As superb as foie gras may be, it doesn’t fill me up quite like my Lola Illang’s estofado and Mama Ning’s dulce de leche.
It doesn’t even come close to a hearty bowl of tomato basil soup. Some
foods are only for flirting, while others, you just know, are for
keeps.
Childhood favorites, for sure, occupy a revered place in the food
altar, laced as they are with rich memories of Sunday lunches and
family get-togethers. But there’s also a kind of romance in the ones
that come to our lives belatedly, often by chance, and never leave.
Take the Spanish chocolate at Almon Marina.
Back in the years when I had the temerity to be a bohemian, I spent an
inordinate amount of time at the Powerbooks store in SM Megamall. One
afternoon, while waiting for friends to arrive, I decided to take my
newly purchased book to the nearby Almon Marina for what I intended to
be a quick cup of coffee. Since I was also craving for something sweet,
I ended up ordering Spanish chocolate, a dessert and beverage in one. I
didn’t have high expectations. This was Almon Marina after all, not
some upscale cafe.
By the time the steaming cup was served, a thick skin had already
formed on the surface of the hot chocolate. I scooped it up and licked
it off the spoon. Clearly, this wasn’t cocoa powder. It was thick,
creamy, nurturing. It tasted like molten milk chocolate, thick enough
to coat the tongue for a brief but blissful moment, but thin enough to
be drinkable. I set the book aside completely and lingered over my
drink. Every sip made me feel better.
Through the years, this steaming cup of hot cocoa kept me company
through good and bad days. Sadly, I have also witnessed how its
exquisiteness slowly wore away. The serving has shrunk considerably,
and the consistency has become slightly watered down, although you can
still tell by the taste that, sometime ago, this Spanish chocolate was
great.
Dulcinea’s version, which was introduced to me by my dad about a decade
ago, is my current favorite. That is not to say that my pursuit for
that sublime cup has ended.
Another chance encounter led me to something I didn’t previously
realize I was missing. It was a Monday night and the sky was pouring. I
just had a spat with someone dear to me so instead of heading home I
looked for a safe place to lick my wounds. I chose Bizu. I would
normally order a pasta but because I was on the South Beach diet I
opted for an omelet.
The omelet was served with a croissant. I attended to my omelet right
away and decided not to bother with the croissant, primarily because of
the diet, and secondly because, after years of looking, I have never
found a croissant here that came close to the one I had in Paris years
ago. I’d rather eat pandesal.
Halfway through the meal, the argument still playing in my head, I
absent-mindedly pinched a piece of the croissant, and popped it into my
mouth. Not bad, not bad at all. I broke off a bigger piece and saw the
soft, fluffy, buttery interior. The exterior was not as flaky as the
Parisian version, but it was equally divine in texture and flavor. I
slathered butter over it and gave it another go. That chewy mouthful
soothed my nerves like a good back rub. I threw my diet out of the
window and finished off the croissant. I felt not a tinge of guilt nor
regret. In fact, I found myself smiling. How’s that for therapy on a
plate.
Also published in GMANews.tv
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