Style &Substance

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ADVENTURE

You love Indian. You kill for Chinese You dig Thai. Yougo ou fo Korean, stay in for Japanese. And there’s agreat little Vietnamese place round the corner. Ever hada Filipino? Us neither. But then no one goes to Manilafor the food, right? They go for the ladies. Or the boys.Or the ladyboys. Or they don’t go at all. Unless they’refearless foodie Tom Parker Bowles, determined to discoverthe world’s great hidden cuisine. On tour in the Filipinocapital, Esquire’s gallivanting gourmand encounters friedpigs’ heads, warm duck embryos and a strangely seductivedictator’s wife only one of which

he call came just after nine.“She’s here,” said the soft female voice.“Come over.” I mumbled my assent and flewout the door, pausing only to change my tattyT-shirt for a slightly less tatty shirt. But asI hurried down the lushly carpeted corridorsof the sumptuous Manila hotel, my initialthrill was tempered by a niggle ofconcern.“She” was Imelda Marcos, wife of iothPhilippine president, Ferdinand Marcos.“She” of the shoes, nearly 3,000 pairs ofthem. And the wanton, profligate, Olympianspending that still astounds to this day— billions ofdollars ofpublic funds lavishedon everything from Canaletto to the CrownBuilding in New York. All while millions ofher countrymen struggled to survive each day.“She” of the “he” who was the great hope ofpost-war Philippines, before declaringmartial law, banning a free press and exilingand imprisoning political opponents.I mean, what’s the etiquette for dinner with adictator’s wife? Should! be liberally outragedand refuse to even set foot in her presence?Or play it cool and detached, mentallysharpening my quill as we spoke? I was hereto write about food, for God’s sake, not somesearing insight into Philippine history. Whatwould Marie Colvin do? Or Gill? The liftarrived and I stepped inside, whisked to thetop of the hotel in a flag of tinkling muzak. I’lljust be impartial, distant but polite,I muttered, as I walked into the gildedsplendour ofThe Tivoli. And there she was,8t years old, resplendent in a lime greendress. She looked up from the table, herlacquered, jet black hair piled high, andsmiled. “Oh, hello,” she said in a regal drawl,holding out her hand. Great stones glitteredon her slender fingers. This was it, the

moment of truth. I looked her in the eye,straightened my back... and bowed. Bowedgoddammit — not a subtle nod but a Mlbend from the belly. And, in a fit of still oilierlickspittlism, I called her “Ma’am”. So muchfor journalistic sangfroid.

“Manila?” said my friend, a man so intimatewith the cities ofSoutheast Asia that he coulduse theirtoothbrush the morningafter. “It’s aflicking armpit. You want to get out sharpish,and into the Philippines proper. They, on theother hand, are sublime.” He was not alonein his view. “One of the grimmest cities in theworld,” opines shaggy rabble-rouser RodLiddle in The Sunday Times. “Cess-pit”,“hell-hole” and “dirty dive” were among themore complimentary descriptions. No onecould understand why I’d fly all the way outto this tropical republic of7,000 islands andspend my time in the capita!. It was like goingto Disneyland, only to waste the entire visitin the loos by the main gate. This was a city,I was told, to be endured with a hanky heldfirmly to one’s mouth, the sort ofplace thatmadeSodom and Gomorrah look likeMarlow on a crisp autumnal morn. I was toldthat bodyguards were “essential”, thateveryone carried guns, and “had nocompunction using them”, and that cocksbattled on every street corner. “The onlyreason a man goes to Manila, without beingforced to on business,” said every male

lasked, “is the girls. Ortheboys.Youasextourist?” “Christ, no,” I’d splutter. “I’m goingthere to eat.” “Yeah right. Manila to eat. Ha!”they’d say, and suddenly come over all MontyPython, with a wink, a nudge and a “say nomore, say no more”. Just buying a ticket theremade me guilty, ofwhat I wasn’t quite sure.

So why go? A city neither famed forits food or beauty, it’s not the most obviouschoice for adventures gastronomic oraesthetic. But it was one of the few cities inSoutheast Asia I knew next to nothing about.And for me, it’s always had a certain exotic,far-flung charm. The more people triedto put me offgoing, the more determinedI became to tramp its streets.

As I was driven from the airport to Makati,the high-rise, ex-pat, security-cordonedbusiness hub, the city seemed little differentfrom any other sprawling, Southeast Asianmetropolis. Sluggish, ill-tempered traffic,and a symphony ofhigh-pitched horns?Check. That ubiquitous pall ofsmog, yellowas a smoker’s fingers, that lurks above theconcrete? Yup. The whiffof frying meat,exotic spice, bin juice, piss and petrol? Ofcourse. Beggars, sinews hewn from steel, aadfaces set hard against the world? Andhawkers, flogging single cigarettes, featherdusters, phone chargers and nylon knickersevery time the traffic ground to a halt? Yesand yes. I made it to the hotel in one piece,untroubled by automatic gunfire or flyingblades. And the next morning, after a few toomany cocktails with Chris, the photographer,in Martinis, the soft-lit hotel bar that wecame to love,! found myself in a market,where my culinary education was to begin.

“This is one of the safer food centres,”says my guide Ivan Henares, soft-voiced andgentle. Myheart sinks. “Safe” in myexperienceusually means emasculated, tourist friendlystuff, with all the naughty bits removed. Foodfor the terminally uninterested, sop for thecouldn’t-give-a-craps. We’re in Market!Market! — an upmarket collection of regionalfood stalls in Taguig, a few minutes from

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Makati. Here, you can eat your way aroundthe regions without breaking a sweat. Intheory anyway. Despite a seasonal lull in thetemperature, it still feels like stumblingaround in a pizza oven. The whole area isneat and scrubbed. Smart French boulangeriesand English bookshops, armed guards andinformation centres. In the background, aband plays, a jaunty sort of local music withahint of the Mexican mariachi, and a dashof the Spanish flamenco. “They’re all blind,”Ivan says. We sit down. His blog, Ivanhenares.corn, is essential reading for the Manila virgin,and we have his wisdom on tap for the day.

A bowl ofbright yellow.., well,something.., is plonked on the table. Allaround, families chatter and paw theirtelephones, sipping Coca~Cola and gobblingtheir lunch. “Karc-kare,” he explains. I take abigspoonful. It’s tripe in a teeth-achinglysweet peanut-butter sauce. Even theintensely salty, fishy hit ofbagoongalamang,orshrirnp paste, does nothing to temper thesugar. The soft, bovine wobble of the offalis superb, but the dish is memorable forallthe wrong reasons. I’m off to a badstart. I smile wanly and we move to thenext stall, where another bowl appears,another stew, this time blacker thaneternal night. “Pig’s blood with meatandoffal. JJinuguan, a great regionaldish.” I take a mouthful. There’s a

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whisper ofvinegar and various unidentifiablepieces ofpig. But it’s dull, heavy and a littleturgid. I know it’s just two dishes, butperhaps the naysayers were right after all.Then salvation arrives in the unlikely formofa chopped and fried pig’s head, Sisig,meaning “chop-chop” after the actioninvolved in making the dish. There arecrunchy nuggets of flesh, and soft sliversofpig cheek and the gelatinous crack of thesnout and ear. Chillies add fire not aFilipino staple, save in the region ofBicol),a squeeze of calamansi a cherry sized citrus

“Christ, no,

ADVENTURE

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that tastes somewhere between lime andorange cuts through the fatty edge. “Very

j~7.. Pampanga a province in the Central Luzonregion ,“ nods Ivan with approval. At last,I’m smiling, shovelling more of this beautiful

• melange into my mouth.“Its birthplace is only an hour or so

% northofthecity,”sayslvan. “Youshouldget- - up there. It’s beer food, lots of fat and heat

and flavour.” Damn, it’s good. “It’s not anold dish, but has an interesting history.” Hepauses, lost in thought. Then turns to me.“You know, Manila is a lovely city. Peopleassume it’s dangerous and primitive, anddon’t realise how big it is. But problems areonly down in the south, in Mindanao. Youhave to understand the history to understandeverything, from the city to the food.” Hefiddles, absentmindedly, with a straw. “Thefood here is a fusion of the Malay at its base,and Spanish, Chinese and American. Welook east and west, and are unique in doingthat. It’s underrated too. There are Filipinosall over the world, yet where are therestaurants, the famous dishes that equaldim sum, or green curry or pho?” He’s right.Think ofhow many Filipinos there are acrossthe world: millions and millions. There mustbe around t~o,ooo in London alone. That’slarger than any Thai, Japanese or Koreancommunity. And how many restaurants? Youcan count them on one hand. It’s the greathidden cuisine. “The problem is, we adapteasily to new places,” Ivan says as we get upto leave. “And don’t like paying to eat foodwe’d make better at home anyway.”

Two hours later, I’m standing on one ofthe most pristine lawns I’ve ever seen. Itmakes Wimbledon’s Centre Court lookshabby. The fluorescently verdant glow ofthe grass is made all the more luminous bythe dirty grey concrete sprawled all around.And the bright white crosses, all in neat rows,which stretch out into the distance. This isthe American Cemetery and Memorial, amighty tribute to US personnel killed hereduring the Second World War. Narra andacacia trees sway gently in the breeze and anAmerican flag flutters above the tall stonechapel. It’s impossible not to be moved; awell-manicured slice ofAmerica in the heartofManila. Yet there’s little sign of a Filipinoequivalent, despite the hundreds ofthousands — civilian and armed forces —

who also perished at the same time. “Duringthe liberation ofManila,” says Ivan,“America flattened and obliterated the city.They wanted to decimate the Japanese andsucceeded. And they saved us, for which we’llbe forever grateful. But we lost everything—400 years to build, a few days to flatten —

w That was the price we all had to pay. Afterliberation, we didn’t reconstruct, we built

new buildings. Add in widespreadcorruption, and this,” he waves his arm atthecityaroundus, “iswhathappened.” >

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ADVENTUREUnlike Milton Keynes, Manila wasn’t

born bad. It was once one ofAsia’s loveliestcities — the “Pearl of the Orient”, withbeautiful colonial churches and breezyboulevards, shaded walks and cool arcades.This was the upside of5oo years of Spanishrule. Now, crawl through the traffic —

through the mass ofconcrete and corrugatediron, the rotting façades peekingoutbetween the endless signs selling Pizza Hutand Wendy’s Delivery, Marlboro and MeritMenthols — and you’ll occasionally, veryoccasionally, happen across a handsomecolonial house. Or the crumbling remains ofwalls, gates and bulwarks of Intramuros, thefortified Spanish fortress. Modern Manilaain’t a pretty city. Where do you go aftertotal decimation? There wasn’t the luxury

ofpreserving all those years ofheritage,rather the necessity of instant

rebuilding. There were hovelsto be built, money to

be made. There is

“Balutis the streetfood equivalent theof AniffiOl Farm —Ion v’’-~porno verS-~as a ~~~naqer.a tertili5~ duoegg1 complete withembryo

colour, though,everywhere, splashed across buildings

and daubed across jeepneys, the elongated4M~ that provide the city’s cheapest publictransport. And God, too. “God is Love”screams one typically garish billboard.“Godly Fear” quivers another. The headlinein that morning’s Manila Times, just below“President to Teach Lawyers How to FireGuns”, is “Catholic Priest in Ancient Warwith ‘Demons”. High churchin’, hell andbrimstone Catholicism is the order of the day.

The Spanish pitched up back in 1521,

greedy for money and Catholic converts. Andstayed for 400 years. The country remainspredominantly Catholic — So per cent of thepopulation. Then the Americans came,bringing universal education and a vastlyimproved infrastructure. Both countries leftindelible footprints. “Food is like a ritualhere,” says Lilah, our new guide, “a religionin itself, binding the family together.” We’redriving northwest ofManila, towardsPampanga, known as the “gourmet province”and birthplace of the luscious sisig. It’s joyousto escape the stifling city and its i~minhabitants. We pass paddy fields “Rice isthe staple ofall meals. Without rice, it’s not a

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meal,” Ivan had said), and endless hoardingsexhorting us to “Drink Colt! The Strong Beerfor Real Men”. Or eat at Dairy Queen,Cinnabon, McDonald’s... I’ve never seenjunk-food advertising so rampant. This isAmerica’s real legacy, a taste for the fast andprocessed. But it’s Jollibee, the nationalburger chain, that’s the most ubiquitous ofall. They say that in New York you’re nevermore than 6ft from a rat. The same might betrue in Manila, but you’re certainly nevermore than ~ft from a Jollibee. The burgersare slightly sweeter than Ronald’s, and morepopular. Jollibee Spaghetti, with a sweettomato sauce, outsells the Big Mac. Go figure.

But today, we’re eschewing fast food forlunch at Claude Tayag’s house. Tayag, anartist, sculptor, furniture-maker and chef,has warm eyes and a wide face. He’s tall andimmediately likeable, with a slight paunch.“This area is where some of the best food inthe Philippines comes from,” he says in hishusky voice. “Now, let’s eat.” He echoesIvan’s arguments as to the world standing ofFilipino food. “This is a cuisine that adapts,

that gobbles up foreigninfluences,” he says betw~~bites ofpako, a dainty fernhe picked that morninIt’s crisp and delicate, mbce.jwith a pickled quail’s eggand a sharp mango dressing“We seem to lack a decentmarketing ofour food. And

we don’t show offour own food, rather keepit to ourselves. Upscale Filipino restauran~have never worked. They’re expensive andFilipino people will say, ‘They’re notauthentic, they’re geared for foreigners andwe can cook better at home, so why bother?’”Kare-kare appears from the kitchen, asdifferent from yesterday’s lurid peanut-butter offering as could possibly be. It’s light,and elegant with just a hint ofearthysweetness. “Properly done,” says Claude,“these things take time.”

“We like the slightly boiled, the slightlysoured,” said the late Filipino food guruDoreen G Fernandez. “One distinctcharacteristic ofFilipino food is thesourness,” agrees Claude as he spoons thetart, guava-spiked broth, sinigang, into mybowl. “It’s brought about by our being atropical country, first and foremost. Before

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electricity, cooking with vinegar, especiallypalm vinegar, was a way to prolong the life ofadish.” He adds inacouple of fat, phone-box-red rivercrayfish, and chunks of milkfi hand fingers ofokra. “Try this.” I take a biteofa green pod that is incredibly sour. “It’skamias, one of the many souring agents weuse. They vary from region to region, seasonto season. Can be green mango, tamarindor even lemon juice. You get the salt from thefermented fish and shrimp pastes, or the fishsauce. Salt and vinegar. The heart of Filipinofood.” The soup is rich yet light: a meal inone. “People forget how varied Filipino foodis. Each region is distinct. The youngergeneration is rediscovering its culinary roots.But I do fear the McDonaldisationof our country.”

“Every region has its own version ofadobo,” says Claude, leaning back in hischair. It’s been a few hours, and belts areunbuckled, guards dropped. “It meansanything cooked with vinegar, so is atechnique rather than an actual dish. But thestaples are vinegar, garlic, black pepper and >

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ADVENTURE

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ADVENTURE abay.” In just two days, I’d munched throughthree separate adobo versions. “Now thegeneral complaint is that Filipino food isbrown and oily.” I nod, my mind going backto the previous day. “But that’s just not true.Look at what you’ve eaten today. I use thefreshest ingredients and make it look good.And I’m hoping more people will take asmuch care of the presentation, and thecooking, too. Find the time, do it properly.So we don’t take the short cuts; the peanutbutter in your kare-kare... Ortaking the easy route to adobo,just shoving everything in thesame pot and using over-fattymeat.” He shakes his head.“This is how we must change.Makeitlookappetising,sell I..

its virtues.”And there are many. Sisig

being a particular one. Claudemakes his own version,superior to the day before. Thechillies are hotter, the cartilagemore crunchy, the fried meatsticky and chewy, too. “Thiswas originally a sour dish,made to quench a pregnant -

woman’s cravings. So unripemango or guava, or anything I

fermented in vinegar.” He ‘4takes a swig ofSan Miguel andsmiles. “Later in the pregnancy, boiled pig’sears and tails would be dipped in vinegar.But it was only in the Sixties, when localstall holder Aling Lucing, just a mile or sofrom here, grilled the ears and snouts furtheruntil blackened, and mixed with choppedonions, chillies and boiled chicken livers.[Founder Lucia “Lucing” Cunanan] usedall the pig heads from the US base nextdoor. They had no use for them. Then abrother of mine opened his own place,Trellis, in 1980 in Manila, and served it on asizzling platter, so there was another layer offlavour. And it took off. What was once aregional Pampanga food became a nationalobsession. Now, sing means anything servedon a sizzling plate.” I settle back still furtherinto my chair, happy to listen to Claude forhours. “Remember, in Manila the chef has noego. Food is very individual here. And spiceis generally added. We do love sour things ingeneral, and everything comes with vinegar.But it’s the eater who finishes offhis dish.After all, it’s you eating, not the chef.”We leave, reluctantly, clasping bottles ofClaude’s homemade crab fat and copiesofFood Tour, his book on Filipino food andtravel. I’m inspired. I want to eat more.

Street food is not a big draw here,certainly when compared to Thailand orVietnam. But then there’s balut, the pavementequivalent ofAnimal Farm the pornoversion you saw as a teenager on grainyVHS. It’s a fertilised duck egg, complete

with embryo, and,like the pornoand Manila, too,

suffers fromawildlyexaggeratedreputation.“Baaaaaluuuut”

— cry the vendorsas dusk rushes in,

yet this is not about feathers and crunchingbones. “God, no, we don’t eat balut withfeathers and bones,” says Ivan Man Dy, thelean power behind tour-guide company OldManila Walks oldmanjlawajks.com .“Thatwould be disgusting. If you gave that to me,I’d spit it out. Yuk! Gross! Now, this lady sellsgood ones. They’re best at about i6 days,before they develop too much.” He buys two.“Break the bottom and drink out the juice.Then open the top, add vinegar or salt, eatthe embryo. Next, peel the egg and devour.”I’m nervous. And have certainly thrown upover less. I’ve something to prove, though I’mnot entirely sure what it is. But if not a delight,then batut is certainly a surprise. The broth isrich, tempered with a hint ofshit and decay.But no worse than a decent Epoisses cheese.The duck is tiny, no bigger than a ~op piece,with the texture ofa warm oyster. I swallowit down and bite into the egg. It’s beautiful,regally rich and pungent. A soft boiled

egg in mink cape, packing a gold-platedAK-47. One more Filipino myth destroyed.

I could go on and on. Dinner at CaféJuanita, run by Manila’s best obstetrician, isriot ofkitsch, scrunched fabrics, belly porkand fairy lights; or beer and noodles in thepanciterias, sitting among old men andtheir endless games ofcards. Then there’sthe cockfight, surprisingly undramatic; thebetting was more thrilling than the mainevent. “Do-do-do-do,” goes the crowd,waggling their fingers in some secret punters’code. “Huchen, huchen, huchen,” cries thekristo orbet-taker, adaptingodds and takingbets without the aid ofpaper. The noisecrescendoes, then silence. The blades areunsheathed, razor sharp and gleaming, likemetal spurs on the cock’s legs. These glossy,horny, mighty cocks, preened as a pony clubsteed, strut and claw and crow. Then the fightbegins. At times, slow — at others, brutallyswift. It’s all over in a trickle ofblood.

But it’s dinner on my last night in Manilathat turns a growing flirtation into true love.

With about 12 hours’ notice, MargaritaFores puts together a feast in every sense.Chef, writer and restaurateur, she’s smalland sexy, exuding the same, single-mindedpassion as Claude. She introduces me toJoelBinamira, the thin and intelligent man behindthe blog Market Manila (marhetmanila.comHe used to be a banker, then consultant, butfood’s his real passion. He talks eloquen yon Iechdn, a great, shiny roast pig: “Aspeciality across the region, sometimesstuffed with lemongrass or fruit or beer.”

The pig, seemingly coated in thin toffee,sits gleaming in the centre of the table.

He breaks off a shard of the brittle skin.It’s the finest piece of pigskin I’ve ever

eaten. One of the best things I’ve evertried, full stop. “It’s a celebratory

dish, but also a very traditional

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Close-upone, eaten way before the Spaniards arrived.”

I chew, my head in hog heaven. We sip onMargarita’s sinigang, stunningly clean,elegant and fresh tasting. And that sournessis just right. Simple, yet glorious. “Theproblem,” Joel says, between bites, “is thathere, it’s region first, then country. Hencethe profile ofour dishes abroad. But myself,Claude, Margarita and many others, wewant to keep traditional cooking alive.”At their best, the sisig, lechdn, sinigangandadobo are world-class dishes.

“It’s all there; the love ofhome cooking,food and ingredients,” says Margarita. “Wemustn’t lose it. Even traditional dishes nowcome from packets. We must fight to protectour heritage.” Joel nods and we get on with

the eating, late into the night.As we drive back to the

hotel, my belly full, and headstuffed with chat andgoodwill, I look around. Yes,it’s a city with a pockmarkedface and a horrible limp, aplace oferroneouspreconceptions. But it has aheart ofgold. Like the kindbeauty who’s fallen on hardtimes. Far more than a merehub for the rest of the country,

an archipelagic afterthought, Manila’sone hell of a capital city. It hums and throbsand buzzes and whirrs. Overlooked andunderappreciated, it’s the plucky survivor.You just have to look beyond the obvious,scratch away the generalisations andlong-held cant. Just like the food. Visit

Manila with thosein the know. Youcan’t fail.

times and all that. At the end, she gave me aplate: a picture ofher in her full pomp, willowyand carrying an umbrella. “To Dearest Tom,Idohopeyou’llbeback.”YesMa’am, Iwill.So much for the shithole. I had a ball. F*Tom ParkerBowles stayed at the MandarinOriental, Manila (÷6327508888noandarinoriental.com/maflila

A COIN INTOTHE CUPRoss Raisin’s second novel takes onhomelessness. With jokes!

y ou’ve seen him. The homeless guy outside the

station, oup proffered in hope rather thanexpectation. You might drop a few coins inbefore accelerating away, feeling pleasedwith yourself. Ross Raisin deoided to goa few steps further and write a book about

that guy and the thousands like him, and how they got there.“The book started with an interest in homelessness and

I wentfrom there,” says the 31-year-old Yorkshire-bornnovelist. ‘The idea of the stereotypical Glaswegian itinerantand tracing him back, giving him a life, a family — a story.”

Following God’s Own Country, his debut which won TheSunday Times’ Young Writer of the Year Award in 2009,Waterline announces Raisin as a profound thinker as wellas a distinctive voioe. In the opening pages we meet MiokLittle, a shipbuilderfrom Govan, whose world ceases to havemeaning after his wife’s death. The shipyards he knew as

P.OSS RAISIN PHOTOGRAPHED FORESQUIRE IN LONDONBY N SOFIA RI CHTER 16 MAY

a youth have long since died too, and Miok finds himself adrift.“I was interested in industry,” Raisin says. “The idea that

a community oould be built around this one activity andeveryone was affected by it. And what would happen if itceased to be. That idea of bereavement goes beyond theactual factof Mioks wife dying. It’s the death ofaway of life.”

After the fUneral. Miok is left alone to dwell on his future. Hetakes a night bus to London with a notion ofstarting over, but hisspiral from menial jobs to sleeping rough and drinking is rapid.

The authors mordant humour is never far away (anothervagrant complains that the Polish homeless are taking all thebest dossing spots), and Waterline sidesteps sentimentality.As Raisin sees it: “There’s always the sense that whathappened to Miok could happen to anyone.” Kevin SampsonWaterline (Viking) is out on 7July

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i’llnceth gartcCrack hepepp

II; 44

(ServesMethodII In a bowl, combinegail c and crackedpeppercorns withvinegar, soy sauce andbay leaves.

Add the beef andmar nate for at least anhour. Six hours s belier.

Heattheoi inapanBrown meat in batchesover high heat. Setaside. Add rena ningma nadetopan

Add water to the pan,bring to boll, thensimmer and add beef.

Put in the oven at1SO’C and cook far2—2¼h .Salt to taste.

As for Imelda...Well, what do youthink? Clever, funny,charming, and happyto laugh at herselfI was seduced.Sorry. I just couldn’thelp it. Part DameEdna, part Liz Taylor,with a hint ofCleopatra and yourgranny too. Hershoes, by the way,were gold sandals— well, gold coloured,not made of the realprecious metal. She’snot so rich now. Hard

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