Is it wrong for me to sneer at those whose lifestyles contradict mine?  

I have nothing against those who find pleasure in lifting things and putting them down again, but fitness was never something that appealed to me. I honestly couldn’t think of anything more unsightly than me wearing a compression shirt and grey sweatpants while lifting weights or doing pull-ups. I’m 6-feet tall and weigh 227 lbs. as of this writing. 

When I was young

 My childhood revolved around food. I remember the long lunches at my grandmother’s house when I was a little boy. Lunches were lengthy as there seemed to be more chatter amongst the women than food, often starting at noon as everyone eagerly convened in the sacred comedor only to conclude at half past three just in time for merienda. I remember my grandfather sitting by the balcony aprè postre on one of those white swinging benches we had and lighting a cigarette to break the monotony of lunchtime conversation, our little chihuahua, Pesetas, by his side. 

Fabada, Cocido, Callos and Lengua were staples at my grandmother’s house and whenever it was somebody’s birthday, Paella was always on the celebratory menu with every member of the family taking strategic position at the dinner table wanting to be the first to dig into the paellera for the prized, and animal fat-soaked, socarrat which often ended in a massive argument with the one who got the most amount. You see, life was simple. The rule was that there was food on the table, therefore you should enjoy it and appreciate it because others would consider it a blessing to have nothing but a piece of bread to get them going throughout the day.

Family dinners

Another thing we all enjoyed as a family at the dinner table was postre. From ice cream to chocolates, cakes to a jar of peanut brittle, and my personal favorite as a fat, bumbling, rosy-cheeked five-year-old — a bowl of warm, melted white chocolate mixed with a can of condensed milk. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you read that correctly. Now upon reading that, you might be wondering how I’m still alive? Well, in all honesty, I’m just as clueless as you are. You see, everyone in the family knew how to cook. My grandmother was in charge of Spanish classics, my grandfather on tapas, a perfect accompaniment with his cerveza, my mother on pretty much every dish you could name, and my dad on anything cooked over charcoal plus kinilaw. My dad makes the best kinilaw. What’s the secret? Good native vinegar, preferably the ones with vinegar eels. Seriously.

Snacks I loved

I also remember the snacks I used to take with me to school. While my friends and classmates stuffed themselves with chips of all sorts I had enough grease on my lips to lubricate the pistons on my grandmother’s 6-cylinder 1987 Toyota Crown Royal Saloon from the boquerones I was eating. Half a jar of fish drowning in olive oil and enough garlic to offend a Frenchman for morning recess and the remaining half for afternoon recess accompanied by Fita Crackers, of course. If I got tired of that, boquerones was replaced with a jar of my grandmother’s Spanish sardines. And if I got tired of that — brace yourselves — it was replaced with a jar of angulas cooked in olive oil, garlic and chili flakes. And if you don’t know what angulas is, well, that’s what Google is for. 

You see, having been born into a family with an immensely strong love of food and even bigger appetites, small wonder why I strongly believe in its power to bring people together. Anthony Bourdain once said, “You learn a lot about someone when you share a meal together.” Well, why was he so loved, cherished and admired? It’s because he understood that eating is more than just a means to an end. There is so much more to food than just sustainance. Meal plans for diet and fitness for instance, are in my opinion, at the bottom of the gastronomical pleasure scale. I don’t see the pleasure in eating bland, overcooked chicken breast, scrambled eggs and avocados. Nibbling on my toenails would give me more satisfaction than that. Yoghurt and berries for breakfast? That’s not breakfast, that’s a light snack. Breakfast is tocino, chorizo, danggit, bacon, hash browns, sausages and sinangag.

It’s adobo for me

In my book, lunch is adobo swimming in its own fat, a delicious bowl of any beef-based soup preferably with the bone marrow, and crispy, deep fried golden brown pork chops. Think about texture, temperatures and flavors like a bowl of cold soba noodles, potato salad and gazpacho. Sisig and chicharon bulaklak come in for texture. Sinigang, either pork or hipon or the Ilonggo classic Cansi for a burst of flavor from the broth. Even Bourdain loved Sisig! Now I can’t blame people for choosing vanity over the wonders of food but what is it with people nowadays and their desire to live ‘til they’re 350? I never understood the point of preparing for old age by sacrificing the loving, tender embrace of food cooked by your mother or grandmother. Yes, it may be a little unhealthy and not exactly something your gym coach would approve of, but don’t forget, a dish made with the mind is a dish only your trash bin deserves. A dish is a dish because of the love, care and attention that went into it oftentimes perfectly executed by the ones we hold dear, shared with the ones we hold dear. 

Food, glorious food

Food is beautiful. We often forget its value simply because we’re spoiled for choice given the myriad options available to us on a daily basis. But a starving family is more than happy to share whatever their hard work and toil was able to cough up that day. They cannot choose nor could they refuse because of their diets. Even in the simplest dishes there is pleasure to unearth if you have the heart to appreciate food for what it truly is. It is not just to sustain you or give you energy or even fill you up. Food is something we share with others hoping they, too, would discover one of life’s simplest and purest joys. 

Food knows no status, no title, and especially, no diet. Food doesn’t live for us, instead we live for it. There is an almost transcendental experience that comes with slurping a hot delicious broth on a cold night or spearing a cake with a fork after a heavy meal or arduously peeling the shell of a prawn or a shrimp. There is an edgy virility in mixing sisig where a knob of mantequilla sits idly on the edge of a hot plate awaiting its doom or sinking a knife into a freshly cooked crispy pata or burying your teeth into a spoonful of perfectly cooked vegetables from a bowl of pinakbet.

This is gastronomic theater and drama. I strongly believe that a love of food changes the way we see life and the world around us. It’s like an anchor that keeps us from drifting off to the dark, hollow superficiality of vanity. Our senses come alive whenever we enjoy food without a consideration of how it’s going to affect the way we look or feel in 30 years or whether or not our partners might find us physically attractive. Surely that’s not as important as your mom’s adobo.