceable bounty your reap from all these.

So friends, when you put your life in the hands of another man, shut up, listen hard, and do everything he tells you!

Yaya Nation

We live in the land of yayas. For heaven’s sake, our biggest export product and biggest commodity dollar earner are our OFW’s—baby sitters and caregivers who abandon all in the home country for the opportunity to care for foreigners and their children in faraway lands.
It is an integral part of our culture—our family set-up—these yayas, whom we employ to care for our children. Why, one might ask? Because of tradition. Because we have proven to ourselves over time that we, Filipinos are inherently nurturing. Because as a people we love children and enjoy being among them. Most of all, because of economics; labor is dirt cheap in this part of the world so, of course, we take advantage of it. Parents buy their freedom from bondage to crib-side duties by employing full-time, stay-in yayas and go on to live full lives, hands-free, if you will.
I attended my brilliant colleague’s, RJ Ledesma’s book launch recently. His book, Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me, had turned best seller overnight because of how much it rings true in the life of every Filipino Man, who at some point or other, was raised by a female caregiver other his own mother. Show me someone who wasn’t and chances are he grew up abroad.
Foreigners unacquainted with Filipino culture balk at this practice and ask unabashedly, “If you don’t want other people handling your top-of-the-line computers or your astronomically-priced exotic cars, why leave your child in the care of a yaya?” Well, because we can and because we do. So there; deal with it. We don’t leave them in day care centers with 20 or 30 other children; they remain in the comfort and safety of our own homes with yayas we trust.
But are there repercussions to this yaya syndrome? Absolutely! My brothers, up until sixth grade, had to be dressed for school at the crack of dawn by Manang Lita, our beloved yaya. They would still be snoring in their beds, oblivious to the manhandling Manang Lita did to them as she lifted each of their feet, pulled socks over them, shod them and then released them to loud thuds on the floor. They would be led zombie-like into the bathroom, coaxed to open their mouths, and assisted in brushings their teeth. Most of the time, Manang Lita had had to land a good karate chop on their backs to prevent them from lazily swallowing the gargled water swirling around their mouths. She then proceeded to take them to school along with the driver in the car, lugged their school bags all the way into their classrooms until they were firmly deposited onto their chairs. She would then go back home only to return at lunch time bearing their lunch pails with their freshly-cooked, piping-hot baon inside. My youngest brother especially needed her tireless exhortation of “Sige na, one more subo,” because of the finicky eater that he was, who constantly thought that eating was an awful waste of playtime. After this lunchtime saga, Manang Lita would slide hand-sewn, bird’s eye cloth diapers behind their backs to absorb the anticipated sweat that would trickle down as soon they started running around. She would then wait around until school finished in the early afternoon and then succumbed to their bullying of making her copy their homework off of the blackboard the moment the teachers’ backs were turned. Would you call this devotion or plain and simple idiocy? Sure, she was fiercely loved by everyone in the family and she loved us all back. She remained a spinster all her life subsisting only on the affection of her wards. Like any mother would, she devoted her life to these boys.
And what of this, you ask? My brothers grew up expecting many things of women who cross their lives. Thank heavens they found wonderful, empowered women who are not fazed by these antics borne out of being spoiled by a yaya. Yes, they are indulged most of the time by their wives, as fortune would have it, but can you imagine if the situation were completely different, if they had married less tolerant, less understanding, less generous women? A Shakespearian tragedy is the visual I have in mind.
An Aunt of mine, centennial in age and outlook, someone not much enlightened by the ways of the post-modern world, always says, “The worst thing that can happen to a Filipino man is to marry a foreigner because they are not maserbisyo. How can they ever understand that our men all grew up with yayas and mothers who cater to all their needs?” The inverse of which has grown into urban legend proportions—the stereotype of the subservient, docile Filipina that foreign men from all over the world clamor for—you know, that stuff of mail-order brides.
Still, a loving, patient, faithful yaya is a gift. And those who have the intelligence and the diligence to impart nuggets of wisdom to their wards, those who go above and beyond the call of duty by mentally engaging with the children via reading or similar educational pursuits, those who establish emotional bonds with whom they care for, are simply manna from heaven. A yaya helps unburden any mother of a 24/7 shift of non-stop caring for energy-pumped youngsters. The stress, the fatigue, the harassment of single-handedly raising a child is divided among the care-givers, which is indeed, a priceless privilege. Filipino men, fortunate enough to have experienced such from their yayas, learn of unconditional love early on and are automatically afforded an advantage in their future relationships and parenting skills. True, they learn much later in life than their foreign counterparts to be independent, self-sufficient, and resourceful, but isn’t there a down side to just about everything? And what of those who had horrific experiences with their yayas? Well, that’s a totally different story.
I met RJ’s yaya in person, Yaya Cora Malino, and she was as I had expected her to be all along from RJ’s anecdotes—mild-mannered and personable. She remains in RJ’s family, now caring for RJ’s sister’s baby. She says RJ still drops in on them everyday at his sister’s house. I asked if RJ was a difficult boy, “Not at all,” she fondly recalled. “Talagang mabait at bright, malikot lang.” “Talaga yaya?” I had to reconfirm. “Ay, super!”
Well judging from how my brothers— my closest friends and staunchest sallies in the whole world —have turned out; and how RJ has turned out—a high-achieving, multi-tasking, loyal-to-Vanessa man (daw); a loving son; a faithful friend; and a laugh-out-loud humorist, could you ever say that being raised by a yaya is a bad thing?
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Lies My Yaya Should Have Told Me by RJ Ledesma is available at all National Bookstore outlets.