When the Elephants Dance

Posted on 17 November 2012 by sheg4184

It is the last weeks of World War II in the Pacific. Food is scarce, ordinary Filipinos are forced to scavenge or starve, and many have gone into hiding: in caves in the mountains; deep in the jungles, or simply underground into cellars and basements amongst the ruins of Manila.

‘When the Elephants Dance’ is a fascinating and powerful  first novel from Filipino-American author Tess Uriza Holthe, inspired by the stories of her father’s experiences during the Second World War.

It is a treasure trove of tales from a disparate group of neighbours gathered together for safety in the basement of a house on the outskirts of Manila in the final days of World War II. Over their heads, war is being waged amongst the clouds between the Americans and the Japanese for possession of the Philippines, during which the Filipinos would pay a huge toll in homes and human life.

The title comes from the saying, ‘when the elephants dance, the chickens must be careful,’ and the image is clear: the Filipinos must run for cover from the carelessly trampling feet of the international powers of Japan and the United States.

‘When the Elephants Dance’ is a tapestry of Filipino history and language, woven together with myths and local culture. It is a study of war and human nature in all its shades: love and respect, intolerance and hatred, selfishness and selflessness. It is a nonjudgmental acknowledgement that where some find courage, others find only terror. Yet, somehow, amongst all the horrors and degradations of war, there remains a tiny teaspoon hope, a little magic, and a way to survive.

For me, it bore a strong resemblance to Anne Frank’s Diary (the remarkable story of Jews hiding from the Nazis in a factory attic in Amsterdam) as sundry victims of war attempt to survive the holocaust raging through Manila, and their struggle to maintain a semblance of humanity and morality under unimaginable pressure. It is a challenging, often horrific tale of war and yet, at the same time, a tale of man overcoming extremities against all odds.

This is a brilliant, often distressing book that will give you an entirely new perspective on the Philippines, its history and its people.

*As published in Newsflash, the magazine for the ADBSA.

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From Paddock to Plate

Posted on 10 November 2012 by sheg4184

Sandra Lyn Hataway is a graduate from Le Cordon Bleu in Texas and a devotee of both Slow Food USA and iconic restaurateur Alice Waters. Slow Food proclaims it is redressing the balance of our fast food life by preserving traditional cuisines. Aiming to educate Filipinos about the Slow Food Movement, Chef Sandra opened a restaurant last year called Tourné.

The restaurant was named for the tournée cut, a challenging cut for any aspiring chef that even requires a special knife, the bird’s beak, to shape the vegetable (squash, potato, carrot) into a seven-sided oblong, not unlike a rugby ball. It is a shape as challenging to achieve as Slow Food success in Manila, renowned for its fast food restaurant chains and huge reliance on imported food products.

Tourné opened early in 2011 down at the Strip in Fort Bonifacio. The exterior was painted an eye-catching blue, and the interior continued the light, bright blue theme, with checked gingham tablecloths giving the place a touch of the French farm kitchen. Alice Waters is quoted in huge, brightly coloured paints on the wall:

“If you have the best and tastiest ingredients, you can cook very simply and the food will be extraordinary because it tastes like what it is.”

Chef Sandra subscribes to this theory in practice, by always using fresh, sustainable, locally grown, products. The kitchen at Tourné was open to the view of diners, and Chef Sandra was just as open in her personal approach to customers, by being seen as often in the dining room as behind the stove.

On December 10, 2011, Chef Sandra arranged a special brunch for Terra Madre Day, the worldwide celebration of the Slow Food Movement . The restaurant got good reviews for its inspirational approach, but unfortunately there were a lot of teething problems. Less than three  months later, Tourné had closed. When I asked what had happened, Sandra Lyn laughed wryly.

“I found I could not be a humanitarian and a business woman at same time!” Amongst other issues, a lot of her staff members were kids she had taken in off the street, who had little idea about service or waiting tables, but she was loath to fire them.

Her humanitarian approach extends to the education of her countrymen and women. It is a big step from the realms of American style fast food chains and imported products into the land of slow food and local ingredients.

“A lot of people thought I was crazy,” she told me, “but a lot would come back for favourites.”

If Slow food is about preserving traditional cooking methods and cuisines, did that allow her any room for innovation? I asked her. Definitely, she confirmed, explaining that she uses traditional methods of preparation and serving, but with an innovative use of favourite staple vegetables. The difficulty with serving traditional cuisine in Manila is a problem probably unique to the Philippines, whose cuisine is based on home cooking. “How can I make adobo, and suggest it is better than the one their mother makes?”

Other restaurateurs and chefs are picking up the baton, but this has created a Catch 22. The enthusiasm for organic ingredients is spreading faster than the suppliers can provide the produce.

And is it too much too soon? Perhaps the Philippines, still dealing with major issues about food security, not to mention the culinary cringe that has arisen from over four hundred years of colonization, is not ready for such a revolution yet?

Chef Sandra  outlines the need to educate consumers as a critical part of changing consumption patterns. She is determined to educate Filipinos to be more than wannabe Americans and is a firm advocate for the theory ‘eat who you are.’ She also asserts that national cuisine doesn’t have to be made from imported ingredients to be good.

Her menus reflect this, in her use of fresh indigenous produce over imported ingredients, which she claims, change the flavour of traditional dishes. “It’s more important that it [food] is served fresh and without any preservatives, all homemade,” stresses Chef Sandra. “We want to support all the local farmers and fisheries. All our ingredients are 100% local.” And “don’t panic, it’s organic…even the worms” she says of her latest catering venture.

“We need to start from the ground up,” she says about education, and, like Stephanie Alexander before her, is planning to create indigenous gardens in barangays and urban schools in order to show children how to grow their own food.Yet, while the kids are being pin-pointed, many small producers, as well as consumers, do not fully understand the terminology.

She tells a story about visiting a regional market where one stall holder had painted a sign proclaiming that his pork was organic. When asked what he meant by organic, the man replied proudly, “it’s oven-baked ma’am.”

This anecdote, while amusing, illustrates a problem recognized by many entrepreneurs interested in changing the direction of Filipino foodways, from processed and imported back to regional and organic, but as Chef Sandra says optimistically: “It has to start somewhere!”

* Excerpt from paper: “Regional food producers: the challenges of changing the shape of Filipino foodways, presented at the LCB Region Food Cultures and Networks Conference 2012.

 

 

 

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Lazy Susan

Posted on 5 November 2012 by sheg4184

‘One may often find round a single table all the modifications which extreme sociability has introduced into our midst: love, friendship, business, speculation, influence, solicitation, patronage, ambition, intrigue; that is why conviviality affects every aspect of human life, and bears fruits of every flavour ‘- Brillat-Savarin

Last week our Lazy Susan was delivered. I was ecstatic. It had taken almost 20 years of married life to persuade my One & Only to forego the joy he gets from sitting at the head of the family dining table, and succumb to my long-whispered desire for a round table. It was almost too late. Our eldest had already left for university. We were reduced to four, sitting miles apart across oceans of glorious Canadian cedar and having to slide bowls and condiments to each other across the surface, rubbed to a high gloss by Phoebe.

My idea of cosy family dinners, inspired by my own childhood of six-plus-extras squeezed in elbow to elbow, seemed to have been lost in translation. Unless we asked all our neighbours to dinner every night, the table loomed, vast and undernourished.

So I went on a hunt for a Lazy Susan. It has taken two years, but last month I finally found someone at a local craft exhibit who could make me one. I ordered it nervously, paid a large deposit and waited with baited breath and fingers crossed, dubious that it would ever arrive from deepest, darkest Bacolod. I needn’t have worried. Not only did it arrive, it was perfect: neither too big that the plates are balanced precariously along the rim of the table, nor too small that we are still stretching  into the middle to reach the salad, and knocking over the wine glasses in the process. What’s more, by pure fluke,  it matched the colour of the table.

And suddenly the table doesn’t look so vast. Even when we are only four, it has reduced that sense of distance when we gather for dinner. Somehow the distance has shrunk, and we all fit. Cosily.

So what exactly is a Lazy Susan? And why the ridiculous name? It’s simply a round platter on a revolving base that sits in the centre of a round dinner table, creating easy access to dishes  and condiments. In modern times it has also been used in corner kitchen cupboards to make it easier to to reach the saucepans.

Most records I found agree that it was invented during the 18th century, although it had no official name until the early 1900s.  Several reports say that the name Lazy Susan was first used in a Vanity Fair advertisement in 1917, another that the term made its first  appearance in a Good Housekeeping article in 1906, yet another that it first appeared in the Christian Science Monitor in 1912, when it was described as ‘the characteristic feature of the self-serving dinner table.’

Prior to introduction of the name ‘Lazy Susan’, they were referred to as dumbwaiters, a term that is now applied to a small elevator for transporting food. Apparently one disgruntled footman complained about being “supplanted by a certain stupid Utensil call’d a Dumb Waiter” that was preferred for its silent contribution at the dinner table!

It seems most plausible that the later name derived from the fact that Susan was a slangy reference to female servants,  and the new rotating tray meant that ‘Susan’ did not need to lift a finger once the dishes were on the table.

Whatever its origins, it has been a popular addition to our family, though I now have to discourage my One & Only from trying to cover it in all the souvenirs he has been collecting in the Middle East, and the boys from spinning it at high speed so everything flies off! When everyone has settled down, conviviality and mirth, comfort and loquacity mingle happily with the pasta and the Parmesan, the wine and the water, just like my childhood memories. And all is good in my world.

 

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The Burnt Offering

Posted on 29 October 2012 by sheg4184

“The smell of gas was there, and of burning chops when he opened the door. He said, “I’ve got some chops going.” ~ Patrick White, The Eye of the Storm.

What do I miss most in Manila? From our 32 floor apartment without even a balcony, never mind a back garden, it would have to be our barbecue.

Although the barbecue was not invented by Australians, we have made it our own, and it is now an ubiquitous part of the Aussie landscape. The tripod, the gas barbecue, the built-in brick Barbie, the kettle or Weber that is perfect for cooking the Christmas roast without heating up the kitchen  to 100’C.

The most sophisticated barbecue we have ever owned was aptly named ‘The Australian’, which we acquired in the UK, and would drag out onto the patio, rain or shine, balancing under umbrellas if we had to – which was actually quite often in not-so-sunny Kent. My sorely tested One & Only had to cook his own 40th birthday dinner on the Australian in the middle of a damp and chilly December night.

The Australian

In her book about Australian Gastronomic Heritage, Barbara Santich calls the versatile barbecue ‘a national symbol’. And in all its shapes and forms, I would have to agree. According to Barbara,  ‘to barbecue’ originally meant to roast an entire animal outdoors, usually for a grand public event. By the 70s it has become synonymous with the Australian lifestyle: the convivial gathering of friends and relations in the back yard, cooking sausages and chops on the Barbie and eating them off paper plates loaded with coleslaw and tomato sauce.  The menu may have got more sophisticated over the years, but the laid-back simplicity of this informal dining experience is paramount.

A short story by a Filipino writer that  I read recently amused me with its description of the barbecue as if it were some solemn religious rite. It rang bells. Certainly, in my world, it is an opportunity for the Australian male to pose, dressed in either a sturdy, masculine apron or a tasteless novelty number, armed with tongs and a beer,  making an event out of cooking a few chops, the High Priest of the Barbecue. It is a Boy Thing, far more significant and important than merely grilling a snag on the stove.

The Tripod

When we were kids, my own father owned a small tripod barbecue that had at some stage lost a leg, and was precariously balanced on a broomstick or some such thing for years. Heaven forbid he should invest in a new one, this one was ‘perfectly alright!’

Dad never really got to grips with that barbecue – he would fill it with a huge pyramid of wood, and flames would soar to the sky like a bonfire. A lack of patience – or possibly the whinging of four hungry kids – meant that he always threw the meat on before the flames had died down, and we would end up with charcoaled chops. For years, I never realized there was any other way, particularly as my mother’s regular contretemps with the grill inevitably produced similar results in the kitchen.

I remember relating this story to my sister-in-law, teasing Dad as we sipped wine by the sea, and he battled with the gas barbecue on the deck. He was getting decidedly huffy at the insult to his barbecuing prowess, as Ann and I giggled into our glasses.

The Weber

“Lucky this one’s gas! No charcoal chops tonight!” Hahaha, snort…

Dad grumpily pushed the perfectly cooked steak to one side and humphed off in search of another beer. As he wombled away, his back to the barbecue, the fat dripped onto the open flame. A sudden flair shot up the sides of the grill and cremated the steaks. Ann and I shrieked and wept with laughter. Charcoal chops again!

 

* With thanks to Google Images – because somehow the barbecue is never quite in the picture!

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Dining with the Winemakers

Posted on 24 October 2012 by sheg4184

The Wine Depot Toast Club and the New World Hotel, Makati were offering an eight course dinner with matching wines, and the opportunity to meet a plethora of winemakers from Australia and New Zealand, Chile and America, Germany, France and Spain. It was irresistible! With the help of a good friend who has an innate skill for organizing events, we were able to book two full tables, each hosted by a visiting Australian winemaker: Geoff Grosset from Polish Hill in the Clare Valley and Nikki Palun from de Bortoli’s in the Yarra Valley.

After hors d’oeuvres and pre-dinner bubbles, we were escorted to the ballroom for the main event. For some extraordinary reason, a huge screen played old black and white silent movies throughout the evening. I was never able to discern why. A far noisier event next door generously shared their ridiculously loud music with us. Apparently it was impossible to turn it down. Apart from these unnecessary distractions however, we had a full house of wine lovers keen to chat with the winemakers and work through the impressive menu.

Eight courses and fifteen wines probably sounds a little daunting, and you would be right. It was. Each course was accompanied by two wines, and we were soon drowning under a deluge of wine glasses, trying desperately to keep up with our over-enthusiastic wine waiters. A quick word encouraged them to clear some away so we could at least focus on the ones we were supposed to be matching with the plate in front of us. It was a great opportunity to try a wide range of wines, but someone needs to teach those waiter’s to pour ‘tasting glass’ amounts, not ‘entire-goldfish-bowls’ of wine – or at least provide spittoons.

I could work through the menu with you, but quite honestly, I was no more than three courses in before I lost track. Don’t judge! Even if you are only sipping, that was a lot of wine. But it was certainly a feast for the senses. The first course was a colourful platter of dips served with crispy bread: smoked eggplant, lemon and tomato salsa and kasseri, a soft, feta-like Greek cheese. There was a creamy, perfectly grilled scallop and a pork loin with a toffee sauce, reminiscent of America’s infamous bacon with maple syrup – that is even available as an icecream in Manila. The US beef tenderloin served with potato gratin melted in the mouth, but I found myself (12 glasses down) getting quite lippy and loud about the chocolate sauce on the perfectly cooked lamb which I decided, in my disheveled wisdom, was an insult to our national dish. However, the operatic display of chocolate in the foyer was breath-taking and the chocolates tasted sublime.

It was a thoroughly entertaining evening and a great opportunity to hear such an international bunch of winemakers discuss my favourite beverage.  I was particularly interested in Grosset’s Polish Hill Riesling and its creator, Jeffrey Grosset. So you can imagine my delight when not only was Mr. Grosset’s 2012 Polish Hill Riesling the first wine poured – delighted because I was still lucid enough to appreciate it – but I found myself sitting right next to him! At the risk of sounding like a groupie, it was undoubtedly my favourite white wine that night – and from my favourite Australian wine region. The Clare Valley is about 100 kilometres north of Adelaide, just past the Barossa Valley.  Jeffrey Grosset has been making wine there for 32 years.  This long established – for Australia –  wine region is renowned for its Rieslings, and Grosset’s Winery has turned out many of Australia’s best examples of this dry white. Grosset is an unassuming, quietly spoken gentleman, but with no false modesty. He talked fondly of his wine, quietly proud that it rates up there with Grange Hermitage as one of Australia’s iconic wines.

And the critics agree. Jeffrey Grosset was voted the inaugural Australian Winemaker of the Year by Gourmet Traveller WINE in 1998. He has been designated one of the top ten white wine makers, and one of the industry’s most influential. In fact every critic you read waxes lyrical about this man’s glorious wines. According to Cracka Review, you will find his wines in many of Australia’s finest restaurants. Grosset’s Riesling in particular is renowned for its consistent excellence and its ability to age well. I love Grosset Winery’s own website description and could not begin to write anything so sumptuously loquacious, so here it is verbatim:

The 2012 Grosset Polish Hill Riesling has all the hallmarks of greatness: it’s tightly constrained, uber-concentrated, steely, and zingy. There are lemon blossom and white flower aromatics, vibrant lemon pith and lime zest flavours with shaley minerality, taut and tightly coiled, before a long, ultra-dry finish featuring refreshing natural acidity. It is pristine, seamless, wonderfully detailed, and has great line and length.

Don’t you just love the way wine connoisseurs express themselves so poetically? I wish I had half their skill – and a teaspoon of their flowery vocabulary.

Multi-award winning wine writer Tyson Stelzer gave the 2012 Riesling 98 points and said it had “refined poise” and “devastating purity.”  He went into transports of delight at the “flow of fruit precision on the palate [that] is an epiphany, every bit as hauntingly perfumed as the bouquet.” Apparently we should not miss “this crucial chapter in Australian Riesling history.” We didn’t. We even went back for seconds.

Thank you to all the other winemakers  for contributing your time and your wine to this mouth-watering event. I know I have selfishly focussed on my favourite, but that’s not to say I didn’t try – and enjoy – the rest. I am sad there wasn’t time to chat with all the winemakers that night, but I left quite satisfied at having had the opportunity to meet Jeff Grosset, and to quote Bridget Jones, “with, let’s face it, a bit of a crush now, actually.”

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Planting Your Own Garden

Posted on 21 October 2012 by sheg4184

Roses for Mum

At Toastmasters recently, I was given an interesting table topic about forging your own destiny. It provided inspiration for my final speech:

Plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone else to bring you flowers

Of course receiving flowers is a wonderful thing, particularly for a woman. It can be a symbol of affection from a friend or lover, a sign of gratitude or recognition from a colleague or a boss; a timely reminder that somebody cares, someone has noticed you.

However, a book I read recently suggested that very few people go to the trouble to discover your favourite flowers or even your favourite colours beforehand, and you often end up with their favourite flowers instead of yours. So, without meaning to sound ungrateful, if you love a particular flower, perhaps it is wiser to buy your own.

‘Plant your own garden’ is a picturesque metaphor that reminds us we should never wait for circumstances or other people to shape our lives for us; that if we want our life to reflect our own characters and tastes, our own needs and aspirations, we must take control and plan it ourselves.

To extend the botanic allegory, here is a short story:

In 2001 we bought our first house in the UK. The house had been home to one large family for twenty years.  It had good bones, and the atmosphere was warm and loving, but it was desperately in need of a little TLC.  The previous owner had expended a lot of love and energy on the garden, however, and he gave us a tour of every plant and flower. There were three ponds – the children promptly claimed one each –  a small greenhouse, an extensive rockery and a huge oak tree. I think we chose the house for that oak tree. It seemed only fitting when we were living in a town named after these stately trees.

Unfortunately we were not so fond of the flowers. I won’t describe them – they may be favourites of yours and I don’t want to offend anyone – but we liked neither the colours or the scents of many of the flowers blooming so enthusiastically. Despite feeling conscience stricken, we promptly went into over-drive to dig up everything we disliked and replant the flowerbeds with our own favourites.

Over the next six years we made huge changes to the house and the garden. I like to think the loving atmosphere stayed put, but we added rooms, converted the garage, redesigned the kitchen and gutted the bathrooms.  I am afraid the previous owners would recognize nothing in the garden but the oak tree.

We made mistakes. I pulled up floorboards and flowers I later regretted throwing away so flippantly. We had to move a beautiful acer to accommodate the new family room, and the poor sensitive little soul never recovered from the shock. Yet the mistakes – and the satisfaction – were ours. By the time we moved on we were really happy with what we had created: a light, modern family home, combining – we felt – the best of English and Australian styles surrounded by a garden full of our favourite things.

In my own life, I have always been fiercely independent. I try to listen to advice, but I don’t like to let anyone make choices for me. Sometimes my decisions have been gut reactions rather than deliberate strategies, and occasionally I look back regretfully at where I may have made a wrong turn, but I have rarely felt trapped by decisions I failed to make. It is the times when I have drifted, allowing the winds to blow me off course, that I have felt most frustrated with life, and myself.

Back in the 1970s, feminist Colette Dowling suggested that thousands of us give up important life choices – career, money, power, freedom – to the whims of chance and circumstance. While Dowling was talking specifically about women, I bet there are plenty of men who are happy to sit back and let life take its course without ever grabbing the steering wheel – or rather, the wheelbarrow and spade. Passively waiting for Prince Charming to arrive on his white horse, or a Fairy Godmother to wave her wand to create  the ‘happily ever after’ is unrealistic. As Dowling reminds us, there is no Prince Charming, no Fairy Godmother. It is up to us to forge our own destiny.

This can be both challenging and frightening. Many of us feel hampered by a lack of confidence, a dread of hard work or a fear of failure. How many of us think other people must find it easier than us, are born with more advantages, or are braver under fire? In truth, it is never easy, but the best results demand hard work, and realizing even a small dream builds confidence and self-esteem to take on the next challenge life throws at you. There may appear to be less anxiety in drifting, but is that living?

Dependency is like weeds, taking over your garden and smothering your imagination and your sense of self-worth. It makes you feel entangled in someone elses life rather than your own, out-of-control and helpless. So go ahead, pick up that spade and plant a tree. You will feel so much more satisfied than if you sit in the shade of somebody elses dreams. By the time we left England we had created a home and a space for our family that felt uniquely ours. We took charge and made our own impression on a small plot of land in the heart of a town we loved. And when we moved away, I left a piece of my soul and so many memories under that oak tree.

 

*With thanks to Google images for some of these photographs

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Passionate about Pampanga

Posted on 17 October 2012 by sheg4184

It was a dawn gathering, outside Starbucks, in Makati. Armed with coffees and cameras, we climbed aboard a minivan and headed north, past rice fields and lakes full of water hyacinths, sugar cane and wild grasses. Our tour guide, Bryan Ocampo, was full of information about Manila, and Philippine history. Obviously aiming at first time visitors to the Philippines, he soon found himself caught up in vigorous discussions with those of us who have been living here for a while.

(I have heard it before, but I still like the phrase about the Philippines being created by 300 years in convent, and 50 years in Hollywood!)

Our first stop was Guagua (as in water or agua), where we had an open-air breakfast in a sala beside the Lapid’s family bakery.  The buffet style breakfast was a great start to the day, as so far my stomach had only seen a Starbucks coffee. I filled my plate with bite-sized longanisang guagua (local homemade pork sausages with a hint of thyme) served with an amazing, zesty green papya pickle called atchara, lechon de homo (pork belly slow cooked in an old brick oven), dried fish, rice and scrambled eggs all washed down with a mug of Tsokolate Espeysal:  carabou’s milk and rich local chocolate, flavoured with crushed nuts – a kind of liquid Nutella. Although Filipinos would tend to put everything on their plates at once, we divided it up a little, keeping the suman bulagata till last. This moreish sticky rice snack was sprinkled in brown sugar for just a touch of sweetness.

Then we set off for a short walk through the streets of Guagua, attracting a good deal of attention as the only non-Filipinos in town – and perhaps also due to my small blond niece hiding beneath her sun hat! We wandered in the sun past the street stalls of the Guagua public market, dodging jeepneys and pedicabs, dropped in on the Guagua parish church, Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception,  and rode back in a pedicab. I was immensely grateful to share it with Miss Four – if it had been anyone larger we would have been squeezed in and hanging over the edges. Yet again, that humiliating reminder that I am XXXL in the Philippines.

We drove on to Santa Rita, to a sweet factory, owned by the Ocampo-Lansang family. This small family business is run from the family home. “Lola” (Granny) welcomed us as we entered, with waving arms, tears and every song she could remember, delighted with her large group of visitors. We watched the sweets being made by hand, and believe me, making turrones, or cashew nut nougat, is a labour intensive business…and HOT!

Chewing on turrones, we moved on to Bacalor’s famous sunken church, San Guillermo. The original church was constructed by the Augustinian friars in 1576. It was destroyed in 1880 by an earthquake, and rapidly rebuilt, only to be buried by lahare flows from Mount Pinatubo in September 1995. The ash flow claimed the altar, the cemetery and the monastery. Only the choir loft and bell tower remained. The elaborate altar, salvaged by the town’s people, now sits beneath the dome. The church itself has a barn-like quality, with its wooden roof beams six metres closer to the congregation today than they used to be.  Second floor windows have been converted into new entrances, and the arches at the top of the original windows visible at waist level.

At lunchtime we drove on to Mexico, to the home of renowned Kapampangan cook and food connoisseur, Atching Lillian Borromeo. Her heritage house was built in 1916 and Borromeo has restored the original kitchen and filled it with culinary antiques.

Atching Lillian must have been cooking for days, as there was enough food to feed the village. We lined up in orderly fashion to fill our plates. There was ensaladung pako, a salad of young fern fronds and monitor lizard eggs, sitting beside a dish of frogs, stuffed with ground pork and vegetables, and deep fried.

While I would try most things at least once, I have never felt overly brave when confronted with exotica like offal or insects or frogs. I have eaten frogs legs before (very tasty, like tiny chicken drumsticks), but I have never met an entire frog on my plate before. If I am honest, the only reason I finally took the plunge was to show-off to a friend, wary of anything but rice and the Golden Arches.In fact these small morsels were delicious, once I overcame the psycho-logical hang-up about munching on Kermit.

The morkon, a rich, heavy roll, mostly chicken and eggs, was delicious, but I could not manage the tidtad, a grey Pampango blood stew, which did not appeal at all, although it is apparently a local specialty. Sisig is another Pampango dish of pork cheeks, head meat and liver. I have eaten this before and it went down smoothly, despite the predominance of offal, reminding me a little of Thai larb gai, only fattier. Actually, thinking about it, a dash of lime juice would have complimented this dish perfectly.  Bringhe is a filling dish of glutinous rice and chicken cooked in coconut milk – a perfect nursery food – but my undisputed favourite was a light chicken broth with squash (pumpkin) and deep green bonifacio leaves. Dessert? Tibuk-tibok, a carabao milk blancmange that slid into the very tiny space left after this enormous lunch.

After lunch, Lillian gave us a history and baking lesson, displaying her carved wooden moulds from the seventeenth century and telling the tale of the origins of her Panecillos de San Nicolas or arrowroot biscuits. Several of us experimented with rolling out the dough and using the wooden moulds, and received a lovely bamboo and coconut shell stirring spoon as a reward for our efforts.

We said our goodbyes and thank yous, and headed for Angeles, and the Holy Rosary Church whose twin towers dominate the town’s skyline. The Church was constructed from 1877 to 1896 by the forced labour system imposed on Filipino peasants by the Spanish colonial government. We were lucky to get a peek today, as the church had been closed to prepare it for the annual fiesta held in honor of the Blessed Virgin of the Holy Rosary.

Opposite the church is a museum with a culinary twist, housed in the original Town Hall. Exhibits included a Culinarium – a display of culinary artifacts – and a collection of dioramas illustrating Kapampangan culinary history in intricate detail, complete with Nenita dolls that we were itching to play with. There was even a culinary library in the old jail.

And then, finally, we pulled in for an early dinner at San Fernando’s ‘Everybody’s Café’. It was a light and tasty grand finale, just the right amount after a day full of meals and merienda. There was a bit of a free-for-all over the beef morcon, with a side dish of deliciously rich dripping, and a wonderful sinigang containing the most enormous freshwater prawns I have ever seen or tasted, huge and meaty, like lobster. And of course, the pièce de résistance: Kamaru or adobodo crickets with caramelized red onions, surprisingly sweet, and, equally surprising, my favourite dish, despite my own protestations that eating anything so tiny was simply ridiculous.

The day was so much more than just a food tour. In fact it felt like a microcosm of Filipino culture and all that the Filipinos are most passionate about: their politics, their religion and their food. Thanks for sharing that passion with us, Bryan, and we hope you enjoyed our rendition of ‘”It’s not easy being green” and “Why are there so many songs about rainbows?” on the way home, in memory of Kermie.

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Maltese Cuisine

Posted on 13 October 2012 by sheg4184

Part 2

Malta, like it’s nearest neighbour Sicily, has an indigenous cuisine that  has been heavily flavoured by Italy and North Africa, but has also been seasoned by the various foreign powers who have raided or relocated to Malta over the centuries, including the Arabs, the Spanish and the English.  Our hospitable hostess was keen for us to try everything: local snacks and specialties; home cooking; fine dining, we sampled it all. Our first port of call, however, mere moments off the ferry, was the local supermarket.

Used to the heavy American presence on Manila’s supermarket shelves, we were initially surprised to find our favourite English chocolates, biscuits and breakfast cereals in residence, until we learned that the English had a prominent role in Malta for almost a century, and continue to visit regularly. We tossed in a packet of Penguins for the kids, but for me, the best part of any supermarket is the delicatessen counter. The one in St. Paul’s Bay was irresistible, and we selected a ridiculous amount of antipasti. We were keen to try everything. We found some old favourites like dolmades, but we also made a point of choosing a number of Maltese delicacies: stuffed olives; Bigilla (a thick dip made from broad beans and garlic), and Gbejniet which is a small round Gozitan goat’s cheese served with traditional Maltese crackers called galleti. These are thin, hard and brittle, quite a different texture from the delicious soft rolls called hobz  or ftira, a ring shaped loaf of similar consistency to the Italian ciabatta, but with a harder crust.

Our Maltese/Australian hostess had previously taught me how to make kapunata, a Maltese ratatouille, is now a firm favourite in our household. ‘My grandmother’s recipe’ she tell me, ‘uses aubergine (eggplant) , onions, red and green peppers and zucchini… with tomatoes, capers and olive, [but] it should not be confused with a pepperonata,’ she advises, ‘this is an Italian dish that the Maltese make too, but it contains only red , yellow and green capsicum and sometimes onions.’ Our first night in Malta, she treated us to another of her wonderful pasta dishes: a simple spaghetti pomodoro with garlic and basil that was quite possibly the best meal I had eaten in weeks.

The second night, we drove down the road to Charlie’s Inn, for a feast starring  the local speciality il-fenkata, rabbit stew made with red wine and flavored with herbs. Fenek (rabbit) has been a culinary tradition in Malta for centuries. The Knights of Malta uncharitably prevented the Maltese from poaching wild rabbits, so now they eat as many as they can catch or breed. We started with a delicious rabbit sauce with piselli (peas) served on pasta, followed by pan fried rabbit with oil and garlic.

On the third day we lunched beside a gorgeous little harbour called Spinola Bay.  Speed boats, dinghies and sailing boats bobbed on lapis lazuli waters. At Café Rafael, we sat on a broad terrace overlooking the bay, surrounded by baskets of red petunias and shaded from the hot midday sun by a huge umbrella.  As we soaked up the view, and the midday sun sparkled on the water, plates of salmon and zucchini pasta and calamari fritti  were consumed with enthusiasm. More interesting, however, were the Maltese specialties: timpana, a pasta bake of macaroni, minced beef and pork, eggs, cheese, chicken liver and bacon topped with pastry; and the stuffed squid. In many Mediterranean countries squid is commonly sliced into rings, fried, and served with lemon. The Maltese love to stuff the squid with onion and garlic, tomatoes and a glass of wine, diced bread, capers, prawns and herbs, before simmering it in a spicy tomato sauce. Over-indulgence indeed.

During the in-between-times, we snacked. In Malta, there are a myriad street stalls and tapas-style bars selling a range of traditional morsels, and we had three days to try as many as possible. Hobz Biz-Zejt  –  and yes, I have to admit I have no idea how to pronounce it either –  makes a wonderful snack, brunch or lunch. Brush a piece of bread with olive oil and top it with ripe and roughly chopped tomatoes, onions and herbs, tuna, white broad beans and capers, and you have a tasty, traditional snack. Once a humble dish, these days it has become very trendy and you can find it served in many smart restaurants as an appetizer. In Spain,without the added extras of beans, tuna and capers, it is breakfast. In Italy, bruschetta bears a family resemblance.

Pastizzi provide another easy mouthful en route to the next Church or viewpoint. Diamond-shaped, flaky pastry parcels filled with ricotta or mushy peas, pastizzi are the perfect merienda, distantly related to empanada, only lighter, and eaten hot. For those with a sweeter tooth, mqaret are pastry parcels filled with a thick, rich date mixture and then deep fried. They make a sumptuous mouthful, but be warned, they are addictive – and fattening.

Anyone feeling hungry? Me too. See you in the kitchen, chopping tomatoes…

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Pinot 101

Posted on 5 October 2012 by sheg4184

As you have probably realized by now, I really enjoy dining at Enderun College’s Restaurant 101, and there has been a number of lunches, dinners, wine tastings and coffee mornings over the past two years. A recent visit for a wine matching dinner, however, has been one of the most memorable evening I have ever spent there.

Partly, I should say, because I got to go on a lovely date with my One & Only, and also because restaurant manager M. Gérald Savigny had organized a fabulous four course dinner with matching wines of various styles, but all based on the red and white Pinot grape.  Originally the grape of Burgundy, it can be unpredictable, but is now revered by winemakers for making some of the best wines in the world.

The food, as always, was exquisitely turned out, and the wines were all interesting choices that inspired some heated conversations between my husband and me. Of course the more we sipped the more astute and verbose we became! But back to the beginning…

We were greeted at the door with a welcoming smile and the prompt arrival of an aperitif: a glass of Gancia Pinto di Pinot Spumante. This is a popular and zippy little Italian sparkling wine, with all the requisite fizz and bubble to begin the evening with a sense of celebration.

We were seated at a table beside an impressive wine display, and the menus had been printed out on elegantly embossed cards. I always love a set menu, as I so enjoy the luxury of not having to leaf back and forth through a vast menu, trying to decide what I feel like. And I can always rely on the chefs at 101 to provide something deliciously enticing.

Our entrée was a dainty Snail Torte that consisted of a pastry biscuit spread thickly with sweet tomato marmalade, and topped with garlic butter escargots imported from Burgundy. We were unexpectedly delighted with these small, smooth, al dente escargots, with the texture of champignons and only a light hint of garlic. The snails were served with an Australian 2011 Yalumba Y Series Pinot Grigio. It was a beautiful match. The wine was refreshingly dry, with a crisp finish, the allusion to the fruity flavours of apple and pear nonetheless held their own against the subtle touch of garlic in the snails.

The main course was announced: roasted duck breast served with steamed broccoli and a ‘Jenga’ block of polenta, garnished with fresh blood orange and topped with a delicious gastrique sauce. Although unfortunately misspelled on the menu as gastric, it is not actually stomach juices, but a very simple, French, sweet and sour sauce made from a vinegar or citrus juice and honey. It is usually served with chicken but in this case the combination of sweet and sour complimented  the duck perfectly. A little extra sauce on the side would have been welcome, as there was a generous amount of duck, but only a smidgen of sauce. It was accompanied by a 2010 Argentinian Trapiche Broquel Pinot Noir.

My husband and I argued boisterously about that wine. We both agreed that it was youthful and slightly acidic (almost antiseptic in my opinion) but the One & Only thought it made a good contrast to the gamey taste of the duck. I would have preferred a more full-bodied, rounder pinot noir, however, to compliment the richness of the duck rather than fighting it.

A soft, fresh local goat’s cheese (imagine the texture of mozzarella) was served on a strip of toast with truffle honey and some wafer thin radish to garnish. It was accompanied by a 2011 New Zealand Pinot Noir, St. Clair’s Vicar’s Choice. According to our host, goat’s cheese is traditionally served with Pinot Noir in his home town in the Loire Valley. I loved the wine, but found it a little strong for the more delicate flavour of the local cheese – although I can understand how well it would accompany a stronger, aged French chèvre. (Amusingly, this is the one I would have preferred with the duck). When we discussed it with M. Savigny he suggested that I might prefer a lighter Sauvignon Blanc with the cheese, which proved an excellent recommendation.

Our dessert was a large helping of pear crumble, just like my mother used to make, and it came with an Australian Angas Brut Sparkling Rosé. It was an unusual idea, but the nutty, yeasty flavours in both were a good match. We both felt that the crumble needed a scoop of vanilla ice cream to complete it, and luckily, our kind waitress was happy to oblige us.

Then we merrily headed homewards, replete with beautiful food and definitely oversubscribed on wine, quite in agreement that wine tasting is a highly subjective sport.

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Nights in Malta

Posted on 1 October 2012 by sheg4184

Part One:

Malta: island of knights and castles, Italian painters and British phone boxes, bays and boats and beaches, cliffs and torrijiet (Maltese towers), flea markets, fine lace and fenkata. It was a whirlwind tour in the heat of the summer.  As we raced around the island, packed to the gunnels in a pocket-sized car, we attempted to cover every square inch in three days. I think we just about did it.

Most recently a British colony – Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip spent the early years of their marriage posted here with the Royal Navy – Malta has also belonged, amongst others, to the Phoenicians, the Romans, the Arabs and the French.  In fact, Malta has only been ruled by the Maltese since 1964. Lonely Planet calls it ‘a microcosm of the Mediterranean’ with its eclectic mix of North African, Italian and Arabic influences.

This rocky outcrop in the middle of the Mediterranean actually consists of three islands: Malta, Gozo and Comino. Parched and yellow in summer, with the occasional splash of green vineyard and dry, honey-coloured limestone walls,  these three jewels are set in sapphire blue seas. The ferry from Pozzallo is the most picturesque way to arrive. The huge catamaran slips quietly into the Grand Harbour of the Port of Valletta, which is lined with cruisers, tankers, sailing boats and dinghies, and overlooked by nineteen stone warehouses, two hundred and fifty years old, stretching along the Quay Wall, where the Knights of St John and European merchants once unloaded their ships.

In 1530 Malta became the official home of the Knights of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, better known as the Knights of Malta, a renowned Christian security force of the Middle Ages. In the decades that followed, these wealthy knights turned Valletta into an architectural showcase of palaces, gardens, and churches, many of which remain today as major tourist attractions. Every summer the population of these tiny Mediterranean islands triples in size due to the huge influx of tourists and pensioners (who retire here from northern Europe for the joys of a warm, dry climate), the largest boost to the local economy.

The island of Malta is about 17 miles long and 9 miles wide. Don’t let the size fool you, the winding roads and cluttered town streets can still make any trip seem a lot further than it looks on the map. The blessing is, though, that whenever the heat and crowds being to overwhelm, you are never too far from the sea in which to cool off.

 So what did we manage to see in three days? Where shall I start? Mdina, Città Vecchia, is the original capital of Malta, a beautiful medieval town, walled and moated, situated on a strategic hill in the middle of the island. Mdina is a town of quiet, quaint, cobbled streets, with a resident population of just over three hundred. There is an elegant Cathedral with its canons facing into the square, and two clocks set at different times to confuse the devil, who is apparently not very bright, and cannot tell the difference between day and night. Just inside the main gates are the Mdina Dungeons, which house a gruesomely enticing display of mediaeval instruments of torture and methods of execution. Our teenagers loved all the blood and gore, and it didn’t seem to turn their stomachs too badly, as they later filled themselves up on cakes and milk shakes, at a busy café on the ramparts, while we gazed at the wonderful view across the island.

The ‘new’ sixteenth century capital, Valletta is a beautiful baroque town above the port full of souvenirs left behind by the Knights of Malta. Some have been altered or demolished by the British, and even more were destroyed in Nazi bombing raids, yet the city that remains is stunning, and infinitely appealing, even in 35’C. Modern structures have been tastefully added to  compliment the older buildings, and the city exudes refined elegance and reams of character.

We began our walking tour of Valletta, a UNESCO World Heritage site, at the Upper Barrakka gardens, where a colonnaded terrace frames a beautiful picture of the Grand Harbour. We then sauntered down Merchant’s Street to the flea market, which sells all sort of cheap clothing and souvenirs, such as samples of the local lace. We discovered the covered market place.  Is-Suq is the only one of its kind in Malta, with its beautiful British wrought iron but these days looking a little sad and neglected. Apparently there has been talk of renovation or rebirth as a museum, but so far it has sat undisturbed, tucked behind a plethora of overflowing stalls.

We meandered on to St John’s Co-Cathedral, built by the Knights of Malta between 1573-8. When Napoleon invaded Malta in 1798 the French took away everything of value that was not fixed in stone, except for the golden gates into this highly ornate and intricately carved Cathedral, which were painted black by the locals and consequently overlooked during the pillaging of the city.  St. John’s now houses an outstanding collection of Baroque art, including two masterpieces by Caravaggio, The Beheading of St John the Baptist and St Jerome Writing (stolen on New Year’s Eve in 1984, but subsequently  recovered), which hang in the oratory. Unfortunately the immense crush of mid-summer tour groups drove me rapidly, and dizzily, into a quiet, walled piazza beside the Cathedral, apparently a lovely spot for summer concerts.

Once my head stopped spinning, we cut our losses on museums and queues and strolled across town to St George’s Square and the Piazza Regina, wonderful open spaces with an eye-catching architectural blend of ancient and modern. Pavement cafés and designer shops abound, and a new dancing fountain intermittently shoots jets of water into the air in the middle of St. George’s Square, entertaining adults and children alike, as they dodge and weave through the spray, the perfect panacea to a hot day.

As the shadows begin to crawl across the city, we wander along Republic Street and back past the controversial construction site for the new city gate, parliament building and an open-air performance space to replace the Opera House bombed by the Luftwaffe at the end of World War II,  designed by world famous Italian architect Renzo Piano.

Malta is a tiny island nation steeped in history, soaking in azure seas, and dazzling the eyes with luscious views, not to mention dazzling the taste buds with luscious food. But more of that later…

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