Sinigang na Baboy

Disclaimer: I’ve been reading The Kamogawa Food Detectives in book club, which inspired me to write a Filipino version. This was simply a fun writing exercise — not a copyright infringement or an official adaptation by any means, just a personal tribute to the warmth of food, family, and memories.

Jaz Ong immediately regretted leaving the house at 4:45PM. As rush hour kicked in to full gear, their Grab had barely moved 500 meters in the last half hour. According to Google Maps, the Katipunan Karinderya closes at 6:30PM each night, the last of the university students safely home having dinner with their families by that time. Not wanting to waste the ₱456 fare on hold in their credit card, they decide to travel the rest of the way on foot.

“Kuya, dito na lang po ako.” It didn’t matter that the Innova was in the middle lane. No one was getting in or out of Katipunan’s packed streets so despite his displeasure, the driver nods through the mirror as he ends the trip on his phone. Jaz shoves their phone into their canvas messenger bag and casually slings it over their shoulder. They open the passenger door just a crack to check for stray motorcycles. Seeing it was safe, a quick step takes them to the corner of CP Garcia and B Gonzales.

The evening air is humid as Jaz tries to make sense of hurried directions they scribbled off a Tiktok video. In Katipunan, there is a lost and found for dishes. Walk a block until you see Dheng’s Salon. Turn right and keep walking until the Barangay outpost. Count three houses and you’ll see a 5-storey mixed use building. The karinderya is on the ground floor. They walk and turn right at Dheng’s Salon. With the sun setting, the street is dark save for a few lampposts waking up for the night. They walk for a good ten minutes, the Barangay outpost seemingly out of sight. A quick glance at their watch shows 6:15. 

“Dammit, I’m running out of time.”

A patrolling Kagawad rolls by. They lock eyes briefly and Jaz musters up enough courage to say: “Kuya, tulong po.” The e-trike brakes swiftly, a tinny sound echoing in the air. “Alam niyo po ba kung saan yung Katipunan Karinderya?”

“Ah eh, lagpas ka na.” He points to a nondescript white building just a few meters away. “Ayun siya.”

“Salamat po. First time ko lang din kasi dito.” He smiles, a front tooth slightly rotten and brown.

“Tiktoker ka ba? Ang dami niyong nagtatanong kung nasaan yung karinderyang yan. Eh kung bakit wala naman silang kahit anong signage, ewan ko na lang.”

“Yun nga po eh. Baka nagpapaka-mysterious.” Jaz thanks him and he drives away, his left hand left hanging in the air like a half-wave goodbye. They walk to the identified building. Cars spill over from the parking lot onto the street. A security guard sits on a monobloc chair playing Mobile Legends. Not wanting to disturb him, they look around the first floor units for the karinderya. With no sign advertising its presence, Jaz lets their nose guide them. The third unit to the left has the unmistakable scent of Filipino comfort food. They wipe their feet on the welcome mat and knock on the door only to find it is open – a creaking sound unlocking at the gentlest force.

---

“Tao po?” They call out. Outside, it looked like a regular apartment but inside, it was a typical karinderya, as common as karinderyas go. There are two diners at the counter finishing their meals. The boy is watching Tiktok videos while he sips his soup. The older one is nursing a softdrink bottle, the slurping sound echoing in the dark green bottle. The karinderya’s tables are topped with crusty vinyl and plastic. A CRT TV mounted on the wall plays the evening news. Beside it is a small shelf with a Santo Niño and a black and white portrait of an elderly woman. The mint green monobloc chairs sit neatly and in rows, nondescript save for two burnt initials on the back: KK.

“Welcome to Katipunan Karinderya! Kain kain!” greets Isabel Rivera energetically from behind a curtain. She emerges with an empty tray and buses out the last of the plates from the counter. “Take out na lang po kasi pasara na kami.”

“Ah okay po. Pasensiya na.”

“Keri lang. Anong ulam mo, beh?” Isabel lifts the covers to reveal one dish after another. There is adobo, kaldereta, bulalo, sinigang na bangus, chop suey, and a lonely fried tilapia – the sole survivor from a day of hungry college students. Jaz comes closer to inspect each tray while Isabel holds up the last 2 lids impatiently.

“Masarap yan lahat, beh. Wag mo titigan, baka ma-conscious!”

“Ay, sorry po.”

“Ilang rice, beh. Daliiiiii, baka Chika Minute na, hindi ka pa nakakapili.”

A bellowing voice emerges from behind the curtain. “Hoy Isabel, mas maasim ka pa sa pinakurat! Hayaan mong mamili si ma’am.” The chef, Alfredo Rivera, pops in from the makeshift kitchen. “Ay, sir pala.” The locals call him Mang Fred, even though his nose is a little too Western to be called Mang. If he were in Jaz’s corporate office, he would have probably been called Sir Fred or Mr. Rivera.

“Actually, Jaz na lang po,” they correct. “Hindi ako ma’am, pero di rin ako sir.”

“Ah, isa ka palang they/them.” Fred shifts gears. Isabel shoots him a dirty look. “Bakit? Ikaw lang ba ang pwedeng maging woke? Excuse me – I am an ally.”

“Ally o alalay?” calls out Caloy Dizon, the other diner who has just put away the last of his Laing. He slaps down a ₱100 bill and smiles cheekily at Isabel. “Keep the change, darling.”

“Maka-keep the change ka, di pa nga bayad yung Sparkle mo kahapon. Hmmpft.” Isabel may be the younger of the two-man crew but she definitely has the spirit of a much older Filipina.

“Ayan, ang sungit nanaman! Paano ka mag-aasawa niyan? Di ba no, ‘toy?” Caloy taps Ernie Santos on the shoulder but he barely looks up from his phone. “Isa pa ‘to. Selpown ng selpown. Kaya ang labo ng mata mo eh. Kung luminaw yan, baka inakyat mo na ng ligaw itong si Isabel.”

“Hep hep hep… Walang ganyang usapan dito,” interrupts Mang Fred. “Jaz, wag kang magmadali ha. Hindi naman kami magsasara hangga’t may kumakain pa.”

“Ah eh…” Jaz begins. “Totoo po ba na meron kayong Food Detective service? Napanood ko lang po sa Tiktok, pero baka fake news.”

Isabel looks up. “Ayun naman pala. Sana sinabi mo kanina,” she says as she unties her apron. “Wait lang, set-up ko lang yung office. Kain ka muna.”

She disappears back into the makeshift kitchen, the greying curtains swaying in the wind. Mang Fred fixes me a plate of a little bit of everything. He takes the last tilapia and pops it into an oven toaster. He walks across the room to the softdrinks fridge. With one hand, he opens a bottle of Pop Cola, the tansan clinking into the crown receptacle. He sets the bottle beside my plate on an empty spot in the counter and motions me to sit down. A bell announces the toaster is done. With a pair of tongs, he lays the re-crisped fish on the edge of my plate.

“Ayan, ‘nak. Kain na. Gusto mo ng sawsawan?”

“Okay na po ‘to.” Jaz chuckles. “Ang dami pala.”

They roll their sleeves up to their elbows and tuck in, starting with the dark and savory adobo. If it were freshly cooked, it wouldn’t be this oily. Everyone knows adobo is best when it’s rested for a few days. It looks like Mang Fred’s adobo is about three days old, refried in hot oil before it was served. Jaz takes a spoonful of rice topped with fatty adobo. Their eyes widen as their tastebuds come to life. This is the best adobo they’ve ever had.

They cradle the soup cup in their hands like ceremonial tea. They slurp and it’s a hearty nilaga broth. The hairs on their arms stand in attention. This too is the best nilaga they’ve ever had. They must have boiled the beef for days to get it to taste like this. One after the other, each ordinary looking dish dances somersaults on Jaz’s tongue. By the time the last spoonful is scraped carelessly off the plate, they look up to find Mang Fred with a small serving of Leche Flan.

“I hope you saved room for desert. Specialty namin ‘tong leche flan – a well guarded family secret.”

“Grabe po, sobrang sarap ng… lahat. Ngayon lang ako nakakain ng ganito kasarap na ulam.”

“Sobra ka naman,” Mang Fred says in full humility. “Normal na ulam lang yan. I’m sure ganyan din luto ng mama mo.”

“Actually, magaling magluto si mama.” Jaz’s mother works at Hapag, a trendy Filipino restaurant rumored to be on the fast track to a Michelin star – the Philippines’ first. While Hapag’s Filipino fusion dishes cost an entire day’s wage for a typical Filipino, none of them could hold a candle to Mang Fred’s homely offerings. “Pero ibang level ‘to.”

“You’re too kind,” Mang Fred says as he hands Jaz the leche flan. “Easy lang yung mga kinain mo. Ito, ito ang pinaka-proud akong i-serve.” Jaz pats their belly lightly, their fullness straining their jeans’ top button. They sigh, unbutton their pants, and tuck in.

The leche flan is an orgy of flavors, nay, experiences. The custard is smooth and sweet, balanced with hints of rind. The top of the flan has a hard exterior, not unlike a torched crème brulee. It is sweet, sour, and bitter. It is hard and soft. It is heaven and hell. It is unlike anything they have ever had before.

Without them noticing, Jaz’s tears begin to flow. Mang Fred looks up, alarmed. “‘Nak, anong nangyare?”

“Ay, sorry po.” They say, wiping tears on their sleeves. “Sobrang sarap po. Hindi ko alam anong betsin meron dito, pero sobrang sarap po ng lahat.”

“Walang betsin yan, anak.” He points at a sign on the wall. In rudimentary word art, MSG is set behind a slashed circle. “Ang secret ingredient ko ay ito.” Mang Fred beats at his chest. “Ang pagluluto kasi, hindi utak pinapairal. Puso. Puso. Puso…”

“Si tatay, walang alam kundi puso. Hindi naman tayo makakabayad ng kuryente sa puso.” Isabel interrupts from behind the curtain. “Lika na beh, I’m readyyyyy,” she beckons.

---

Mang Fred leads Jaz through the curtains and onto the kitchen – although to call it a kitchen would be a stretch. Planks of plywood separate the area from the rest of the karinderya. On one side of the wall, a fridge, a steel table, and a restaurant-grade gas stove stand economically side-by-side. On the other side is a makeshift shelf, wood warping from the weight of ingredients and other sundries. There are bayongs filled with vegetables, likely unpacked from a market trip settling on top of a locked chest freezer. In the middle of the room is a monobloc table with one of the legs duct taped upright. Isabel sits on one end of it with her arms crossed, like a CEO in a penthouse office far removed.

I spot a photo wall. “Ano po ‘to?”

“Ah yan, mga pinaglutuan ko over the years. Yung iba diyan, dun pa sa pwesto namin sa Cainta.”

“Ang dami po!” The older photos have yellowed edges, the Kodak Gold film tarnishing over the years. It seems to be arranged by the year each photo was taken. I spot politicians, movie stars, and musicians with bright smiles and full bellies tapering to newer influencers, Big Brother housemates, and viral sensations towards the bottom.

“Hindi na nga updated yan. Isabel, asan na yung picture ni Zeinab?”

“Tatay naman, akala mo naman kilala niya talaga si Zeinab.”

“Hoy. Excuse me. Sila pa ni Skusta Clee, paborito na nila yung ginataang langka ko.” Isabel rolls her eyes at this Gen Z cosplay. With an open palm, she points to an empty chair beckoning me to sit.

“Beh, pa fill up na lang.” She brings out a clipboard with a bio-data.

“Fill out,” Mang Fred corrects and Isabel blows raspberries like a five-year-old. He takes this as his cue to leave. “O siya, maiwan ko na kayo diyan.”

Jaz fills out the form. It’s pretty standard stuff – name, telephone number, how you heard about the detective service. Half the page is a big box where you’re meant to describe the dish you have lost and would like to find. Jaz searches their memory for a dish from their childhood that saved their lives.

“Okay… Jasmine Ong, preferred name Jaz. Non-binary from Taguig City. Wow, ang layo ng binyahe mo.” Jaz smiles at her sheepishly. “So, anong hanap mo.”

“Simple lang naman. I’m trying to recreate a dish my mom used to make. Sinigang na baboy. I know it’s very basic pero may something talaga yung sinigang namin nung bata ako. I’ve had bowls and bowls of sinigang na baboy pero none of them tasted like the one from home.”

“Mother’s name: Elizabeth Ong. Hindi ba ito yung…” Jaz nods, interrupting Isabel’s memory. “Sikat na sikat ‘tong chef. Napapanood ko pa to dati sa Umagang Kay Ganda. Don’t tell me hindi mo siya tinanong kung anong meron sa sinigang niyo noon?”

“I did. Um… she said the secret was this.” Jaz brings out a small bottle. “Hindi gumagamit si Mom ng powder. Tamarind preserves. Nung I started to recreate the dish, I tried everything – sinigang mix, liquid, totoong sampaloc. Lahat na ng pwedeng pampaasim, inacid na ako kaka-try. Pero di ko talaga mahuli yung taste.”

“Mahuli yung taste?” Isabel repeats, mockingly. “Isa ka bang kohl zenner?”

“Kohl zenner?”

“You know… thank you for calling! How may I help you today?”

“Ay… hindi po.” Jaz dismisses, chuckling. “Lumaki lang po sa States.”

“Ohhhh… legit na spokening dollars pala. Sorna beh. Infer, ang tatas mo mag-Tagalog, all things considered.” Isabel continues reading the form, a deep crease forming between her eyes. “May iba ka pa bang naalala about this sinigang?”

“Nilagay ko na po lahat sa form.”

“Aside from this, ano pa naalala mo about it? Try to imagine yung last time na nakakain ka nung sinigang na ‘yan. Anong naramdaman mo?”

Jaz pauses to ponder this. The restaurant blurs away, and she is back in her childhood home. It would be years before her parents’ split would rip her from her home country, exiling her to a land that spoke a different language and had more than 2 seasons. Aling Lu, her yaya, is calling her for dinner. Her father and brother are already seated when she enters the dining room. Her mother will be home late, as restauranteurs are wont to do. Familiar scents waft through from the kitchen to the rest of the house the Ongs owned on Cattleya Street.

“Ito na ang favorite ng ating prinsesa!” Aling Lu sings as she sets down a large bowl of sinigang na baboy. Her voice is as comforting as the sour-savory broth. Within minutes, the Ongs empty the entire bowl and Aling Lu returns to top it up.

“Jusko, Lu. Kaya nagsisiluwagan yung garter ng mga brief ko. Kuhang-kuha mo yung sinigang ni Liz. Baka pwede ka na magtrabaho dun.”

“No!” Jasmine screams, indignant. “Dito lang si Mama Lu!”

In Elizabeth’s absence, Aling Lu has practically mothered Jasmine for the last three years. Aling Lu takes the Good Morning towel from her shoulder and wipes off thick beads of sweat off Jasmine’s forehead. She lifts the back off her Princess Jasmine nightgown and places the towel on her back, absorbing sweat so her little princess would not catch a cold.

“Bat pawis na pawis? Walang aircon? Akala ko ba mayaman kayo?” Isabel’s hard voice snaps Jaz back to present day.

“Oo nga ‘no. Every time sinigang yung ulam, pinapawisan kami lahat. Do you think that’s something? Will that help?”

“I’m not sure. Ask natin si fadir.” Isabel scribbles on the sheet of paper, monotonously narrating her appended notes. “So recipe siya ng mom mo, pero yung yaya mo nagluluto. Sampaloc yung base… liempo yung cut ng baboy. Meron bang buto-buto?” Jaz shakes her head. “Wala… okay… yung gulay – do you remember?”

“I think the usual. Labanos, kangkong, kamatis, gabi, okra, talong… nothing extraordinary.”

“Okay… noted.” Once done, she sets her pen down and stands up. Jaz takes this as their cue that the meeting is over. They walk back to the karinderya where Mang Fred sits vaping while watching the news.

“Oh. Tapos na kayo?” He taps his vape pen absentmindedly, like he was removing ash off a cigarette – a habit likely from decades of smoking.

“Yup. I think mapapakamot ka ng ulo dito, ‘tay.” She hands him the clipboard and the same deep crease forms on Mang Fred’s forehead.

“Sorry. Um… kung hindi kaya, okay lang naman. Lately kasi, I’ve been getting a little sickly. I remember that sinigang would bring me back to life.”

“Mahirap, yes…” Mang Fred sucks air between his teeth. “Pero kaya yan. Tiwala lang. Balik ka na lang dito in two weeks, or text ka namin if mapaaga.”

“Sige po. Ay, magkano po pala yung dinner?” Mang Fred waves Jaz’s hands away.

“Sa susunod na yung bayad. For now, enough na na iniyakan mo yung leche flan ko.”

“Another one?” Isabel says, looking at Jaz with slightly judgmental eyes. “Next time talaga, lalagayan ko na ng warning yung leche flan mo.”

“HOY! HOY!” Mang Fred suddenly roars at the top of his lungs. A scrawny black ball was drawing circles around Jaz’s legs – a figure 8 made by the bony legs of a street cat. “ALIS DIYAN!” The cat ignores the old man and instead settles on the longer monobloc bench. Like clockwork, it licks itself and then curls up into a ball. Isabel comes out of the kitchen with a plastic container filled with scraps from today’s meals. “Kaya balik ng balik yan dito kasi pinapakin mo.”

“Hayaan mo na si Bantay. Dagdag views din yan sa Tiktok no.” Jaz recalls several comments about this black cat. It had its own following on social media.

“Eh bakit kasi Bantay pa pinangalan mo? Ang bantay, aso. Eh pusa yan.”

“Walang basagan ng trip, ‘tay.” Bantay sprites up to all fours before tucking in to tonight’s feast. For starters – the lonely tilapia I couldn’t finish, the sole survivor from a day of hungry students and one non-binary Detective customer.

---

Jaz Ong had hardly slept, anticipation working more fiercely than a triple shot caramel macchiato. They called in sick today to avoid the Katipunan traffic. It only took her Grab thirty minutes to get to a non-descript white building the Katipunan Karinderya calls home.

Though this was their second visit, Jaz did not forget their manners. They knocked gently and opened the door to a full house. Packed from wall to wall were university students eating and chattering away. A few huddled around a lone extension cord that powered MacBooks that probably cost more than the karinderya’s entire daily sales.

“Hi beh, hanap ka na lang ng upuan. Medyo jampacked tayo for today’s video.” Isabel barely looks up from where she stood, her laser sharp focus on full display. Jaz finds an empty seat around the counter. She sets down her messenger bag and brings out a handheld battery-operated fan – its high-pitched whizzing underscoring the sweltering heat.

Mang Fred comes out of the kitchen with a comically large pot of broth. “Sorry guys, ubos na yung leche flan. Inorder na ni Mariel yung last.” A chorus of awwws and tut-tuts fills the small room as a couple of patrons shot dirty looks at the chubby girl eating the last leche flan. Her cheeks are bright red, although whether it was the heat, embarrassment, or a drug store lip and cheek stain that was the culprit is anyone’s guess.

Mang Fred spots Jaz from the crowd and his eyes light up. “Halika! Dito ka muna sa likod. Patilain lang natin yung lunch rush.”

---

It’s 1:15 and Mang Fred and Isabel saunter into the kitchen like two soldiers after an hours-long battle. Jaz sits up politely, ignoring the pain in their lower back from sitting on the monobloc chair too long.

“Pagoda cold wave lotion, beh! Ang daming bagets. Akala mo hindi pinapakain sa kanila!”

“Nakakatawa. I thought I’ve seen everything pero kanina, tinanong ako nung isa kung may vegan option ba yung pakbet.”

“You really get all sorts of people, no?” Jaz chimes in. “Even the rich kids can’t resist your food.”

“Blessing naman yan. Is there anything worse than a karinderya na walang kumakain?”

Jaz waits for the father and daughter to wind down. Apart from the heat and mild back pain, there was very little to complain about. Isabel is fanning herself with today’s tabloid. Jaz hands her the handheld fan.

“Ay sushal, Naka-Jisu. Sana ollll!” Isabel cheerfully takes the fan and cranks it up to 100. “OMG ang lakaaaas!” Mang Fred looks over from the stove to see his daughter’s hair blowing in the wind. He stifles a laugh then continues stirring the pot, a familiar scent filling the tiny kitchen.

“Medyo nahirapan kami dito, Jaz. Pero sa tingin ko, nakuha din namin.” He walks back to the table with two mini calderos – too small for actual cooking and most likely produced to serve dishes with nostalgia. Isabel gets up and pops a cassette tape into a dusty radio. She hits play and Vangelis’ Pulstar begins to play. Jaz immediately recognizes it as the 90s theme to the evening news.

“Oh, gusto mo yarn? May pa-background music pa kami?” Isabel chides.

“Picture this. It’s 1994 and TV Patrol is on TV. Your yaya interrupts your evening of homework to say dinner is ready.” Mang Fred uses a different voice for this narration, almost like he’s recording an audiobook or a special podcast episode.

He sets down the first caldero. “Jaz, kain na…”

He lifts the lid and a puff of steam escapes. “Dalawang linggo na kami kumakain ng sinigang but it was worth it, kasi I have a feeling you’re really gonna like this.” Jaz scoops up a moderate serving into a Melaware bowl. Isabel hands her a plate with white rice and small sauce dish with patis.

“To make this version, I consulted your mother – or rather your mother’s cookbook.” Mang Fred brings out a cookbook from the shelf, a dog-eared copy of Cooking At Home with Chef Liz by Elizabeth Ong. The irony of a cookbook for cooking at home written by a woman who was barely home was not lost on Jaz. A slight cringe forms at the corner of their eyes.

Jaz sips the familiar broth and immediately recognizes the all too familiar flavors. The fat from the liempo mingling with the tart of the sampaloc, and at the end of the flavor profile – a tiny kick from a siling pangsigang. It’s a flavor they know too well. They’ve made it 100 times before.

“The tamarind preserves was a nice touch. Ang hirap na nito hanapin so buti nalang you brought your own. Otherwise, magti-time machine pa ako to the 90s para bumili nito.” Jaz bites into a radish, plump and fresh. A mild bitter aftertaste balances well with the sinigang’s hearty flavors.

“But your mother lied when she made this cookbook. Did she tell you?” Jaz shakes her head. “She wasn’t the sole author of this book. She had a little help.” Mang Fred pauses for dramatic effect. “A helper, you could say.”

He brings out the second caldero. This time, he serves Jaz himself. Isabel takes the first bowl away as Mang Fred offers a revision of history in the form of a bowl of sinigang.

“Do you know who Augustina Lomibao is?” Jaz searches her memory for the name and draws a blank. “Or maybe you know her by her nickname. Augustina was born and raised near Mount Kanlaon, an active volcano on the island of Negros. Because of volcanic activity, the area was known to have very fertile soil and Augustina’s family farmed ginger and turmeric. She left the island in the 80s to try her luck in Manila – which is when she first met the Ongs. But you can take the girl out of the farm but you can never take the farm out of the girl. Augustina always had ginger with her, sometimes chewing it like candy or sugarcane. And that’s how she earned her nickname…”

“Mama Lu!” Jaz exclaimed.

“Short for luya, the local word for ginger.”

“Napansin kasi namin beh, kahit it was your mom’s recipe – your memories of it were from your yaya. So chineck it out namin kung anong meron dun. Nahanap ko sa Facebook si Aling Lu. Inferness, buhay pa siya. And she still remembers her little princess na…” Isabel hesitates. “Mas ‘prince’ na ngayon.” Jaz chuckles. It was an off joke but they’re sure she meant no harm.

“Maraming health benefits yung luya, some documented in journals and scholarly work, yung iba naman eh sabi-sabi lang ng matatanda. Sa Negros, pag walang gana kumain ang bata, nakaka-enhance daw ng appetite ang luya.”

Mang Fred whips out his phone and plays a recording. Almost like no time had past – a voice from miles away and years ago comes crystal clear.

“Alam mo kasi yang si Jasmine, sakitin yang batang ‘yan. Tapos pag nilalagnat, hindi kumakain. Eh paano gagaling kung hindi kakain. Sabi kasi ng matatanda, nakakagana daw ang luya – hala, ako na pala yun ngayon, ano?” Aling Lu laughs, interrupting herself. “Sabi daw ng matatanda, eh ako na yung matanda!”

“Sabi naming matatanda, nakakagana kumain ang luya. Eh ayaw kumain ng alaga ko. Nung una, binigyan ko ng kending luya. Naku po! Umiyak! Ayaw tumahan! Hindi niya talaga nagustuhan yung lasa.” She laughs, interrupted by a mild coughing. “Yung batang yung pa naman, pag sinimulan na yung iyak – hindi talaga tatahan hanggang hindi mo bigyan ng tsokolate.”

The old woman’s voice envelopes Jaz like a warm hug. What a privilege to be seen, to be known by somebody who wasn’t even a blood relation. You couldn’t see Aling Lu’s face but you could tell she was smiling at this memory. In Jaz’s own mind’s eye, they could see her Mama Lu laughing, her love and care hiding in plain sight between laughs and coughs.

“So… wais tayo eh. Ginawan ko ng paraan. Nagtadtad ako ng luya, yung piiiinong pino. Sa unang kulo, sinahog ko yung luya dun sa sinigang. Sobrang liit, di mo naman makikita. Pero malalasahan mo. Yung kati ng luya at yung anghang ng sili, para bang nagsasayaw sila sa lalamunan mo sa bawat lunok. Gaganahan ka talaga kumain, kahit pawis na pawis ka na.”

Jaz scoops up a spoonful of the second sinigang’s broth. Through tears, she blows at it to cool it down. She slurps the soup, the familiar kick and heat traveling down her throat. All at once, they are Jasmine and Jaz, a princess and a prince, a child and fully grown. The hairs on their arms erect, they allow all the memories to wash over them. Almost suddenly, Jaz begins to sweat. Isabel aims the fan at her but it offers little reprieve for the emotions bursting out of their chest. 

“This is it. This is the taste I was looking for. Mang Fred, you genius, you.” Tears were streaming down their cheeks, spilling fast like a dam that had sprung a leak. 

“It took a while but now I understand. I wasn’t searching for an ingredient or the recipe for Mom’s sinigang na baboy. We’ve had it all along,” they say, pointing at the dusty cookbook.

“Home was… finding the recipe that both my mothers created together — a taste of love woven from two hearts. I don't know how you did it but thank you… you found my home”

Mang Fred’s voice comes on to the recording. “Nay, salamat pala ha. I’m sure matutuwa si Jasmine pag natikman niya tong sinigang niyo. May message po ba kayo para sa kanya?”

“Ay oo naman. Pakisabi kay Jasmine na mahal na mahal siya ni Mama Lu. Lagi ko siya pinagdadasal. Sana okay na siya – hindi na sakitin, hindi na iyakin. Pakisabi, miss na miss ko na siya at sana, bago ako tumawid sa kabilang buhay… sana ay makita ko siya ulit.”

The recording stops as tears flow from Jaz and Isabel’s eyes.

---

“How much do I owe you pala?” Jaz asks, bringing out their phone. “And may GCash naman kayo no?”

“Yesterday, ma’am/sir.” Isabel says, bringing out a laminated QR code.

“Pay us whatever you feel it was worth. Ikaw na bahala.” Mang Fred says, handing them a takeout container. “Sobrang sarap nung sinigang ni Aling Luya, I made way too much. Ito, ishinaron na kita.”

“Thank you po.” Jaz peers into the bag and spots a folded note. They fish it out and open it.

“She wanted me to get you that.” It was Mama Lu’s contact information and address. Jaz clutched the address in their hand. “Nakausap ko yung apo niya, medyo malabo na daw yung mata niya. Katarata. Kaya sana magkita muna kayo bago siya tuluyang mabulag.”

Tears anew spring from Jaz’s eyes. “Sige po, I will. Sobrang… sobrang thank you po.” They snap a photo of the address on their phone, wave one last goodbye to Mang Fred and Isabel, and say goodbye to Katipunan Karinderya.

“Ayun o! 10K!” Isabel exclaims, reading the notification on her phone. “Yayamanin si Princess Jasmine.” Mang Fred looks at her disapprovingly and she shrugs. From the entrance, Bantay pounces on a bug, catching and releasing it like it was a toy.

“See, ‘tay. Nagbabantay si Bantay!”

And so ends another chapter, another dish uncovered at the Katipunan Karinderya, where memories thought lost are found through the efforts of father-daughter team Alfredo and Isabel Rivera.

♫: Ebe Dancel | Bawat Daan (2022)