ESAY : PINOY GRILING
From the lowly isaw to the various permutations of lechong manok, the Filipino style of grilling is a beloved culinary tradition that we can’t get enough of.
In the Philippines, where there’s smoke, there’s not necessarily a fire. If there is one emanating in just within the confines of your neighborhood, especially if it’s in the late afternoon, it’s probably from a streetside stall with the vendor energetically fanning the charcoal on the bottom of a grill, burning up old newspapers as kindling to fuel the flames. It doesn’t take too long before the chunks glow red hot, which is the signal for the various odds and ends of pork and chicken to be placed above, and the evening’s business begins to satisfy the cravings of barbecue crazy Filipinos.
Inihaw or sinugba is beloved in our country. It can be as simple as isaw, “adidas,” or those purplish cubes of coagulated pig’s blood. It can take in the form of inasal at Aida’s in Bacolod or the same at Chicken Parilla on Scout Gandia in Quezon City. The essential sisigs of Mely’s or Mila’s in Pampanga. The infinite permutations of lechon manok, from our neighborhood Baliwag or Andok’s. The offerings of the legendary Colasa’s in Davao. The small round chorizos at the “Barbecuehan sa Pier” along Tacloban’s port area. Even the “inihaw na mais” that’s a must in Baguio. The list goes on. In every city, every town.
But one thing is constant: the appetizing aromas wafting up through the evening air from the melted fat from the proteins, dripping down and sizzling on the coals, occasionally sparking up into flame, leads to a very distinct Pavlovian response: our stomachs grumble, our mouths water, our nostrils flare. We sniff the wind, trying to find the source of the smells, and our eyes narrow to search for and find the mysterious grill, overloaded with a dozen different nose-to-tail or beakto-butt skewers cooking.
Behind the grill, the barangay’s Bobby Flay multitasks, turning the sticks at the perfect time so they’re just right and nothing’s too charred; processing endless orders from numerous customers; receiving payment and doling out change; shooing away the flies attracted by dips and sauces; and coaxing more clients to come over by enthusiastically shouting the night’s menu.
Barbecue makes Filipinos smile. Enjoying it always feels like a celebration of sorts; perhaps it’s an offshoot of the identical menus of children’s parties all over our archipelago: neon red hotdogs on sticks, with marshmallow jauntily placed on top, and the classic pork barbecue, with that luscious chunk of fat glistening at the very bottom. That’s how almost all of us discover the delights of grilling after all. That’s why no matter where we are — dining solo al fresco on a busy street corner under the Tayuman LRT station or in a chi chi poolside buffet at the Sofitel with family and friends — barbecues aren’t just comfort food for us, they bring good vibes.
Whenever I’m in Cebu, I never miss Larsian. I’ve been a regular for two decades now, and I can still remember when the barbecue stalls used to be put up, guerilla style, on the streets in front of the Chong Hua hospital once dusk set in. It was a risky proposition; drunken teens on motorcycles would zip by late at night; even worse, vermin from under the streets sometimes zipped by as well. All the vendors have since moved to a safer, cleaner, and brighter compound a block away, and my suki is still there. My order hasn’t changed since the mid-1990s: five chicken skin sugba, three pieces of ‘puso’, and a Sarsi. It is my essential. Barbecue in our country, after all, is forever.