What I Learned When I Tried Recreating Pilipino Recipes in Istanbul
Illustration: Steph Mazagg
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Growing up I considered the dishes my mother whipped up to be traditional Filipino fare. I know my meals were markedly different from my school classmates and white family members due to their disgusted faces and mockery. I remember being teased for eating noodles for breakfast. I said I didn’t understand what was wrong with that and one boy replied: “Because it’s hot.” Perhaps I should’ve pitied him since apparently his parents never provided him with a hot breakfast and all he had to sustain himself were cold sugary cereals.
Foods that I considered normal were deemed “exotic” when I left my home. One evening I was invited to a spaghetti dinner at a friend’s home as a child. Upon tasting the spaghetti I found it sour and lacking and asked for some sugar, much to the confusion of my friend and her mother and a bit of derision from my friend’s elder sister. For me spaghetti was served with chopped up hot dogs in a sweet, decadent meat sauce and topped with cheese. I never questioned the “normalcy” of my mother’s spaghetti as I saw my white father happily eat platefuls of it—my father wasn’t the biggest fan of Filipino food (whatever constitutes “Filipino” food). I assumed that “Filipino” spaghetti was just spaghetti. Of course what became “Filipino” spaghetti was a dish adopted during the American Commonwealth period and often made with banana ketchup as WWII led to a shortage in tomatoes and other goods.
Philippine history is often summed up as “300 years in the convent, 50 years in Hollywood.” Though to be more accurate or annoyingly pedantic, Spain held the Philippines for 333 years and was a colony of the United States for 48 years. Philippine cuisine, especially the most commonly known dishes, are characterized by a fusion of cultures. Influences on indigenous cuisine include Chinese, Indian, Arab, European (namely Spanish) and American. Filipino cuisine is also incredibly diverse given the many ethnolinguistic groups and cultures inhabiting the thousands of islands the nation is made up of. Pork is the favored meat in the predominantly Roman Catholic Philippines, of course chicken and fish being favored in the Muslim areas. Rice historically was the staple for much of what became the Philippines, though other crops were favored amongst other groups like ube (uvi) among the Ivatan. In my mother’s region, it was common to mix mais (corn) with rice, as she would often inform me. When I would visit my mother’s village there was usually boiled kamote (sweet potato), ube (purple yam), and kamoteng kahoy (cassava) on the table.
Though what I thought of as “authentic” Filipino food growing up was my mom adapting recipes due to available ingredients. When I arrived in the Philippines the dishes were familiar but usually with different local ingredients. Another change my mother made to many of her dishes was to switch the usual pork for beef or chicken and omit shellfish due to our changing tastes, allergies, and dietary restrictions. My mom’s lumpia (a type of spring roll, a fried one in this particular case) recipe evolved into a filling of ground beef, soy sauce, minced garlic, onion, carrots, celery, and other seasonings—a change from her original pork and shrimp version, but it was always a hit at parties. When I tried to recreate my mother’s recipes while living in the Philippines, it proved difficult as the flavors and ingredients I was accustomed to weren’t usually available. Such as the aforementioned celery and the ample mustard greens my mother would add to her fish sinigang, a tamarind based broth stew filled with available vegetables and in my house, usually made with fish. Filipino dishes I grew up with were only possible to cook in the US. Though given the history of US colonization of the Philippines and the migration of Filipinos to the US, perhaps these dishes should be termed Filipino-American rather than adaptations or “aberrations” of Filipino cuisine.
Filipino food is often disregarded and made out to be the worst of Southeast Asian cuisines, usually by tourists whose only experience seems to extend to street food and a nearby JolliBee (A Filipino fast food chain). The fact that Filipino cuisine is diverse and with many regional specialties is often overlooked. Of course due to food scarcity, poverty, and colonial history, diets in the Philippines have shifted towards cheaply made processed foods and one shouldn’t be surprised that locals rely on canned goods and other processed foodstuffs. Depending where you are, access to fresh fruits and vegetables can be difficult due to logistics and price. Don’t journey into the developing world and be surprised that you’re in the developing world!
I will assert that I am rather picky about my food, and not very adventurous. I’m probably more an American stereotype than I’d like to admit. Perhaps I was a bit spoiled because in our little Filipino community in Boise, Idaho my mom was known for her cooking. My mother and her friends were always found gossiping around a bountiful table of food she had prepared. I was schooled early in food preparation. Growing up I was taught to prepare rice daily and be my mother’s designated little prep cook. I was often found in the garage or outside, frying dried fish for my mother in isolation; so my father wouldn’t complain about the pungent daing smell. I rarely partake in eating dried fish myself since, but the smell of daing frying in hot oil clings to my memory like it did to my clothes. When I was young, I would also wander over to help my paternal grandmother in the kitchen with more traditional American fare. My grandparents were a more “meat and potatoes” type over my mother’s “seafood and rice”. I say help, but usually I was sneaking raw cookie dough I was supposed to be rolling out when my grandma wasn’t looking.
Despite eating “uncommon” food growing up, I don’t think I really ever had a “lunchbox” moment. I would get ignorant comments from time to time though. When I was at elementary school in the US, my mother would often pack me a cold lunch that consisted of a sandwich, a juice box, some carrots and maybe a pudding if I was lucky. Sometimes I would opt for “hot lunch” at school. But a slice of bad pizza, some canned veggies, and a small carton of milk wasn’t much better. After school I would be excited to get home and finally have some steaming hot rice with something. I didn’t really ever take Filipino food to school due to the fact that it should be served hot, not out of any fear of bullying as an already severely bullied child due to my particular physical features. My fat, nerdy ass with giant glasses was going to eat what she wanted. In high school I remember someone commenting about me eating with my hands instead of using cutlery like a “civilized” person. I can’t remember what I brought for lunch, but I was indignant. A friend of mine retorted to the girl, “Don’t you eat pizza with your hands?!” Later, I found out this person went to Japan years later and gushed about “Asian” culture upon her return. Ah, classic. I guess I shouldn’t have expected much from someone, who I was told, spent lunch crying over how she was going to miss all her “friends” while they were burning in hell for not being Mormon. There was also a tendency among my teachers and other students to “exotify” me and often seemed to forget that I was also of “white” American heritage. I grew up in a predominately white American cultural context, brought up and influenced mostly by my white American family as a child. When I first moved to the Philippines, I had never felt so damn American in my life.
I know my tastes and preference for Asian food and snacks probably annoyed my classmates, especially in one of my high school classes where we would alternate bringing in snacks for the whole class. Apparently I was the only one with a taste for the flavor of pandan, haw flakes and dense cakes full of mung beans. People lamented when it was my day to bring in snacks. My cocky teenage ass thought I was doing them a favor in expanding their palates. The fact that I didn’t particularly like many of my fellow classmates made me disregard their disappointment. I truly and profoundly hated high school, but that’s neither here nor there.
Before I left Manila for Istanbul I was told by some Filipino students who came before me that Turkish food wasn’t as tasty as people made it out to be and to pack some instant pancit noodles and other Filipino goodies. I know I’m going to get shit for this and I know several of the other Southeast Asian students did during Turkish language classes when asserting preference for their home country cuisines over Turkish food. At least I wasn’t alone in finding Turkish food sort of bland, though much of that may be due to my experience with meals in the dorm. It is funny in a way as I remember an anecdote a friend told me about some white Americans from their work refusing to join them for Turkish food because it was too flavorful—insert various tropes and memes about white people’s inability to handle spices that some people take a little too seriously.
A taste of “back home”
I try to create Filipino-ish or Asian-ish dishes at home, I say “ish” as the dishes often only end up vaguely reminiscent of what I intended due to what ingredients can be sourced. Fried rice is an easy one due to it being one of those everything but the kitchen sink type dishes. I really should have brought a rice cooker with me as my late mother kept insisting every time I had to fly back to Turkey. On the topic of rice, when I first had the short grained, butter heavy, al dente type pilav they serve in Turkey I was not a fan, but it eventually grew on me. I was living in a dorm at the time where cooking was forbidden so I had little choice in my meals. Several of us tried to make the most of it by adding meat floss, sambal, or soy sauce; creating fusion meals out of desperation for a taste of back home. Though luckily over the years a few Southeast Asian restaurants have started to pop up around Istanbul.
My use of garlic has been complained about to a regular degree, as it’s an integral component to Filipino cuisine. Garlic doesn’t seem to be a necessary addition in Turkish food, I came to discover. They seem to regard it more as medicinal than a necessary cooking aromatic. I was once told by a Turkish guy I was seeing that the Germans call Turks “garlic-eaters” and if the Turks are considered “garlic eaters” then what about Southeast Asians? Sometimes I jokingly mention that people who do not like garlic are to be regarded with suspicion as in Filipino folklore garlic and ginger are used to ward off malevolent supernatural creatures that feast on human flesh, especially when I’m being chastised for my garlicky meals. I guess that is a weird way to compensate, but I feel like I’ve faced more food based derision in Turkey than I did in the US.
One day, I tried to make a simple pancit bihon dish and offered some to my Turkish roommate who proceeded to drown the delicate rice noodle dish in ketchup and mayo. Not to yuck someone’s yum, but I was aghast. Those bihon noodles weren’t cheap. I often have to go to what my friend would call the “posh mall” to find overpriced Asian food products. I would have a dish in mind, but would often have to put off cooking it until the items were in stock only to choose from one brand of noodles that was close to what I wanted but not exactly. Later, I was informed that there is a Chinese grocery in Istanbul I should have been going to instead. I’ve tried to make chicken adobo a few times; adobo is believed to be a Filipino dish that could be replicated almost anywhere due to its simplicity, at least that’s what my art studies professor led me to believe. I’ve tried with ingredients I could source at the local markets—I insist on using white vinegar where I’ve seen some Filipinos in Turkey opt for fresh squeezed lemon juice, but I wouldn’t want to run afoul of the DTI (that’s a joke). Somehow I’m always disappointed with the outcome, maybe I should have packed some Datu Puti. The fact I’ve even started to crave chicken adobo while overseas must say something because I wouldn’t touch the dish for years after constantly eating it at a field school where it was the only thing I could eat due to allergies and dietary restrictions. (I am that stereotypical nerd with a myriad of allergies). During another field school, I had the joy of eating fried tilapia and rice for breakfast, lunch and dinner because they didn’t know what else to offer me. During that field school I almost missed the last jeepney from a neighboring city at night because I wandered into town to go to the only McDonald’s for something that wasn’t fried tilapia and rice. You want to know what my welcome home meal was after that particular field school? Fried tilapia. I never want to see tilapia in any form ever again.
Leaving home and trying to recreate the recipes I grew up with, especially the Filipino recipes (as the joys of capitalism have led to numerous accessible American food chains, there is more of an ease in eating the familiar to sate my more “American” cravings), has led me to appreciate the difficulties my mother must have had in trying to create meals from her home country in the US. I remember being told that when my mother arrived in the US she barely ate because she was unaccustomed to the type of food my American grandparents prepared. It’s a testament to the cultural receptivity of my grandparents in helping my mother find and cook the dishes she missed in a new country alone while my father was off serving in the military.
There is something to food beyond the sustenance it provides. There has to be because what compels me to spend a copious amount of money at an Asian restaurant for some rice and a viand just to taste something reminiscent of home? I’ve found it to be the easiest and most available way to embody the feeling of a warm memory, of time spent with loved ones—trying to sate an emotional craving with fulfilling a physical one. It makes home feel a little closer.