May I have a knife?

DIRECTLY after the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers in the USA, anything that resembles a knife became verboten. We were suddenly deprived of an almost indispensable instrument, a commonplace at dining tables. The knife probably pre-dates the fork and looks as if it descended from the virile sword; it could be a close kin of the brusque dagger, or half-brother to the cruel stiletto. History tells us that even at opulent royal feasts, jeweled knifes on dinner tables could instantly be turned into murderous weapons. In the Philippine context, table and kitchen knives are used for purposes other than what they were made for. Notoriously, domestic helpers are known for using the tip of your expensive iron chef knives to pierce holes in milk cans and other hard surfaces. It seems that knives as eating instruments had gone out of style way before 9/11. I always find myself begging for one specially in mall restaurants with inscrutable names; if I do see it among the flatware of a dining table, I am pleasantly surprised.

More than a decade ago, I was invited to lunch at an elegant ilustradotype house located at the fringes of Metro Manila. The antique hardwood table was divinely set with heirloom porcelain, sterling silver, and European crystal; even the tablecloth and centerpieces were heritage. I noticed that the guest list was reminiscent of the XIXth century: The parish priest was there (although not in a traditional cassock), guests lined up to kiss ring of a visiting bishop; the daughter of the house played classical melodies on a baby grand; a maiden aunt dashed in and out the kitchen scolding a retinue of domestics; elegant matrons flashed lace fans while a group of young hotheads debated political issues. I felt transported to the pages of the Noli Me Tangere.

Once seated at the table, I unfolded the damask napkin on my lap (my grandma would have approved its size) but noticed with dismay that there were no knives. How could that be possible in such an elegant household? Very discreetly, I caught the eye of a young domestic helper and in a whisper I asked her to please find me a knife. She was visibly taken aback and gave me the strangest look. “May kutsilyo ba? Pahingi naman.” I was obviously disconcerting her but I insisted that she find me a knife. She held her breath and ran to the kitchen. I thought I would never see her again but she came back before the meat course turned cold. She slithered to my side with a conspiratorial air and nudged my elbow; she had a kitchen towel draped over her arm. When I lifted the cloth, it was my turn to be perplexed, she was hiding a bladed weapon at lease ten inches long.

She had brought me the cocinero’s carving knife, which was probably as old as the heritage house and as menacing as a Katipunero’s bolo. Before the other guests could notice, I thanked the maid for the effort and begged her to return the knife to the cook. Totally resigned to my knife-less fate, I hesitantly used my fork as a substitute.

I had a friend who used to tease me about what he referred to as my “knife fetish.” Once, utterly vexed, I poked fun at the way he used a spoon to slice a steak when the next best thing is a sturdy fork. That must have really annoyed him so the next time he invited me to dinner at a Makati restaurant, he asked for a knife and began piling food on it with the help of a fork. He managed to lay a bed of rice topped with shreds of meat, slivers of vegies, with a dash drizzled a few drops of soy. With an agile arm movement starting from his elbow joint, he was taking that cleverly engineered rice and meat riprap to his mouth as if he were a circus performer about to swallow a sword. “You’ll cut your throat! “I gasped, but he took no heed. To this day, I do not know what he was trying to prove, but I am no longer as picky about knives. Sometimes, I bring my own.