unli rice

Almost all barbecue joints now offer unlimited rice. But since this craze started two years ago, I only tried it last week in Butuan City.

The unli rice promo bodes well for big rice eaters like me. But last week’s experience told me there’s something psychological about this strategy.

The place, Tatay’s Inato, was in front of Gaisano Mall. Its tables and walls were made of bamboo; its crew wore floral prints in blinding hues.

My officemates ordered halang-halang, a boiled native chicken so spicy it made customers fan their mouth with their hand. Wanting to sample the unli rice promo, I ordered a value meal tagged at P89.00 consisting of chicken and pork barbecue, an atchara that was smaller than a mound of chicken dung, a soup that tasted no better than piss sprinkled with umami, and yes, a rice so small it could only be shaped from a demitasse.

Using the price in Tandag as index, I did a quick calculation: chicken barbecue (25) plus pork barbecue (10) plus achara (5) plus soup (5) equals 45. Eighty nine minus forty five equals 44.

My rice is worth 44 pesos!

With rice selling at P5 per cup in Tandag, there’s no way I can consume over eight cups. Plain and simple, unli rice is a double whammy because it makes you pay for something that's beyond your capability to devour!

Expecting a mound, I looked askance at the solitary rice on my plate. Then my officemate pointed me to a sign tacked on a post: CLAP ONCE IF YOU NEED A WAITER; CLAP TWICE IF YOU NEED ADDITIONAL RICE!

What’s this, a Carinosa dance?

I attacked the rice with my hand. In an instant it was gone. I looked around for waiters. Nada. I clapped twice. Nothing. I clapped again. And again. A waiter in floral canary yellow print emerged from nowhere and came to our table. Using a demitasse (see?), he scooped some rice from a plastic container slung around his waist and placed it on my plate. Then he went away, not to be seen again.

Few minutes later, I clapped twice. Nothing. I clapped again. And again. A waiter in floral Hare Krishna tangerine came to our table and….you get the point!

Left with a wing, I craved for rice to munch it with. My hands rose to meet, but a fraction of an inch from each other, they stopped in mid-air. What would the other customers say, I asked myself. Hadn’t they looked my way each time I clapped? Would they know it’s my fourth time to ask?

I rested my hands beside the chicken wing that would remain uneaten. Then all at once, it hit me: hiya! this unli rice is a ploy that capitalizes on Pinoy culture of hiya!

So: it’s the reason why there’s no service station where one could quietly help himself get all the rice he wants; why waiters make themselves scarce and have to be summoned with a double clap; why rice servings come in small amounts.

Remember those parties of old when no matter how the host persuaded the guests, nobody went back to the buffet table for more food? It’s the same feeling of hiya that’s operating here. Tatay’s Inato knows that no customer would risk being branded as glutton by clapping his hands often enough.

On our way out, I realized that unless I have a face thicker than a carabao hide, the ability to clap without my hands turning red and sore, and an appetite the size of an African jungle, unli rice is not for me.