AFTER MY
ENGAGEMENT IN Rodriguez, Rizal on December 10, 2017, I went directly to Navotas
City, into the home of Jay Z and Carla Jorge. That very evening, I am again
treated to a sampling of the best of Navotas cuisine by the couple, right in
their little restaurant – Pacing’s House of Barbeque. Tired as I was, the
ambiance of the place and the food revived my soul to appreciate life better and
to toast to the goodness of human character.
On the table was
one of their specialties – spicy fish tofu served on a hot plate. Along with
that was plain rice and their best-selling pork barbecue bathed in a glistening
splendor of sauce, a well-kept family secret formulated by Jay Z’s late
grandmother – Pacing. Grilled tomatoes on a stick completed the fare. Where I
have taken off, a pint of Arce Dairy Ice Cream landed on spaces where these
heavenly food used to be. A cold creamy ice cream mattered very much to a
comfort-deprived heathen.
A book, just off
the printing press, by the smell of the pages, passed on to my hands as a gift
by the Jorge couple. Fine weather, cool ambiance, hearty reception, the best
food in town, a special ice cream and a Guidebook on the Proper Use of
Medicinal Plants. What else would a bushman want? These unexpected rewards
somehow dampened my disappointment earlier before I came here. At least here, I
am much closer to home. I got real friends.
The Jorge couple’s
hospitality extended for a couple of days before I departed for Cebu. The most
memorable of this was seeing the Manila that I have not seen before. That came
on a late afternoon of December 11. The couple was celebrating their third
wedding anniversary (I was their absent ninong) and Jay Z insisted that
we dine at Barbara’s Heritage Restaurant where their wedding reception was held
then. I went for a ride and found the establishment still closed.
It was at that
moment when I was entering an old building of colonial proportions and beauty
that I was transported back in time. Back to that time when Manila was a
glistening pearl and a prized possession of Spain. The electric bulbs glowed
majestically muffled, blending perfectly with the natural light of dusk.
Shadows and lines and curves were at its exact places in the design of time and
light and aura. It projects something unworldly yet understandably clear for
the senses to enjoy.
Come to think of
it. This was the same Manila that I totally disdained many years ago because of
its uncontrolled development, overpopulation, high crime volume, grime
accumulating on your nostrils and collars, high cost of living, floods under
the slightest of rains and that ever constricting vehicular traffic. My idea of
Manila expanded after EDSA '86 and became the National Capital Region. Manila, to
most Visayas and Mindanao residents, is Luzon and where the conversations in
Tagalog start.
Inside the
courtyard of the quaint building is a beautiful fountain. Across it is a stone
staircase leading to a veranda and above me are the finely-wrought windows and
eaves that spoke of its Andalusian origins. I would be wrong if I have not seen
this scene before in another time but in the comforts of a cushioned seat inside
a cinema theater, back then when FPJ lorded it as an all-time box-office
hit.
Walking on the
cobbled streets of Intramuros under twilight, devoid of vehicular traffic, was
very soothing to the senses. A horse-driven carriage passes by, uprooting your
mind from the present time to days when colonial life were centered around the
protection of walled communities and watchtowers. Intramuros, the Old Manila,
was the biggest of them all in the orient and it is here, at such hours, when
the gran hombres and their doñas socialized as if they were in
their home countries.
The approaching
Angelus of the hour brought magic and charm all to its own reminiscent of the
times. At such hours, the tropic heat does not bite anymore. The breeze from
Manila Bay dislodged the warm air that radiate from the mortar walls and
pavements. San Agustin Parish stood before me and, farther away, is the bulk of
the Manila Cathedral. Into the great door of the San Agustin I entered for the
very first time and I could smell the many years of nostalgia that had stayed
up the high ceilings, which also host a mosaic of shades and tones of the
different centuries.
In a cacophony of
bells, a Eucharistic celebration started as I eased myself in one of the pews.
I noticed older women of European descent, attending to worship, only suggests
that at its height of liveability, Old Manila may have hosted a considerable
population of Spanish and other nationalities, as well as Filipinos of
respectable wealth and influence, doing business or serving for the Crown. I
might have dreamed but in my dreamy state I locked out the tensions that
separate the colonizers from the local populace.
The electric bulbs
and street lights now dominated the darkened skies and the old walls looked
surreal in their unnatural glow. People walked on the cobbled streets and there
are too few people here, an unlikely sight of that usual densely-peopled Manila
street that I came to know of. Most of those I saw are students, laughing on
their way home. Then there are the office workers, still in their uniforms,
walking singly to the same direction where the students went.
Jay Z and I went
back to Barbara’s. Hungry acids pierced my insides as the waiters arranged the
food on two long tables. They served buffet food. Toned down music of smooth
melodies sprinkled the ancient room in a totally relaxed mood and, at a signal,
the chairs dragged backwards and reverberated inside the dining room as the
diners prepared the short walk to the buffet tables. The ladies went first,
while the gentlemen among us sat and waited for our turn.
Food for the
taking were Filipino and continental dishes. I went in and choose braised pork,
pinakbet, kangkong adobo, fresh lumpia and pork inasal.
Popular Filipino delicacies are many and I helped myself with biko and
on as many pieces of fried banana. A five-piece string band regaled us with
their select traditional Filipino favorites. This same banduria provided
the music that were interpreted by sets of cultural dancers swaying to the
tunes of Tagalog, Bicolano, Visayan and Maranao numbers.
It was a memorable
night indeed in the Old Manila which I now began to appreciate as a legitimate
daughter of a Spain that was then at its height of power in the Old World, a
good 250 years before the coming of the Americans. This same city shone a
hundred more times in the Far East under another colonizer and could have been
a shining beacon in the Pacific, on the verge of surpassing of even the
greatest cities of Asia, were it not for World War II.
Though her
identity was usurped by many, she retained her own destiny within the confines
of the playgrounds where she frolicked, danced and sang long ago. She is a free
spirit and she enjoyed her past with much more vigor than people thought of her
as a modern metropolis. I came to apologize on that thought and I was gifted
with a rare charm that has no equal, even from my own beloved Cebu.
