Unsung Hero Files, Quasi-Dossier 01: The Man Who Cooked Pancit

It’s unfortunate that Anish (not his real name) and his culinary career as a mess hall cook took an unexpected twist quite recently. Ironically, it also involved the same potent liquid that caused the sacking of the fellow he relieved just a few months ago.

But unlike the other fellow who drank the addictive aqua vitae in excess, which resulted to the latter hitting his brethren in the face, Anish’s case was different: the reason was his personal enterprise with the pure intention to earn an extra buck so he can save enough funds for his family back home—he was just acting as a middleman like the way he did with his other informal businesses. The fellow applies a miniscule OHP for his buy-and-sell ventures: prepaid cards, extra care laundry services with a fixed fee, unaccounted surplus appetizers from the dynastic few’s cupboards, etcetera. Unfortunately, his side job must have thrived well that it probably evoked from his brothers the same venial feeling which Cain and Esau felt ages ago. His only default, which he should not have partaken had he been diligent, was to endeavour to make ‘certain’ people happy by selling a potion that has influenced people since they discovered that expired grapes can turn people into their happy jester selves or worst, unleash the Minotaur within. 

In life, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. A colleague at work today may have a veneer sweetness and by tomorrow will not even remember your birthday.

Everywhere around the globe, there is no recession of sycophants. The latter practices the same passion to survive—justifying their actions by all rights but unlike Anish, they will not care what the future holds for the people whose lives they’ve just stepped on.

We’re from different countries but that man, he has the heart to cook: he once fixed for breakfast a similar noodle dish made popular by a woman I knew from a coastal town back home that eternally prefixed her name to Pancit. 

He is a good man. He earns less than most people do. But I know he can recover—God loves good people. They may falter to sin or ignorance sometimes, but God knows that already, which is why He gave a gift to all of us to use when such a circumstance occurs—God created the value of resilience.

I wish him luck. I am happy with the thought of him reuniting with his family after years of being away from them. I hope he starts a new enterprise; I hope he finds courage to cook again. I hope he remembers that noodle dish—he can rebuild from there.

Country Roads

“Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze.”  

Lyrics from John Denver’s hit were the first words that I jotted down from a song whilst alternating stopping the vinyl player, which my Papa probably bought from his stint in Saudi Arabia. I assume my young self that time did the exercise because of the heartfelt effect of the song—my first time to experience a muse as what qualified writers call it. That was after I came back from my two-month sojourn in my grandfather’s town.

I never knew my Lolo (grandpa) up close and personal, but I felt that he loved me even if I did not carry his last name.

Lolo’s house wasn’t exactly a mansion: it was a huge bungalow house that conveys a mansion-like impression given the massive projections of its facade whilst the plants in his garden created an enchanted forest. My father, smitten by the wits of a beautiful teacher from that town, together with his architect buddy designed that house Pro Bono: ah, the effect of young and misguided love.

“Dark and dusty, painted on the sky. Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye.” 

The province did not have much concrete roads yet, and it was dusty as the path to my Lolo’s town comprised a network of rough roads—probably graded once a year by a rented ramshackle grader and compacted by the erratic scheduled trips of jeepneys from Pola to the island capital’s solitary port that time.

I knew my Lolo loved me as his apo (grandson). That he taught me how to take a leak in our apartment’s kitchen sink in Prudencio was an initial proof and much to the annoyance of my mother–my Lolo made me feel like I was one of the angelic cherubs on those ancient fountains in UST. I will never forget that time when he had my remote control car fixed by the only engineer with the electronics know-how in that town after my toy got busted after I deliberately spilled talc powder on it to create a replica of the dusty roads to my Lolo’s town. I always felt protected when Lolo was around especially if the horrifically masked Moriones would pass by his house during Lent.

“And driving down the road I get a feeling that I should have been home yesterday, yesterday.” 

The last time I saw my Lolo’s house was almost three years ago—before the new owners had it demolished. Strangers were renting it that time so I couldn’t go inside my Lolo’s mansion again to at least take a leak. Whilst driving around town, the majestic palaces of relatives from the land of the maple leaf amazed me. The old disgruntled me demanded from the heavens why my grandfather had to die on that awful day in the 80s: his intimidating presence alone would have kept order in my family’s affairs—I could have been someone else who celebrates birthdays with his family instead of years of indulging in fast-food outlets in the desert. There would have been no need to worry during those past years when my efforts fell short—inadequate—and late: I could have kept his legacy intact; and not someone else’s. There would have been no need for me to—fervently—feed the fire of hate towards others who were just minding their own business: there was no need to justify that anger as if it were a cerebral form of collateral damage.

I don’t know about reincarnation, but I believe in restart buttons—just like when I operated my Papa’s turntable a long time ago. Birthdays do that. Yes, they do. Other than its periodic function of reminding you that the clock is ticking, birthdays also serve as milestones to be thankful: to reconsider happiness and decide it’s high time to throw away all the excess baggage and move forward.

For my birthday, I wish to bury the hatchet—and forgive myself. This note is my personal eulogy to my old self.

My Lolo would have been proud that I became a working-class hero—just like him. I can envisage his smile right now in heaven knowing I assimilated the virtues of the knight I imagined as a child whilst playing in his garden. That I have pursued my dreams to walk and toil on foreign lands—yeah, my Lolo would have been proud. My Lola would have prepared me serbesa and bopis to celebrate.

I am no poet—not even close; a lifetime more practice to do and musings to grow into a writer I wished I was—I am a quantity surveyor, for goodness’ sake!

I may never set foot on that place again—except in case, my mother or my aunt so wishes otherwise. However, if the time comes, I am granted one wish before passing into the next life, I would request to experience that humid surround, breathe the salty air of the sea, and if I can push my luck a little further, sit on a rickety wooden rocking chair like that of my Lolo Simeon’s whilst setting it on my favourite spot of that town which separates the zones between Everlasting and Calanog: on top of the concrete levee’s crown, facing the shallow waters of the sea so I can see the sunset one last time.

“Country roads, take me home to the place I belong…” 

https://youtu.be/3VdIfIZHJ_M