Monday, March 5, 2012

Where is the Patis? by Carmen Guerrero- Nakpil

A Filipino may denationalize himself but not his stomach. He may travel over the seven seas, the five continents, the two hemispheres and lose the savor of home, forget his identity and believes himself a citizen of the world. But he remains- gastronomically, at least, always a Filipino. For, if in no other way, the Filipino loves his country with his stomach.

Travel has become the great Filipino dream. In the same way that an American dreams of becoming a millionaire or an English boy dreams of going to one of the great universities, the Filipino dreams of going abroad. His most constant vision is that of himself as a tourist.

To visit Hongkong, Tokyo and other cities of Asia, perchance or to catch  a glimpse of Rome, Paris or London or to go to America (even for only a week in a fly- specked motel in California) is the sum of all delights.

Yet having left Manila International Airport in a pink cloud of despedidas and sampaguita garlands and pabilin, the dream turns into a nightmare very quickly. But why? Because the first bastion of the Filipino spirit is the palate. And in all the palaces and fleshpots and skyscrapers of that magic world called "abroad" there is no patis to be had.

Consider the Pinoy abroad. He has discarded the barong tagalog or "polo" for a dark, sleek Western suit. He takes to the hailiments from Hongkong, Brooks Brothers or Savile Row with the greatest of ease. He has also shed the casual informality of manner that is characteristically Filipino. He gives himself the airs of a cosmopolite to the credit-card born. He is extravagantly courteous (especially in a borrowed language) and has taken to hand-kissing and to planty of American "D'you mind's?"

He hardly misses the heat, the native accents of Tagalog or Ilongo or the company of his brown- skinned cheerful compatriots. He takes, like duck to water, to the skyscrapers, the temperate climate, the strange landscape and the fabled refinements of another world. How nice, after all, to be away from good old R.P. for  a change!

But as he sits down to meal, no matter how sumptuous, his heart sinks. His stomach juices, he discovers, are much less neither as apahap nor lapu-lapu. Tournedos is meat done in barbarian way, thick and barely cooked with red juices still oozing out. The safest choice is a steak. If the Pinoy can get it well done enough and sliced thinly enough, it might remind him of tapa.

If the waiter only knew enough about Philippine cuisine, he might suggest venison which is really something like tapang usa, or escargots which the unstylish poor on Philippine beaches know as snails. Or even frog' legs which are a Pampango delight.

But this is the crux of the problem, where is the rice? A silver tray offers varieties of bread: slices of crusty French bread, soft yellow rolls, rye bread, crescents studded with sesame seeds. There are also potatoes in every conceivable manner, fried, mashed, boiled, buttered. But no rice.

The Pinoy learns that rice is considered a vegetable in Europe and America. The staff of life a vegetable!

Where is the patis?

And when it comes a special order which takes at least half an hour the grains are large, oval and foreign- looking and what's more, yellow with butter. And oh horrors!- one must shove it with a fork or pile it with one's knife on the back of another fork.

After a few days of these debacles, the Pinoy, sick with longing, decides to comb the strange city for a Chinese restaurant, the closest thing to the beloved gastronomic country. There, in the company of other Asian exiles, he will put his nose finally in a bowl of rice and find it more fragrant than an English rose garden, more exciting than a castle on the Rhine and more delicious than pink champagne.

To go with the rice there is siopao (not so rich as at Salazar), pancit guisado reeking with garlic (but never so good as any that can be had on the sidewalks of Quiapo), fried lumpia with the incorrect sauce, and even mami (but nothing like the down-town wanton)

Better than a Chinese restaurant is the kitchen of a kababayan. When in a foreign city, a Pinoy searches every busy sidewalk, theater, restaurant for the well- remembered golden features of a fellow- pinoy. But make it no mistake.

8 comments:

  1. is this already the full version?

    ReplyDelete
  2. Hi Anon! Yeah, I believe it is. I write down the contents as is. I actually referred and based them on actual books, not on what I see on the net alone. I have hard copies here.

    ReplyDelete
  3. The pararaphs are not in its original form - ie. the first paragraph is actually the last paragraph of this short essay.
    The 7h paragraph (which is actually the 6th in its correct version) should read:
    "But as he sits down to a meal, no matter how sumptuous, his heart sinks. His stomach juices, he discovers, are much less composition than the rest of him. They are much less adaptable than his sartorial or social habits. They have remained in that dear barrio in Bulacan or that little tower in Ilocos and nothing that is set in the table before him can summon them to London or Paris."
    ref: Literature 101. Philippine Literatures: A Course Reader. Dr. Jaime Gutierrez-Ong

    ReplyDelete
  4. thanks for this, do have a copy of Educating Josefina by lilia villa

    ReplyDelete
  5. What year this essay was published?

    ReplyDelete
  6. wheres the rising action?
    how can i found it here?

    ReplyDelete
  7. where is rising action thre help fof my ass.in school pll.

    ReplyDelete