Memories of Philippine Kitchens PDF
Preview Memories of Philippine Kitchens
Bicol (left), sago (right). Sorsogon, Bicol (above left), making piaya in Silay. Bitter melon. CONTENTS Foreword by Peter Kaminsky You Can Go Home Again by Amy Besa Introduction by Raymond Sokolov A Living History What Is Filipino Food? CHAPTER 1 Memories of Nanay and Iba Summer Vacations in Iba The Mangoes of Zambales The Wedding of the Century CHAPTER 2 Food That Was Always Ours Adobo Vinegar Sinigang Kinilaw Kare Kare Rice Kakanin CHAPTER 3 Food That Was Borrowed and Made Our Own The Chinese-Spanish Connection The Spanish-Mexican Connection The American Influence CHAPTER 4 Treasured Family Recipes Ilocos Pampanga Laguna Bicol Visayas CHAPTER 5 Christmas: A Merging of Traditions CHAPTER 6 Changing Landscapes: Discovering the Filipino Palate Where Do We Go from Here? Glossary Filipino Food Sources Further Reading Conversion Chart Index of Searchable Terms Foreword PETER KAMINSKY Some people feel at home in the corner bar where, just as soon as they walk in, the bartender knows to pour “the usual.” Others have a local breakfast joint where the comforting clatter of coffee cups and the smell of sizzling bacon are as familiar as their favorite easy chair. I have had the restaurants of Romy Dorotan and Amy Besa—first Cendrillon, in trendy SoHo, and now Purple Yam, situated at the epicenter of the Brooklyn dining explosion that has redefined the New York restaurant scene. I discovered Amy, Romy, and their take on the complex and delightful food of the Philippines shortly after New York magazine made me their Underground Gourmet, which meant I sought out ethnic food and entry-level fine dining. I much preferred the ethnic stuff. In Cendrillon, I found both. I remember crisp soft-shell crab perched atop a salad of bean thread noodles. It was clean tasting, the mark of a chef who could assemble a panoply of tastes without confusing them in a saucy jumble. And a red snapper in a slightly sweet, slightly sour broth, with greens that were unfamiliar but struck just the right balance with the delicate white-fleshed fish. Barbecued pork chops with plum glaze (I am a porkophile, and Cendrillon never disappointed) were served alongside suman, rice cakes steamed in banana leaves topped with a pat of butter and sugar. And then, the ultimate test—my kids. We went for Sunday brunch and filled up on bibingka—a puddingish cake of eggs with coconut milk, sugar, and feta cheese. If no one had used the phrase “comfort food” before, it would surely have been invented right then. I was sold. But I was new on the job, so I called for a second opinion from my friend Bryan Miller, who had been the restaurant critic at the New York Times. Miller gave Cendrillon an enthusiastic thumbs-up. I think his exact words were, “This is the real deal. Equally pleasing to both of us—here was a chef making Asian food and actually pairing it with wine! Who knew? Prior to that I had been of the opinion that in matters Asian, beer was the only way to go, but if you really insisted and just had to drink wine, well, then it had to be a Rhône or a Riesling. But the chef, Romy Dorotan, was pouring light Burgundies and grassy Basque whites, sharp- edged Syrahs, and velvety tempranillos, and they all worked. Romy was one half of the reason that Cendrillon became my go-to restaurant whenever I wanted something unusual and guaranteed delicious. The other half was his wife and partner, Amy Besa. She filled the front of the house with the bonhomie of a great restaurateur. Like her husband, she’s an intellectual who went from Manila to Manhattan when things got a little hot for thinking people with political opinions. New York’s SoHo—hip, downtown, everyone dressed in black—was a perfect fit. When asked to describe Romy’s cooking, I often say, “It’s fusion but coming from the other direction.” By that I mean he’s not a Western chef who went to Thailand on a cruise and discovered lemongrass. For starters, Filipino food is, by its very nature, fusion—a mix of a number of Asian cuisines and, reflecting its colonial past, Spanish with some Mexican thrown in (for nearly three hundred years, the Spaniards ran their colony through the viceroyalty of Acapulco). Add to that Romy’s experience at one of Manhattan’s first modern fine-dining restaurants—the pioneering Hubert’s. There, he picked up precise French- inspired technique and a willingness to experiment that has kept him in the vanguard of Manhattan—make that American—dining every since. Then there’s Amy’s unflagging and infectious good cheer, which keeps you smiling through dinner. She is also the self-appointed, and universally acknowledged, den mother of Asian chefs in America. Thai, Cambodian, Filipino, Vietnamese, Indonesian, Keralan, Malaysian—whenever there is an Asian chef doing something new and interesting, Amy is sure to invite him or her to prepare a meal for adventurous diners. Perhaps the best recommendation I can share with you—least clouded by my obvious love for these unique, accomplished, and lovable restaurateurs—is the fact that all the food journalists, cookbook writers, chefs, and gourmets I have sent to their restaurants over the years have reported that they had a great meal . . . and, most convincingly, they all went back. First it was Cendrillon; now in Ditmas Park, the even more vibrant and innovative Purple Yam. I guess it was inevitable that Romy and Amy would move to Brooklyn. I did, for the peace and quiet and to raise my children. We had plenty of great ethnic food to choose from, but modern, interesting restaurant food? Not so much. But then the crash of 2008 and disenchantment with fussy fine dining sent legions of veterans of the high-priced joints out to Brooklyn to try their luck with its lower rents and hungry foodies. Brooklyn has become the “It” borough, the place where food energy reaches critical mass. Amy and Romy are right on the crest of the wave. It’s good to have them. More bibingka, anyone?
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