Sisigan sa Talisay: A most unlikely foodie destination

Sisigan sa Talisay is not even its official or marketed name, and I don’t know if it even has one.  A friend who brought me there only called it as such because sisig is what he and his friends eat there all the time.  All I know is that I was pleasantly and deliciously surprised by my first visit to this place.

The oft repeated adage “don’t judge the book by its cover” is relevant but not exactly applicable to this story simply because the place, from 2pm to before 5pm, does not even look like a restaurant, or even a store that you would vaguely suspect as a turo-turo.  In fact, if you don’t know someone who knows the place, and if you don’t ask locals for its location then you can pass by it over and over and you can’t be faulted for not finding it at all.

Sammy, my friend has been boasting of this place for some time already.  Because he is known to find anything that he can eat delicious, I did not really have high expectations about the food.  I was more looking forward to sharing a bike ride with him, a newbie.

Sammy and I arrived there a good 30 minutes before 5pm.  As I said there’s not much visual cues to give you an inkling that the place is a highly recommended food stop.  It resembles more an abandoned concrete house with a small frontage that is lined by concrete tables paired with concrete benches crudely constructed to look like calesa seats with wheel armrests.  Overhead is a tall kamias tree with mature fruits about to fall on its own; some already did and are squished flat on the ground by footfalls.  To the side of the house are several mini bamboo huts that look like they are dangerously close to collapsing on unwary customers.

The house itself was dark and you wouldn’t know that it is inhabited if not for an old man wearing an oversized shirt and cargo shorts coming in and out of the very open front door.  He was stocking his display counter with one steaming dish after another, pork adobo swimming in its own fat, fried chicken wings with signs of chili flakes, rebosado, pakbet, tapa and others.  They all looked and smelled tasty, but we were there for the sisig.

The old man informed us that he was preparing the sisig last, but he offered us an appetizer, what he called seafood salad, a special dish that he only serves on Fridays.  A plate of salad won’t ruin our appetite if it’s good, and at P40 a serving, wouldn’t hurt the pocket if it’s bad.

When the old man brought us his salad, I can’t help but smile because it looked like something that can be served in a much more expensive restaurant.  The plating was almost exquisite.  A generous heap of lettuce and tomato slices bordered an avocado fruit sliced in half which contains, aside from its succulent flesh, an assortment of steamed shrimps, tahong and squid.  The salad is accentuated by a simple mayonnaise/ketchup dressing sprinkled with sesame seeds and balanced off by freshly squeezed calamansi and a hint of ginger shreds.

The salad did not last long and soon Sammy was spooning remnants of the dressing and leftover morsels into his mouth as we awaited our main order.  My taste buds’ first encounter left me with skyrocketing expectations.

By then it was almost 5pm and customers slowly began trickling in, some by car, others by foot.  It was obvious that this barangay’s watering hole has already built quite a reputation even to non-locals.

The sisig came, sizzling, hot and aromatic, followed shortly by two plates, each with four mounds of rice rolled in some orange concoction. Believe it or not, and I can’t believe it at first, each plate of rice costs only P10.

I thought the rice was too much for one sitting.  But when I stirred in a few bits of the sisig with a spoonful of rice into my mouth I realized that the first bite should be followed immediately by another, then another.  Soon, I was looking at an almost empty plate which would be a sin if I left it that way.  So I diligently scraped the little sisig left on the sizzling plate and merged them in my mouth with the last remaining rice.

The meal was heavy and a bit early for dinner.  But it was satisfying, fun, and an adventure that is worth doing all over again, and is certainly a great deal what with the measly P128 that we have to shell out for such a flavorful meal.  I’m pretty sure that the other dishes in the display counter are equally good, but they have to wait for another visit.

The ride home was slower because Sammy, the newbie, felt the added weight in his every stroke of the pedal.  But we were not in a hurry.  When you’ve just had a beautiful meal, you would want to take it slow.

There are two Talisays in Lipa; one is beside Taal Lake and is known as the gateway to Taal Volcano, the other is at the footstep of the Malarayat mountain range – this is where we had our sisig. 

My Tatay's Gift

I got no father to greet this Father's day.  He died a year ago, only more than a month after his 63rd birthday.

My tatay was an enigma, to us his family, and probably even to himself.  He was intelligent, talented, kind-hearted and God-fearing  yet he never amounted to much, that is if we go by conventional ways of measuring one's success, or lack of it -- money, property and the adulation of people.  

But Tatay was never a conventional person.

On earth, he loved a few more than most: Nanay, his six sons, his garden and booze -- specially Ginebra.  Later on, his most-loved list grew one grandchild at a time.  Still, he managed to divide his love, not equally of course, for it only took him about two hours to carouse with the booze and all night to express his undying love for Nanay whom she called Meow, and us, his sons, whom he will call in order of appearance to the world, complete with glowing individual description of each of our strengths and merits.

When he wakes up finally sober, he tends to his apos, checks up on his flowering plants and vegetables at the backyard, and cooks a merry mix of veggies and leaves that others would dismiss as weeds.  And when challenged for a conversation, he could talk about everything under the sun because he was a well-read man.

When we (meaning us six brothers) got older, Tatay's nocturnal inebriated utterances became some sort of cute amusement to my brothers.  But not to me.

Being the youngest child living in a small 2-bedroom house, I shared banig and kulambo with Nanay and Tatay at the sala while my Kuyas shared the bedrooms.  Early on, I sort of developed a sense of when my Tatay would come home drunk and bothersome.  And everytime I got that feeling, I knew that it would be another long night for me.  I would not allow myself to sleep until I hear Tatay unlock the door in the wee hours of the morning -- then I brace for a nightmare.  I would edge closer to my Nanay so that Tatay would be forced to lay by my side.

Then he would begin to mumble.  Aimlessly.  How he loved Meow and how wonderful a person she was, how good looking, intelligent and promising his boys were -- things that you would love to hear had the one speaking them was sober.  Eventually he would air his frustrations, his views on any particular issue, and how wonderful it was to spend the night with his barkada.  All this time I lay still, trying to block off everything I hear.  And everytime I would be unsuccessful because Nanay would soon explode and try to engage Tatay in a verbal tussle.  If it were a good night, Tatay would shut up and proceed to sleep.

But the bad nights outnumbered the good.  

Soon Nanay will stand up and will open the lights so that she can rant some more.  And Tatay too would stagger to get up so that he can argue as well.  And I would also stand up, because then I knew that my role had changed from a horizontal hump to a mobile pacifier.  Many times, their arguments almost led to physical jousts as my Nanay would challenge Tatay to one.  I, of course, would stand in between them even if I have never seen Tatay lift a hand on Nanay.  But I saw everything and I saw more.  I have seen Nanay grab a knife and I have seen Tatay light up a paper bill just to spite her for asking him to share in the responsibilities of rearing the six boys.  I experienced all these as my brothers stayed in bed.

If finally I have managed to coax Tatay to go back to the banig, he would proceed to talk himself to sleep, which would probably take another hour or so.  I would lay motionless as I hush even my breathing because the slightest movement or noise will spur my Tatay to talk even more.  Only when I hear him snore will I begin to move and salvage whatever sleep I could till the sun wakes me up in the morning.

As my brothers left for college one after the other, I began to enjoy the freedom of a separate room.  But nothing changed, I still did not sleep until Tatay came home, still got betwen them when the verbal was on the verge of being physical, and still made sure that I was the last to catch sleep for the night, or morning for that matter.

I grew up with a deep hatred for my father.  As soon as I grew taller than him, I began to ignore him as if he did not exist. When I went to college, I began telling my rich classmates that my "Daddy" was a Major in the military when in fact he was just a lowly Seargeant.  I transferred school and I decided to altogether stop trying to talk about my father, or about my family, or about how I grew up.

I found a job and I hated him even more because for years he had none.

In 1997, I attended the Inner Child retreat (it's a retreat that prods you to go back to your most painful childhood memories so you can deal with them once again).  And as I relived the harrowing experiences, the gloom of hatred began to dissipate.  And I began to see life in a different light.  I saw the Tatay who would gather his boys for a hike to the neighboring farmlands.  I saw the Tatay who never loved another woman other than Nanay.  I saw the Tatay who spoke softly and kissed me gently with his stubbly pucker.  I saw the Tatay who never spoke ill  nor harbored a grudge on anyone, not even to people who hurt him most. I saw the Tatay with the kindest eyes that stared with a reassuring understanding.   I saw the many beautiful facets of his personality that I knew existed but which I ignored because of my seething rage over his weaknesses.  I saw the Tatay that I longed to love all my life.

I always had this romantic idea that my healing would be completed the moment I see Tatay hold my child.  But God sometimes does not give in to romantic notions.  He is partial to giving something better.

The years of alcohol and tobacco abuse took its toll on Tatay's health and he spent the last two months of his life in the hospital.  But it was there that I discovered the healing that I so longed for.  Everytime we talked, everytime I fed him food and made him drink his medicine, everytime I masssaged his entire body, everytime I carried him or assisted him to the toilet, everytime I held his nebulizer to his mouth so that he could breathe easier, everytime I just sat by his bed and we just looked at each other, everytime I kissed him goodbye as I prepared to go home to my wife -- every moment, a gift of healing.

I was with him when he died.  I saw his stare drift from consciousness to nothingness.  I gasped his last breath as I held his head close to mine as I whispered to him that everything was going to be alright, that it's time to move on, that we will take care of Nanay, and that I loved him so much.

He who says that he has the best father that one can ever have is right, and he who can't say the same is missing on the chance to see how beautiful it is to truly embrace life.  If my father's sole contribution was just the fertilization of my mother's egg, then what could be greater than that?  I would not be without him.  I may be flawed and weak because of him, but I am also strong and capable also because of him.   I can't imagine not being with my wife, not being challenged by the course of charting a life, not being able to share what I can, not being able to make a difference in other people's lives, not being able to smile, cry, hope, strive and explore the depths of human emotions.  I will be nothing.

Loving someone who has hurt you the most is certainly not easy, and for some, even unimaginable.  But to do so is perhaps the most precious gift you can ever receive.  Being happy is a decision,  if you choose to see the negative and supplant it as your reality, then that would be so.  But if you can see the best even in the ugliest moments of your life, imagine how even the simplest joy can be such an uplifting experience.

I can't remember my Tatay ever buying anything specifically for me.  But I do remember him  from his hospital bed, looking and smiling at me, with no words to say, but with all the love I can live by for the rest of my life.  That I will remember.

I wrote this in 2004.  Still, the message remains fresh.

Self service in government service

If you are from Lipa or pass through Lipa often, I’m sure that you’ve been exposed to the face that, if you examine its omnipresence, would like you to believe that whomever it belongs to is responsible for every good thing that is happening in this city – including fiestas in even the most remote barangays, graduation ceremonies in schools, and successes of native Lipenos in various fields.

His name is Meynard Sabili, the Mayor of my birthplace Lipa.

Since I started doing business in Lipa in 2003, and permanently relocating in 2007, Lipa has had 3 mayors: Vilma Santos, Oscar Gozos and Mr Sabili.  Vilma was the queen for 9 years, Gozos only had one short and unpopular term which led to the ascension of Sabili, himself loser of so many election battles in so many positions.

But the first two can’t compare to how Sabili has made his face so ubiquitous and so annoying like a swarm of flies on festering garbage.   By plastering his face on tarpaulin billboards and streamers for every project, event or activity that concerns Lipa or its people, Mr Sabili has made his face the model of a self-serving politician that is difficult to trust.  He has even concocted a weakly worded slogan “May Aasahang Serbisyo” which is a play on the initials of his name.

People who are voted into a position, Mayor Sabili included, are placed there to do a job, and that they are expected to do well regardless if you put that responsibility in a slogan or not.

Now, if a politician has to plaster every perceived good deed for the world to see then you get to wonder if this person is ever on it to serve as he has promised, or to serve his own ego and personal interests, as many politicians have done before.

Sir, ano gang toong pakay mo?

Come on, Mr Sabili.  If you think you are doing a good job then let your track record speak for the 2013 local election, which is just around the corner.  And if you are going to enact an ordinance or mark an important occasion which will be for the good of the city then good for you, and better for the people.  But please stop inflicting your photoshopped mug shot on unwary Lipenos as if it has some magical power to lift the spirit of the downtrodden or make a special event more special.

I understand your insecurity.  This early, several personalities – again with the use of tarpaulin – are posting their faces, and their availability, for the mayoralty of Lipa City.  Oh boy, Lipenos must be so lucky to have so many people lining up to serve them.  Ruben Umali, erstwhile Mayor is now making his presence felt, so is Nerio Ronquillo, Lipa’s former City Engineer and Ralph Recto’s protégé.  Other politicians are expected to throw in their hat as well.

Today is Independence Day from a foreign occupation more than a century ago.  I wonder when we will become independent from politicians who just can’t do their job without announcing to the world that they are doing something?

Mr Sabili's administration has prohibited the use of plastic in the city for its supposed ill-effects on the environment.  After all, most plastics are non-biodegradable and are thus difficult to dispose.  But aren’t tarpaulin materials, the ones that he uses to propagate news of his deeds, non-biodegradable as well?

And isn’t paper from trees?

I’m not really aware about the safeguards that Mr Sabili and his council stipulated in their ordinance to ban the use of plastics, but I hope they’ve done their research and due diligence so that they never banned a bad substance and replaced it with another.

But in the mean time, I hope Mr Sabili and other politicians change tactics; instead of plastering their doctored faces on tarpaulins, I hope they print them on toilet paper to be distributed, for free, in traffic heavy places so that people can do something useful with their self-promotion.

Isn’t it liberating to be independent?

Lost Vegas: Pacquiao vs Bradley

When Manny Pacquiao began stringing together wins against future Hall of Famers, he was fearless, fierce and relentless, and perhaps a bit reckless.  Manny Pacquiao no longer fights that way.  Thanks to Freddie Roach’s tutelage, he is now a more tactical, intelligent and deliberate fighter.  Unfortunately, this change in fighting style is probably the reason why he has stopped being the unstoppable force that railroaded anyone who went in front of him.

Yes, I think he is on the decline.  Whether it be from the accumulation of blows that his body took over his past 60 fights, or the natural decline of his physical gifts now that he is in his 30s, or the outside distractions which often plague his camps – it is obvious that he no longer instills fear in the opponent’s eyes the way he once did.

I suspect that he has lost the hunger and inclination for inflicting pain, which is natural for someone who has nothing left to prove after recording what no one else will probably be able to surpass, let alone duplicate: 8 titles in 8 weight divisions.  And he has more money now than he, Jinkee and Mommy D could spend in their lifetime, throw in the long years and buying capacity of his children.

And now that he has found the call to preach God’s word, he has seemingly found the inner peace of someone who sees boxing as a sport that should stop at bludgeoning opponents senseless.

Pacquiao is no longer fierce.

But having said that, there is no way that Timothy Bradley beat him.  Sure Pacquiao is a shadow of who he once was but Bradley was not even good enough to beat a  spent Pacman.  What he did was put up a decent fight, but not enough to merit the split decision that Judges C.J. Ross and Duane Ford rewarded him with.

I admit I’m not a boxing expert.  But that’s exactly the reason why the decision smacks of doubt.  It was not a complicated fight to judge like the third Pacquiao-Marquez fight where the final decision could really be argued both ways.  The bout was clear enough for even non-experts to evaluate.  Pacquiao dinged Bradley over and over, almost throughout the fight.  That he was not able to knockdown the game Bradley was beside the point, and can only be proof that Pacquiao is on the decline, or Bradley was tough -- which ever way you'd like to see it.  But he still got whacked over and over, and in retaliation Bradley walloped Manny’s forearms and gloves nonstop.

The fight stats also belied the decision. Pacquiao outpunched Bradley by close to 90 punches throughout the fight.  The punches that landed on Pacquiao created contact, but not harm, like a staggered Pacquiao or welts and bruises that bore signs of punishment.  Bradley on the other hand reeled from Manny’s punches several times.

What is there to judge?

Even Bradley seemed surprised.  When asked what he thought about the decision, he said he has to go home and watch the video of the fight.  That is not a statement of a fighter who expected the win, that was a clear indication that he also needed convincing proof that he indeed won the fight.  After all, he has been whacked over and over by a less than ferocious, but still hard punching opponent.

But I have to hand it to Manny, he was gracious in defeat, however controversial it was.  Again, I would like to think that his demeanor stems from his lost desire to fight with mean intent.

So what’s next? Only Pacquiao can decide.  As it stands, there are still millions of dollars left on the table.  It seems that that is his only motivation now. When he says he’d like to bring joy to his fans, especially his kababayans, I now seem to doubt that.  Filipino fans, myself included, find joy in seeing him being a beast inside the ring; which he no longer is.  If he can find it in him to regain that lost ferocity then I say, go ahead fight some more.  But should he return simply a shadow of himself then I say it’s time for him to move on.

Will the King become a warrior?

If God would put together the skills and body type to create a complete basketball player, he would have certainly made Lebron James his prototype.

Lebron James is a supremely gifted athlete.  He is 6’8” tall, 280 pounds, runs so fast and jumps so high that he can block a dunk attempt with his face.  He can score every which way possible and has extraordinary court vision that he sees plays unfold before they actually happen.  He is the equivalent of a basketball genius.

But alas, genius doesn’t win championships.  Heart will.

Miami lost to Boston on their home court.  Now they trail 2-3 heading to hostile Celtics territory for Game 6.  If they lose, they go home to disappointment, with a chorus of boos that would last until next post-season when they have another chance to redeem themselves.  If they win, they have a game 7 where James can still yet claim the big game player that he was long touted to be. 

The pressure that has been placed on the broad shoulder of Lebron is simply too heavy for one man to carry.  He was expected to dominate not only in the regular season where he is now adjudged a 3-time MVP, but more so in the post-season where his extraordinary gifts should elevate him to immortality, like Jordan, Bird, Magic and Kobe did several times in their respective NBA careers.

Though James scored 30 points in Game 6, he was far from dominant in the fourth quarter when the game was tough and close.  It was Dwyane Wade, the supposed lesser half of Miami’s dynamic duo, who played with desperation – blocking shots, diving for loose balls and demanding the ball; all these while James waited for his chance to look pretty.

James has once again fallen victim to his own pride.  He was already being compared to the all-time greats even when he was in high school.  Unfortunately, he correlated this adulation to greatness even before he could accomplish anything significant.  He called himself the “King” without conquering anything.  He tattooed his body with “The Chosen One” even before he can actually separate himself from his peers. Now, he is left alone, high and mighty yet unproven, where he placed himself to be.

In olden times when Kings became Kings not because of lineage, they first fought and conquered.  If James wants to win, then he better go down his throne and mix it up with mere mortals because that’s the only time he can make his own legend.  He must not believe the hype drummed up for him because unless he wins a championship, he would still be considered a loser.  That’s how high expectations are for him and his gifts.

I hope it’s not too late.  I hope Lebron can summon his fighting heart to do what must be done in the clutch, where it matters most.  I used to be a Lebron basher because of his arrogance, but now that he seemed to have been genuinely humbled I now want him to succeed, to be an example how one man can redeem himself despite a great fall.

I want the aging Celtics to win to prove to the world that experience can win it over youth and athleticism.  But I don’t mind seeing Lebron win it for the Heat.  I want him to play with the fire of Wade.  Physically, there is no limit to what James can do.  Unfortunately, it is only the heart that can push James’ body to unleash its full potential.  The world waits.  And that’s an unfair pressure on a single person’s shoulder.  As they say, to whom much is given, much is expected.

My Tatay Doroy

Today is Teodorico Gayatin Enginco’s birthday.  He is my Tatay.  If he was alive he would now be 72.

I admit I found it difficult to appreciate my father when I was growing up and searching for someone to look up to.  My Tatay became an alcoholic when I was yet to be weaned from the milk bottle.   Because I was the youngest in a brood of six boys and had to share the bed with my parents, I was the most traumatized by the almost nightly fights between my physically drained and emotionally spent mother and my drunken father.  

I grew up knowing only angst and frustration directed towards my father.

Thankfully my ill feelings for my father did not carry on to my adulthood or else I would have allowed the legacy of a great man to pass by unhonored.  And this shift in perspective started when I began to acknowledge that man’s true beauty is not in his perfection or his reflection of the ideal, but rather in the flaws that make him human and relatable.

 

The more I think about it, I am a lot like my father – imperfect but blessed.

My Tatay was a learned man.  He did not excel in school but he read a lot.  Uncannily, just like me.

I took after my Tatay who was an artist.  He drew beautiful sketches and was keen to using his imagination.   He did unconventional things and had a way with words, just like me.  Though he could be charming and funny, he was a bit withdrawn and introspective – an enigma just like me.

For all his gifts, my father was a free spirit and a troubled soul.  This is what makes him beautiful.  Because inside the body imprisoned by the chain of alcohol is a man who refused to speak ill of people, even those who have harmed him growing up in the countryside of Mindanao, and those who spoke ill or took advantage of him when he was strong and willing to share.

When Tatay was sober, he always had a ready smile and had the kindest and most sincere gaze.  I remember that between my mother and him, he was the more affectionate parent, not hesitating to kiss me on the cheeks or on the forehead even when I was already an adult.

My Tatay loved me in his special way.  And he loved my wife just like his own daughter, perhaps because he never had one.  When we were still living in Makati and visited Lipa only during weekends, Tatay would always see to it that he would prepare his strange but supremely tasty vegetable stew composed of leaves, flowers and stalks – all freshly picked from the backyard.  And before we left, he would hand my wife cut flowers from his garden so that she can put them in a vase when we got home in the city.

My love for my Tatay has taught me that true love comes best with imperfection.  It is when we look for more than what is in front of us that we begin to find loneliness and frustration.  And the more we wish that things were molded according to our notion of what is ideal, the more we realize that we are moving farther and farther away from that reality.

Today is my Tatay’s birthday.