Tago's halo-halo of old

It was like chewing a broken glass without the blood! That’s how I remember eating halo-halo as a kid.

The halo-halo of my youth was "glassy". It may be wanting in milk and had fewer ingredients like black beans, sweetened ripe bananas, and cubed gelatin in ROYGVIB, but to this date, no Digman, no Razon’s and no Chowking halo-halo could ever replace it in my book. Guess that’s the way with comfort food.

In the 70s, Tago had only one halo-halo parlor. Owned by the Elizaldes, it was on the same spot where Alondoy now sells pudding. Inside the estante perched on a table were tall plastic glasses that tapered dangerously near the base. It was hard to miss those classic opaque glasses just as it was hard to control the craving from running amok. And when this happened, I had my bag of tricks ready to make Mama and Papa shell out some coins for my cold addiction.

At the Elizalde snack bar I would sit waiting. By the door that opened to the kitchen stood the iron ice scraper that Imelda Castillo operated. Silver and tarnished, it was about two feet and a-half tall with a wheel that if turned would pin down tightly the block of ice, the better to scrape it against a blade of sharp steel. Underneath, a bowl waited for shavings to fall.

Imelda would then get from the estante one tall glass that carried some colorful ingredients, and knowing it was me who was her customer, she would pack it with ice and press down, repeating the process many times until she created a perfect mound and the glass was ready to break. After pouring milk from a measuring cup into the glass, she would serve the halo-halo along with the sugar.

Because there was no topping then--no scoop of ice cream, no sliver of leche flan--- I would look at the halo-halo mound for a while, amused that the milk had created acne scars on it. Then like a surgeon careful to do an incision, I would work on my halo-halo using the slim and elegant spoon, ensuring not to make the mixture spill over.

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Question: Why haven’t we halo-halo addicts filed a protest to not fill the glass to the brim, making it hard to maneuver? Isn’t it easier to make the glass half or three-fourths full, then we just scoop some ice shavings on a bowl and add them to our glass?

Answer: Addicts are called addicts because they can’t think straight especially when they're "high". Ergo, they can't complain.

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What I loved about the halo-halo of old was that it had “shards” of ice and I liked the feel and sound of them crashing between my teeth. I don’t like my halo-halo to have fine ice shavings (Razon’s is an exception) because that’s a shake, not a halo-halo. And I don’t want my halo-halo to have so much ingredients however eclectic because that’s a fruit salad, not a halo-halo. I don’t want the ingredients to get in the way of ice fusing with milk.

Now back to Imelda and her halo-halo.

Because it had so much ice than usual, my halo-halo was thin on milk. But it didn’t matter because Imelda made sure I had unli sugar. And when a group of customers entered just when I was almost done with my halo-halo, that was when I got lucky. In which case I would take my time finishing my halo-halo because I was certain that Imelda would give me the excess ice shavings. Never mind if at this time, my halo-halo would taste no better than an iced water.

Oh, how I miss that experience!

I’m no foodie and so if this post turns out to be a misnomer, consider yourself forewarned.

Some eating places have opened in Tandag and I haven’t found time to visit them. I’m so predictable in that I dine out invariably at Goldbar and only upon invitation of friends, which is not often. But if there’s a restaurant that has improvement of grammar and composition skills on its menu, then I will make myself an instant habitué.

Even if I’m no foodie, I always ask for the meaning behind the name of any bistro that opens. Like in the case of Huit Deli and Bistro Aioli.

Though I still have to dine at these two, I have asked around about the food and its price, the service, and the meaning behind the strange-sounding names. I get the usual answers for the first two, but I always get a stammer and a clam-up for the last.

“Bistro” and “deli” I know, but “aioli” and “huit”? No, sir!

My best friend Google says that "aioli" originated from Occitan, from "ai" (garlic) and "oli" (oil). It is a Provençal traditional sauce made of garlic, olive oil, lemon juice, and egg yolks. Another definition says it's a mayonnaise flavored with garlic and sometimes other ingredients as red pepper. It's pronounced as "ahy-oh-lee" or "ey-oh-lee".

When I asked Gly if her orders came with aioli sauce in all the times she ate at this bistro along Osmena Street, she said not once. Uh, okay.

As to “huit”, well most of the hits Google gave me talked about shops selling lingerie. But a deli doesn’t sell panties and negligees, right? And so Mekmek Cruz’s Huit Deli in Dawis must be from the Old French "uit" which was derived from Latin "octō", which means eight. The "h" was added to avoid confusion with "vit".

Knowing "8" to be a good number in business, I believe this is the reason behind the choice of name. But then again, I could be wrong.

When Sheila Portillo-Buhion, via Facebook, asked Dongay Pareja (who, in turn, must've asked Mekmek) on how “huit" is pronounced, Dongay said it’s pronounced exactly like the opposite of dry. But Wiktionary says the correct pronunciation is /ɥit/ or /hHit/. (Note to self: Ask Mekmek.)

Make no mistake about it: this is just an armchair research dabbed with a bit of conjecture on my part. And so when you next dine at these places, better ask for the exact meaning of the names as intended by the owners and the proper way to pronounce them.

Just a post-script. I’m part of a government agency that assists entrepreneurs in areas both crucial and mundane. And sometimes we give our clients tips on how to give their business a name. I won’t bore you with legalese and business-speak, but let me just focus on practical things like:

1. As much as possible make the business name self-explanatory. This means that by just reading your business name, the customers know what business you’re into.

2. Make it simple. Because potential customers are more likely to remember simple snappy names than long drawn-out over-engineered names. By the way, simplicity doesn’t mean you can’t be unique. Uniqueness and simplicity are both a function of a creative mind.

3. Don’t be pretentious. Being pretentious is not the same as being unique. While the temptation to give your business a trendy name is there, this may not work in your chosen industry and locale. And so better stick with sensible and memorable names that are easy to pronounce.

of pyramids and dreams

When man minted the first money, he was clueless that he’d be forever held hostage by it. Then and now, money and all its trappings have become such a central force in the lives of men, driving them to commit the most grotesque crimes.

That man can’t have enough of money must be God’s subtle way of censuring him for his financial proclivities. But this must be a tad too subtle that it completely escapes him.

Money per se is not bad. In fact it does a lot of good things for us other than simply letting us get by. But the rub is, it has to be earned, and how one earns it becomes an ethical concern.

While others earn their keeps the honest way, some throw all moral caution to the wind and devise devious ways just to get rich. Like dream merchants engaged in pyramiding schemes.

As defined in RA 7394 (Consumer Act of the Philippines), pyramid sales scheme is a sales devise whereby a person, upon condition that he makes an investment, is granted by the manufacturer or his representative a right to recruit for profit one or more additional persons who will also be granted such right upon condition of making similar investments. This scheme offers nothing but false hopes that one day “investors” will reach the top position to qualify them to amass money beyond their wildest dreams. But the odds are great that entities or persons close shop before investors reach the top slot, leaving the investors holding an empty bag. Or that the whole operation collapses from over-saturation, leaving in its wake more losers than winners.

This stratagem is nothing but a variation of an old, tired theme. Remember the hullabaloo in Surigao City not too long ago that almost led to the death of the rapacious mastermind? Or the race to the post office a few years back for money orders? Or the promise of receiving so many panties in multi-colors and sizes?

What is beyond me is that persons lured by this financial mirage now are the same persons who had been victimized many times over in the past. It would have been pretty obvious to them by now. But it is when things get obvious that one becomes dense. Indeed, it is said that people who don’t learn the lessons of history are bound to repeat them.

And if like us you’re part of a government agency whose mandate included ensuring this get-rich-quick scheme doesn’t thrive, things can get herculean. We’re up against so many persons who think we are the line that separates them from their dream. And because their eyes are already ablaze with peso signs in pure, unmitigated monetary lust, no one is willing to come forward and aid us in nailing down the rogues. And don’t tell them it’s a badly placed investment because it’s their money not yours. Alright. But isn’t the only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing? But guess who gets the flak when things clear up?

This ploy will always work for as long as there are persons whose all consuming greed goes beyond hoodwinking their fellowmen. For as long as there are gullible persons whose primal dream of making it big is fueled not by the value of hardwork but by expediency. For as long as the government is helpless to extend the long arm of the law because of lack of support from people who matter.

A friend once told me that if a thing is too good to be true, chances are, it’s not true. Yet many believe that dreams like these do come true. Well, not always. Oftentimes dreams like these become nightmares. In which case, one hopes to wake up with his sanity still intact.

And by the way, what’s a pyramid? It’s nothing but a tomb. For mummified dreams.



(Note: The ongoing furor over Aman Futures' get-rich-quick scheme drove me to reprint this article I wrote in February '98 for Aghat, the now defunct official gazette of the Department of Trade and Industry I edited.)

Berto and the Surigao Treasure

Last August, I had the chance to visit the Ayala Museum and marvel at the Philippine's pre-colonial treasures in an exhibit dubbed as "Gold of the Ancestors".

The trip was highly personal because all I wanted to see was "The Surigao Treasure", specifically the "Mang Berto Collection." Mang Berto (Morales), of course, is a townmate and the piece of land in Magroyong where he accidentally dug those treasures was owned by my father's relative and my mother's closest co-teacher, Tia Payning. Oftentimes, enroute to Sagbayan for a summer vacation, we would drop by Tia Payning's house in Magroyong so Mama could chat with her. We didn't have an inkling then that just a few meters from where we sat eating boiled camote, Mang Berto would find the marvelous golden pieces that now adorn the halls of the Ayala Museum.

The "Surigao Treasure-cum-Mang Berto Collection" is beyond awesome!

In a documentary made by ABS-CBN, Dr. John Miksic, one of the expert interviewees, said that the "Surigao Treasure" is the single most important and tangible heritage of the country. And Dr. Baker, a curator, added that it is the largest collection of Philippine archaeological gold in the world.

The video screening that preceded the tour mostly featured breathtaking pieces from the "Surigao Treasure". But more than feeling good and proud of our heritage, I felt pity for Mang Berto.

Watching the opulence of the pieces, I was nagged by an image of a toothless Mang Berto being interviewed by Che-che Lazaro for Probe's “Surigao Treasure: Gintong Pamana” show. Then the irony hit me: while his golds have glass for a home in posh Ayala Center, Mang Berto has a crumbling nipa shack in rustic Victoria.



I would give my right arm to know how Mang Berto felt when Che-che Lazaro gave him a tour of the Ayala Museum to identify the golds that his bulldozer hit in Magroyong one wet summer morning in 1981. Looking at the video in YouTube, I can't tell what is contained in those eyes that have become tired and dull. Regret? Most likely. But there's more.

Maybe one of these days I'll ask Mang Berto for a chat. And if he'll allow me, maybe I'll write his story.

Me and my maybes.

(Photo credit: Ayala Museum)

plates

I love plates. And this only means one thing: in previous life I was either an impoverished German potter in Meissen or a Scandinavian duke collecting plates in a castle that caressed the skies.

Search me, but I really don't know what's in plates that enhances my mood. All I know is that it feels like payday every time I see a nice one.

However, I collect no Lladros. Not because I can't afford them but because they don't excite me. Really!



My being "anti-signature" extends to my secret passion of collecting plates. I have spent over half a lifetime of proving that a proletariat can have a taste better than that of the bourgeoisie if only he knows how to hone that taste despite his limited resources. Life is fair in that taste is not a function of class.

And so I collect decorative plates that are cheap but unique, at least to me. But please spare me those tacky types that bear the names and landmarks of places one has visited.



Most of my plates are seconds, rejects, those that didn't make the grade for the export market. Luckily, I see a defect not as something that mars the beauty of the plate, but as something that lends more charm to the item. Like the Japanese, I love the aesthetics of imperfection.

I have my mood swings alright, but I only need to look at my plates to find my balance. When I grow old and loneliness becomes unbearable, I will host a banquet where no two plates are alike.

thanks, bliss

that my blog has found its way back to indention heaven is all because of that wonderful girl who has just migrated to Arizona, USA: Ms. Bliss C. Matabaran-Fenwick!

Bliss is bliss. Can't thank you enough.