When members of my family come to visit Manila, they almost invariably bring with them stacks of Teano milk candy from Alcala. This is the milk candy that I grew up with – soft, white, flat rectangles of candy that are simply hard to put down. They are two-millimeters thin but dense, with a richness that can come only from carabao’s milk. I’ve seen copycats trying to pass themselves off as the original. In fact, I’ve made the mistake of buying once and found the candy to be wafer-thin, hardly anything but air, and tasting more of flour than milk. When I get the chance, I’ll take a picture of the milk candy that I’m talking about and post it here so you’d know, in case you or a friend finds himself in Cagayan Valley looking for a pasalubong to bring home.

In my frequent trips to various Philippine locales during my stint as Executive Editor of a travel magazine, one of the pleasures I looked forward to was searching for the best pasalubong. Naturally, I am partial to comestible gifts. Here are the best ones in my opinion:

1. Bohol’s broas
2. Cagayan de Oro’s pastel
3. Bacolod’s napoleones
4. Laoag’s (actually Pasuquin’s) soft biscocho
5. Baguio’s ube halaya (my preferred brand is Tantamco’s)
6. Cebu’s masareal
7. Mangoes from Guimaras (the fresh fruits, not the dried ones)
8. Cagayan’s longganiza
9. Alcala milk candy
10. Ilocos chichacorn (I think the best ones come from Paoay but I could be wrong)

Of course there are others, like Vigan longganiza (although I feel that Cagayan’s crisp, garlicky version is superior) and the food for the gods from Bacolod that I often see on stock at Breakfast at Antonio’s. Perhaps you have pasalubong favorites you’d like to share? I’m constantly on the lookout for thin, crisp lengua de gato, treacly yema, and fleshy dried mangoes. And oh, don’t forget cuchinta and pastillas.

Since the start of the year, I’ve been a kitchen mainstay. I’ve made all sorts of pasta dishes—meatballs, Bolognese, prawns in cream sauce, anchovies and mozzarella—in addition to beef burgers, spicy prawns, honey-glazed chicken wings, and other ulam, cooking them according to my taste and not to a prescribed recipe (partly because I have a strong opinion about how I want my food to taste, but mostly because my pantry’s usually one or two ingredients short of the established recipe). I’m quite proud of the results, so much so that I often crave my own creations.

The one dish, however, that I’d love to be able to cook is callos. Last Christmas, I had one of the best callos I’ve ever tasted, prepared by my mom’s friend. My dad, who is a great cook, loved it. I equally adore the version made by Sonya Garcia (owner of Sonya's Garden), which was inspired by a recipe of her mom’s that Sonya improved on and, I must say, perfected. Also impressive is the version of my friend Binky’s mom, which she brought to the office one afternoon for me to try.

Callos is not the sort of dish you can improvise on to start so I scoured the web for a recipe and found two that were interesting—one by Market Man and another by Pinoy Cook. I shared them with my dad who tested them in the kitchen one weekend. Preparing it took all his commitment. The tripe and pata had to putter softly over the stove for hours until they were meltingly divine. But the result was worth it. The callos came out superb. My dad was so proud of it that now he lives in constant anticipation of family gatherings where he can showcase (show off) his new “specialty.”

Just recently, I read a review of Angel’s Kitchen on Spot.ph. The five star user rating piqued my interest, and since its location in Connecticut St. Greenhills was quite near where I live, I decided to drop by and take out dinner that I can enjoy while watching Silk on DVD. The mandarin chicken and the dory dish were recommended but I was distracted by the callos. I just had to order it. It was a great choice, very flavorful and tender, although I felt it would be even better after a night on the fridge and a slow simmer the following morning. If only I had leftovers.

Maybe one of these days I’ll get over my intimidation of cooking callos and prepare it myself. Maybe then I’d also be able to cook kare-kare, another dish that I’m just too scared to whip up. For now, I’ll have to settle for the restaurant variety, and that’s not bad at all.

When I joined my parents for lunch last Good Friday, I was surprised to see a familiar Lenten item on the table—binalay. It’s a traditional rice cake from Isabela, much like suman but served only during the Holy Week. It’s about the size of a small index card, and wrapped in banana leaves, which is peeled off in tiny strips to keep the sticky cake intact. To serve, it is poured with syrup made of panocha and coconut milk.

My maternal grandmother has the cakes prepared the weekend before Holy Week and delivered to all of her nine children before Good Friday--every single year. Although binalay is the sort of thing that can be prepared anytime because all the ingredients are readily available, it’s a Holy Week delicacy. My mom explains that, on Good Friday in Isabela, people abstain from their usual meals and subsisted on binalay. It’s not a bad deal if you ask me. I could finish off two servings in one sitting and, a few hours later, I would be craving for more.

My visits to Bali invariably begin with dinner at Jimbaran Bay. Yes, it’s touristy. Yes, it’s expensive. Yes, it’s essential.

So when I made a quick trip to the island sometime last year, I had dinner at, you guessed it, Jimbaran. This time, I wasn’t brought to a ramshackle hut at one end of the beach but to a concrete structure jostling with others of its kind right in the middle of that stretch of sand. After choosing our dinner from the array of fresh seafood in tin pans and live ones swimming in tanks, my friend and I were seated at a prime spot just a few steps from the beach.

The crowd has thinned considerably, as I later observed in other parts of Bali. What didn't change was the perfectly seasoned seafood, so simply prepared yet so flavorful. Nothing masked the taste of the seafood’s juicy flesh; Everything was enhancement--the brush of slightly sweet marinade on the fish, the smoky essence to the lobster, the hint of chili on the shrimps, and the generous dusting of crushed peppers and onions on the crabs. With that meal alone, you could say this trip was off to a sublime start.

Unlike previous visits where I spent most of my time chasing artists and shamans, I wanted this one to be a laissez-faire, que sera sera experience. Only one thing was certain. I was going to eat my way through the island. So help me God.

Following my guidebook, I was led the next day to a restaurant in Kuta, which was described to have a “superb, moderately expensive menu of exquisite Indonesian dishes based around fish, goat and chicken, plus vegetarian options using interesting combinations of banana flowers, jackfruit, and aubergine.” There wasn't much mention of restaurants serving Indonesian dishes in the guidebook, with the exception perhaps of warungs, so I was eager to try.

Ketupat is tucked behind Jonathan Gallery in Jalan Legian so it was buffered from the noise of running engines. We were relieved by the cool breeze that blew as we sat in one of the balcony tables overlooking the pool. The décor was not remarkable but it had a quiet charm. I can imagine the private cabanas at the pool area to be quite romantic in the evening.

They had a huge menu of traditional dishes from practically every part of Indonesia. It was quite overwhelming. We decided to order a sampler to have a taste of at least the essential dishes. Of course we couldn’t resist trying out the rice pudding from which the restaurant was named. It turned out to be flavorless, and was meant to be eaten with one’s dish of choice, much like rice to a Filipino meal.

Our sampler came in a large platter covered with banana leaves, with food served in little bowls made from the same material. There was a good balance of meat (beef, chicken, and goat) and vegetables, such as kangkung (water spinach) in sambal and a salad of turnips and carrots. The meat dishes were mildly spiced, delicate compared with the exuberance of many Southeast Asian dishes. The same can be said about the chili prawns, a separate order from the sampler. I quite enjoyed the beef satay, which was served in a mini-charcoal grill (don't leave too long or the meat will toughen up and dry).

Having had our coffee and done our share of walking, it was time for the beach, and what view could beat the one from Samaya's The Breeze in Seminyak. With the minimal white and dark-wood theme, the well-placed pool, the abundance of lounge chairs and outdoor couches — this is sunset-viewing to perfection. The walking must have done its job because pretty soon we were ordering dinner. My companion chose an Indonesian specialty called bebek betutu (roast duck), while I ordered nasi goreng. For appetizer, I had smoked duck tucked between two flaky, phyllo biscuits. The complimentary bread basket came with three types of dip, which I enjoyed together with the crisp flatbread with poppy seeds.


I loved my nasi goreng although I couldn’t finish the sizeable serving. My friend didn’t seem too pleased with the bebek betutu, which was diced and wrapped in a thin pastry shell. What saved the meal was the discovery of Storm beer, a local beer produced in the island. I had been exposed previously to only two beer brands from Indonesia, Bintang and Bali Hai. Storm is relatively new and is clearly on its way to becoming a favorite, judging by the way my friend was singing praises to it. Not being a beer drinker, I just had to take his word for it.

The next day, we made our way to Ubud, Bali’s traditional art center. As I had spent quite some time there on a previous visit, I had no activity planned except to browse the shops on Monkey Forest Road and Jalan Hanoman, and have a good lunch. I hardly recognized the place when I arrived. The quaint shops and handmade wares were still there but no one was buying! I dropped by at some of the restaurants and cafes I have been to, and have hardly identified them because the characteristic hum of activity and free-flowing conversation had been replaced by a silence that, more than anything, was sad.

After scouring the length of Jalan Hanoman for souvenirs, we asked the driver to take us to Monkey Forest Road for lunch. We parked at one end and walked the length of the street to look for a good place. I wanted to go back to Café Wayan whose food I particularly enjoyed during my last visit but the place was empty. Across the road, my friend found an airy café overlooking the rice paddies. It was called the Three Monkeys Café.

I was craving for something warm and sumptuous so I decided to start with laksa. The rich, coco cream-laden soup was the perfect antidote to the exhaustion from the long walk and the beginnings of a migraine. The chicken curry was equally good, although it left me so full that I wanted to stretch out in the sofa and doze off. There is no drowsiness of course that Bali kopi cannot shake off so I ordered a cup, which turned out to be a tall mug. So much for siesta.

The restaurant I was most excited to try was Bumbu Bali in Nusa Dua so we saved it for last. Come our last day, however, we couldn't get a reservation. I was resigned to saving Bumbu for the next trip and went off for a massage. Coming from the spa at 9, we dropped by Bumbu upon my friend's suggestion "just in case they can squeeze us in." It turned out to be a good call because, by then, only a few tables were occupied.

We ordered the rijsttafel, which means rice table. It is an elaborate meal with rice at the center and several small servings of Indonesian cuisine to go with it. It is a tradition that originated from Dutch plantation owners who liked to sample selectively from Indonesian cuisine. Indonesia is a former Dutch colony.


Our meal started with several appetizers, namely sambel be tongkol (tuna salad); sate sampi, ayam, lilit (beef, chicken and seafood satay), and lawar ayam (vegetable chicken salad). The satays were simply the most savory I have ever tasted. Then came the soup, cram cam (clear chicken soup with shallots). The main dishes were a delight to the sight. These were ayam betutu (roast chicken in banana leaf), be celeng base manis (pork in sweet soya sauce), be sampi mebase bali (braised beef in coconut milk), kambing mekuah (lamb stew in coconut milk), ikan bakar (grilled fish fillet), pesan be pasih (minced fish grilled in banana leaf), and sayur (a selection of vegetables). The star attraction of course was the rice, which was served in yellow, red, and white (steamed) varieties.

The dessert platter composed of kueh Bali (a selection of Balinese cakes), bubuh injin (black rice pudding), jaja batun bedil (sticky rice flour dumpling in palm sugar sauce), and buah-buahan (seasonal Balinese fruits). We washed them all down with Bali kopi.

The selection may sound a bit much but the servings were perfect for two. And, I must say, of all the food that I have eaten in the island, I have not been more pleased than with the ones I have tried in this restaurant, save of course for the nasi gudeg (rice with jackfruit cooked in coconut milk) I once bought from a warung.

I just returned from a two-week trip to San Francisco and a much-longer hiatus from this blog so once again I want to say hello to GMANews.tv readers. I won’t make any excuses about my being gone longer than is acceptable but I’d like to inform that I had just completed a book project that is due for release next year. I’ll let you know more about it when it’s out.



In the meantime, let’s get on to my favorite topic of all – food. My best friend Badette is based in the Bay area and runs a business in the city so when I made the largely unplanned trip to SanFo she immediately planned the list of restaurants for me to try.

1. Shalimar

When my plane landed, Badette drove me straight away to Shalimar, an Indian Pakistani restaurant at the Tenderloin district. We arrived at a place that had nothing to speak of in terms of décor or atmosphere. A United Nations of diners was seated, and more arrived after we had placed our order at the counter.

I was still full from spending my entire time on the plane eating but I couldn’t resist the naan. Truth be known, I could live by bread alone, especially this kind of bread. It was the size of a full plate, with a lightly crisp bottom, soft bubbles on top, and perfectly chewy insides. The chicken tikka masala went perfectly with it. I only wished I had built up my appetite during the flight so that I could have eaten more.

2. Zibibbo

On a nippy night when the Warriors were losing another playoffs game, my friends and I huddled closely as we strode along University Avenue in Palo Alto to get to this pan-Mediterranean restaurant, which was voted one of the 20 best American restaurants by readers of Gourmet magazine. The warmth of the renovated Victorian house where it was at engulfed my near-frozen body as I stepped in. Although most tables were occupied, we were seated right away.

The antipasti of pita, hummus, mushrooms, and beets had potential so I held my expectations high. I ended up liking everything that was served on the table, although none particularly stood out. The flavors lacked the robustness that my palate craved. Just the same we devoured everything that was served before us. The pizza took long to arrive and when it did, there was hardly enough space for dessert. A meal is never complete without a sweet ending so we took the pizza home and headed to The Cheesecake Factory for a velvety Godiva chocolate cheesecake.

3. Aziza

Ah-ziza! Weeks ahead of my trip, Badette had already booked a table at this restaurant. She considers it the best Moroccan restaurant in San Francisco, and several news clippings prove her right. Imagine the anticipation. We went on a Friday night when all of SanFo dined out so the place was packed. It had a cozy, dimly lit ambience. The shadows cast by massive candles on tangerine and saffron walls gave it a sexy, exotic vibe. Badette warned that we will be served a prix fixe tasting menu, which would give a us a fuller Aziza experience.







The meal started on a high note with an array of appetizers that included flatbreads with smoky eggplant, pomegranate-almond, yogurt-cucumber-dill dip, which I loved. I also singled out the baked giant lima beans.





When the four entrees were served, Badette sang praises to the basteeya (phyllo pie with a filling of saffron braised chicken & almonds, powdered sugar & cinnamon) but it was the prawn tagine and lamb shank that caught my attention. I rarely order lamb because I can’t stand its all too common aftertaste but theirs had none of that. Just a tender, tasty cut of perfect meat.





But don’t think that that was the highlight of the meal. We had four kinds of desserts, of which the chocolate custard was simply over the top.

Being based in Manila, I’m never too far away from barbecue. But a good one is hard to find. A lot of them tend to be dry or drowned to death with ketchup. That’s why I always thank the fate that leads me to one with smoky flavor, slightly seared edges, and that fat-trimmed last piece that is perfectly toasted and caramelized – such as the one I found at Capisce.

Capisce is an Italian word that means “Get it?” What I don’t get is how liempo got into the menu. To be fair, the restaurant does serve Italian food, and Italians do know how to grill. But Capisce's type of barbecue has an undeniably "indio" pedigree.

Most late-night guests head for the charcoal grill and pick a seat at the al fresco area where they can have a smoke with their beer. Orders are accepted till midnight, which is another reason that this joint works for me. It also doesn’t hurt that four sticks can be had for only P100.

The BBQ is basted with a mildly sweet sauce, which results in a thin glaze that does not overpower the meat. I personally would have preferred a little more garlic into the basting sauce to give the barbecue more bite, but the spicy dip that comes with every grilled order gives it a more well-rounded taste.

Their liempo is another story however. It has none of the juiciness of another favorite of mine, the inihaw na spareribs at JT’s Manukan. Back in the time when I was moonlighting as editor for BusinessDay magazine, I would join the staff in their midnight drinking sessions at JT’s. Joel Torre himself recommended the ribs, which is smoke-laced and tender, with a hint of sweet. Soon after my introduction to the ribs, I formed the habit of dropping by on my way home from work for a to-go order.

One grilled favorite that I’ve been missing is the fall-off-the-bone baby back ribs of Racks. I’ve tried the versions of other pricier restaurants but I still couldn’t find one as flavorful as Racks’s. The smokiness of the meat is voluptuous. Dipped in the restaurant’s zesty barbecue sauce, those ribs can wake up the tongue like no other.

I cannot live by croissant and hot chocolate alone. And with longer than usual work hours, I can't always go gourmet or home-cooked. I have to eat for survival, even if that means Sky Flakes crackers or sweet spaghetti with hotdog and limp, al soggy noodles.

For lunch, my go-to girl is my officemate Binky who takes orders for sandwiches with gourmet genes such as capicollo ham, roast beef, and beer sausage, among others. I am a regular of the crabstick mayo sandwich with cheese and horseradish on whole-wheat bread. It's thick and filling, and the horseradish adds a little kick. I often request for an extra slap of horseradish for good measure. All that for 80 pesos.

In the evening, I rely on a good dinner preferably with a cup of coffee to give me a second wind at work. When I do skip, as has often been the case since the start of the year, I nibble on junk food and drink Coke light to get me through the day. They're hardly enough however so on my way home I drop by for a takeout at the usual suspects - Jollibee and Tapa King. If I still have enough energy left, I may drive all the way to Behrouz in Metrowalk for a shawarma and ground beef kebab.

Recently, my usual drive-by has been Burger Machine. Yeah yeah, there are better burgers, Tropical Hut's being the best in my book. But as an ‘80s kid, I feel a pang of nostalgia when I see that BM signage. Burger Machine was one of the local brands that rose to popularity during my college years. The burger is certainly not langhap-sarap, but it brings back a taste of my youth. If only for that, I’ll take it.

As superb as foie gras may be (see previous entry), 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.

More comfort food next week…

Pardon my French but I hated foie gras at first bite. That first forkful was akin to eating a thick slab of lard. And if that weren’t bad enough, it had an aftertaste that, though subtle, was undeniably foul. It was a potent first impression, and one that pierced the ego as it dawned on me that, for a foodie, I had a decidedly Proletarian taste.

I managed to keep this a secret, even among friends. There were always enough good things to eat that I have never had to try foie gras a second time.

Like all second comings, it came unexpected. And as I expect all second comings to be, it came with a vengeance. I was invited by Sommelier Selection to lunch at Prince Albert Rotisserie to try out their offerings of French wine. I had already quite comfortably settled into the conversation about wines when was I informed that the main ingredient of our meal would be foie gras, and nothing else but.

For a moment I considered spitting (discreetly) every mouthful onto a napkin, or pretending I was fruitarian, but it didn’t take long before I devised a reasonably ingenious plan. Since there was enough wine in the room to bathe in, I decided I would simply down every bite with a gulp of French. Surely, superb wine can erase all unsavory taste and thought, right?

The duck liver “marbre” with breast and sweet balsamic walnut toast topped with mango chutney was served. I sliced the much-feared delicacy with a knife, picked up a piece with my fork, and slid it into my mouth. As fate would have it, an accidental flick of the tongue soaked my palate with a curious taste. It was rich, velvety, not at all unpleasant, and rather tempting. As I let the piece rest on my tongue to melt, all the savory juices flowed freely, and when I finally succumbed to a bite, I discovered the buttery texture, the earthy flavor, the hint of spices. My eyes began to glaze as I followed one bite with another until my plate was clean. Three more foie gras dishes in increasing complexity of flavors were served. By the time we got to the chocolate volcano dessert, I was so subdued by the meal that I wanted to slide out of my chair and disappear under the table for a nap.

I have not tried foie gras again since (I don’t expect it to be part of my regular diet anytime soon) but I find myself craving for it once in a while. It’s like a tempting thought that comes unbidden. The worldwide debate whether to foie gras or not to foie gras (animal rights activists are lobbying for its ban because of the “cruel” process of forcefeeding the goose or duck via a tube) only adds to its allure. Before the jury reaches a verdict and we’re all driven to partake of it as contraband, I will perhaps indulge myself with one more delirious mouthful and raise my glass for a toast to all things rich and as yet unforbidden.

*Note: The foie gras dishes served were part of a food festival and are not found on the regular menu.

Time was when I thought that all bacon were created equal. I arrived at the conclusion when I realized that I’ve never tasted bacon I didn’t like. To be sure, there were differences in flavor, both obvious and nuanced, but all invariably gave me the rush of endorphins that I needed to feel filled and fulfilled.

That night opened my mind to the hierarchy of bacon. My fellow managers and I gathered for dinner to bid one of our colleagues goodbye and to celebrate the nearing end of another year. So we found ourselves in a private function room in Katre, each of us having a hard time choosing from the ample selection, and seemingly trying to outdo the other by ordering the most sinful, calorie-drenched dish on the menu. I couldn’t decide between the paella and the barbecue ribs, both of which I had enjoyed on previous occasions, so I ordered both.

The ribs was as I had remembered it – the flavorful meat, glazed with barbecue sauce and with the right trimming of fat to send me into a frenzy, was clinging precariously to the bone, and gave absolutely no resistance when I poked it with a knife.

The paella, however, was a disappointment. The rice I had fallen in love with – not the traditional Arborio, but a long-grained, chewy variety whose name now escapes me but whose texture and flavor left an indelible impression – had been replaced with couscous, which, in my view, did not provide enough surface for the proper coating of spices in the paella.

I nursed my paella failure by licking every sliver of meat off the rib bones. I thought myself satisfied, until Bambi, wife of one of our officers, graciously offered me a slice of Angus bacon from her husband’s plate. One slice and one big bite later, I must have blown a synapse because suddenly all I could manage was a long, emphatic Mmmmmmmm. Dingdong, who was also offered a taste, at least proved to have more resilient neuron junctions and managed to say, “Panalo!” In a conspiracy to have at least one more taste, Dingdong and I ordered Angus bacon for Perl who called to say he was arriving late. So taste it one more time we did, and again my vocabulary was reduced to that of a one-year-old’s.

I vowed that night that I will be back. I will have a serving of Angus bacon all to myself, chew the meat and fat with equal passion, and pay the chef the best compliment of all – a clean plate.

Now you know where to find me next.

I have swum among manta rays in the Spratleys, consorted with a naked dancing queen on a remote island in Palawan, chased dervishes in Bali and offered libations to spirits in Baguio.

I usually travel with a half-drawn plan, leaving enough room for fate to take its course. Chance encounters happen. Serendipity deals a hand. And without fail, I leave with a richer past. Also without fail, I leave a bigger person. Much, much bigger.

Travel, I find, expands not only the mind but also the girth. From the time I went on my first solo trip abroad at the age of 19 to this day, I have added four inches to my waistline, and I can account for every millimeter of it – the warm, flaky croissant at the breakfast room in Hotel Merlot in Paris, the mugful of Malapacao Special in El Nido, the potato curry pizza at Café Jr at the Langham Place in Hong Kong, not to mention the pad Thai of People’s Palace, the pandan sans rival of M Café, the velvet prawns of Little Asia. Then there’s that first taste of lechon Cebu after two years of being vegetarian.

Four inches, and my life is better for it.

I know that every meal, as in every trip, has a story to tell. If I let it spin its own tale and stay out of the way, something vivid unfolds.

So with great expectations, I arm myself with well-worn shoes and a ready fork, wishing that my heart will always be as full as my tummy.