Food

The spiky red thing is Rambutan—looks like a hard boiled egg when opened, tastes like a chewy, super-sweet pear. There are ripe mangoes every day, and and a host of new (to us) tropical fruits.

Veggies not that much. The best of Filipino cuisine is pork and barbecue based. While we’ve chosen to skip that, there’s plenty of seafood and, of course, cousins of those chickens down the road. We’ve sampled several delicious Filipino buffets I can’t describe since we’re not quite sure what we’ve eaten—the menu is in Tagalog.

Dining as a working resident is a bit different from eating like a tourist. Most nights we’re tired and just want something simple. Early on we found a supermarket and stocked up on clones of western comfort food: cereal, milk, peanut butter and bread. But even this was a new experience. On the surface the market in Robinson’s mall is a familiar scene: huge, clean, brightly lit, aisles stuffed with every product imaginable. But fish—lots of fish—and meat are in self-serve bins, the rice section is as large as our apartment, and there’s a huge array of fruit to choose from. Vegetables are tightly wrapped in plastic. Young clerks stand in the aisles promoting special items. After work, people line up at the cooked food counters.

Much on the shelves is processed food in one form or another, and it comes from all over. Milk from New Zealand, cereal from Canada and Florida, much from Australia—to say nothing of all the Chinese and Japanese products. The fruit has stickers on each piece. Coke and Nestle are big names. The Philippines have been a center of SE Asian trade since pre-history, but this is mind-boggling.

Every other shop in our neighborhood is a small restaurant featuring different Asian cuisines with staff on the sidewalk handing out leaflets to bring you in. The malls are a major food scene, unfortunately with loud music blaring out from every establishment. Robinson’s is fast-food heaven, primarily Asian, with countless themed chains a la (and including) TGI Friday’s. You’re never far from pizza, burgers, Filipino adobo, and—surprise—every decent place offers pesto pasta with grilled chicken. In Makati, higher end restaurants line the ground level with outdoor tables and elegant indoor ambience.

Fr. Bananga took us to dinner in the Mall of Asia (Second largest in the world, huge and glitzy beyond all imagining) that featured shabu-shabu, the Japanese-style “hot pot.” We simmered a wonderful selection of seafood and vegetables in broth heated in pots built into the table. I thought it included a starter soup, and took a big sip of what turned out to be a bowl of soy sauce! Otherwise it was a marvelous time and Father a gracious host.

He and Charles lunch together most days. Careful about diet, they share a home-cooked tupperware lunch of rice and vegetables—best meal in town C says. (while I’m home with the PB and J.)

We’ve settled on several comfortable spots in the neighborhood. In one, we can sit at a second floor window checking out the street life below, and the waiter has a way of subtly raising one eyebrow when we order things that don’t go together and suggests an alternative—with great results. Another favorite offers dishes from Pampanga province accompanied by a wonderful singer and guitar. Once we passed on ox tripe and rice field crickets, we ate well! Maybe too well, in fact. Despite regular workouts at Slimmers World, even Charles may be coming back a little pudgy.

Lost in Translation #2:
We dined with Fr. B and six other college presidents at a mall restaurant called Holy Cow. Indian food? Nope—the servers wore cowboy gear and a Clint Eastwood movie played on the TV.