Table Of ContentBicol (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?
