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Cartoon by Donna Barstow

Recently we wrote about waiters butting into our spoken stream of consciousness at the table to ask us if everything is all right. Obviously it was all right and we were scintillating until he rudely broke in. (However, since this is the Philippines, we would be considered the rude ones. Argh.) Here is Christopher Hitchens’s piece on that subject. It’s included in his new essay compilation Arguably, which we need immediately. (Thanks to Jackie O for the alert.)

Notes on Etiquette from From Leonardo da Vinci’s Kitchen Notebooks

The other night, I was having dinner with some friends in a fairly decent restaurant and was at the very peak of my form as a wit and raconteur. But just as, with infinite and exquisite tantalizations, I was approaching my punch line, the most incredible thing happened. A waiter appeared from nowhere, leaned right over my shoulder and into the middle of the conversation, seized my knife and fork, and started to cut up my food for me. Not content with this bizarre behavior, and without so much as a by-your-leave, he proceeded to distribute pieces of my entree onto the plates of the other diners.

No, he didn’t, actually. What he did instead was to interrupt the feast of reason and flow of soul that was our chat, lean across me, pick up the bottle of wine that was in the middle of the table, and pour it into everyone’s glass. And what I want to know is this: How did such a barbaric custom get itself established, and why on earth do we put up with it?

Leonardo: Top Chef, Old Master in Lapham’s Quarterly

There are two main ways in which a restaurant can inflict bad service on a customer. The first is to keep you hanging about and make it hard to catch the eye of the staff. (“Why are they called waiters?” inquired my son when he was about 5. “It’s we who are doing all the waiting.”) The second way is to be too intrusive, with overlong recitations of the “specials” and too many oversolicitous inquiries. . .

Read Wine drinkers of the world, unite in Slate.

Mike and I finally had our long-planned much-delayed lunch at Mamou at Rockwell. While perusing the menu we discussed the US Open finals, Djokovic owning Nadal, and Federer’s crankiness in his interview after he let the Djoker escape in the semifinal. We say this as longtime (since 2001) Federites who worship the ground he treads so lightly on: His Majesty has always been cranky. One doesn’t notice this when he’s winning, but when he’s not it becomes more apparent. Masunget ang lola namin.

“He was probably mad at himself,” said Mike.

“Naah, he was railing at randomness. That shot that saved Djokovic—pure dumb luck.”

“But he’s made so many lucky shots in the past.”

“Yeah, but he hit them beautifully.”

Mamou is great because you can point to the menu at random and whatever you order will be delicious. We usually have the black pork sinigang (with the thick broth), but Mike said steak steak steak. So we had Grana Padano cheese and honey, tuyo salad, beer-battered fish (non-greasy fish and chips), and the prime rib, medium well done. Then pecan pie and coffee.

We liked everything, but the prime rib was spectacular. It’s so good that we skipped dinner, not because we were too full but because we wanted to retain the memory of its taste.

Our one beef (haha) with this fine joint (haha again) is that the acoustics are horrendous. The noise level is such that you can hear every conversation but the one you are having. Fortunately we started lunch at 2pm when there were fewer diners.

Wait, we have one and a half beefs, not just with Mamou but with many restaurants we patronize regularly. Have you ever been in the middle of an intense, highly-animated discussion with your friends, only to have the waiter interrupt with a “How is your food?” It stops the conversation completely. And when you resume your discussion, the intensity/animation level has dropped.

We appreciate being asked, and we know the waiters are probably trained to ask, but please don’t ask us while we’re in the middle of a matter of life and death talk (which, if you know us, is at least half the time). If you have to ask, time your question for when no one is speaking, or when they are perusing the bill.

Even establishments with the most dependable service can trip up. A few weeks ago Mike was dining at a hotel restaurant with a foreign guest who had just come from Malaysia and wanted to change his ringgits. Mike had once asked the concierge if he could have his Indonesian rupiah changed to pesos, and the concierge said they could do it. So Mike asked the guy at the desk if they could exchange the ringgits.

The guy at the desk heaved a loud sigh and gave Mike the look of pure and utter snootiness. You know, the look that a headwaiter at a fine dining restaurant would bestow on you if you stare at the pate de foie gras and ask him if you could have Reno liver spread instead (and by the way, we love Reno liver spread). Finally, he deigned to give Mike an answer. “No.” (Mike reported this and got an apology from the management.)

Then there are establishments that won’t be alive long enough to get a reputation. Mike is addicted to online dining and travel deals and he has an entire folder of vouchers he has to use up. (Read his blog, Walk and Eat.) Recently he realized that one of the restaurant vouchers was expiring at the end of August, so he called to make a reservation. It turned out that the restaurant would be closed during the four-day weekend, so he could only use the voucher on August 31.

“I didn’t know you would be closed during the four-day holiday,” Mike told the restaurant PR staff who took his call. “Isn’t that a long time to stay closed?”

“Our regular clients are from the offices in the area,” the PR staff replied. “I don’t know why you had to wait until the last day to redeem your voucher.”

“Whether I use it on the first day of the promo or the last day is entirely up to me,” Mike pointed out.

The PR staff continued trying to lecture Mike. Mike cut him off. He used the voucher at that restaurant. The place was pretentious and the food was awful. Figures.

Champorado with tuyo is comfort food. Guinataan is comfort food. It’s what you have when you’re glum or stressed-out or when Roger Federer is leading Novak Djokovic two sets to love then up a break in the fifth set at the US Open semis, and the Djoker somehow slips through. Preferably in a bowl that you can hug as you rock back and forth in fetal position, humming to yourself. Coke and Chippy is Roby’s comfort food. Teddy Boy’s comfort food is…food (Though he is way fitter these days so he must not need it).
 

Laing is not comfort food to me; laing is more like a blood transfusion. I will take a plate of shredded gabi leaves, coconut milk, pork and searing hot chilis over any ten-thousand-dollar ten-course molecular gastronomy showcase served in test tubes any time. (I don’t see why my food has to come out of an autoclave.)

Laing is my madeleine out of Proust. I cannot see a tray of laing behind the glass in a turo-turo without becoming eight again. It is my time machine, my childhood, my mom. 

Photos from My City, My SM, My Cuisine at SM City Naga, Camarines Sur. Of course the main event was the Laing competition. All photos by Wayne Lim. Thanks, Mang Wayne!

Read Laing is my I.V. drip, my column this week at interaksyon.com. Should be up later today.

Having agreed that immaturity is the secret of eternal youth, Noel and I proceeded to have merienda for dinner: champorado at dilis, pinaputok na gulay at prutas, then ginisang monggo at chicharon. Then we sat outside and shared a bottle of cabernet while rain lashed at the awning. It was very Somerset Maugham.

Crispy Tawilis at Wild Ginger in Power Plant Rockwell.

Monggo’t Malunggay at Wild Ginger.

Champorado’t Dilis at C2.

Junot Diaz: Who you calling a sisig?

We tag along to the My City, My SM events all over the country. So far we’ve been to Baguio, Tarlac, Lipa, Batangas, Lucena, Naga, Iloilo, Cagayan de Oro and Davao with the hardworking marketing team of Ms Millie Dizon. My City, My SM highlights the histories and the sights of Philippine cities; now this acclaimed tourism promotion project has been expanded to include local cuisines. More reason for us to travel around the country!

At last Saturday’s My City, My SM, My Cuisine event at SM Batangas, old Batangas families proudly presented their heirloom recipes.

Adobong Pastor, a recipe that has been in the Pastor family for generations. This adobo has no soy sauce; achuete is used instead. And it has chicharon, mmmm. Probably the most evilly scrumptious adobo we’ve ever had. To the right, Ginataang Sugpo from the recipe of Cristy Irineo. Makes you feel like you’ve been on a long and penitential diet, no?

Adobo Sa Dilaw, another variation on adobo, an original recipe by Ka Ely of the Montenegros of Taal. According to Batangas tourism officer Dindo Montenegro, family occasions were always full house in anticipation of Ka Ely’s cooking. On the left, Taal’s Famous Tapa at Longganisa, one of the main reasons you should visit the Taal Public Market—look for Mr Rey Legaspi’s shop. On the right, a true Taal delicacy: Tinindag, the native barbecue, original recipe by Aling Consolacion Anura. Tinindag is made of pork cheeks and snout—yes, it is pigface barbecue and it is worth jumping into your car and driving at top speed to Taal.

TagHilaw, another original recipe by Ka Ely, is made of innards. Some people get queasy at the mention of innards, and faint at the sight of them. Good, we don’t have to share, then. (Ibili mo na lang sila ng hamburger, or as old ladies would say when I was a kid, “ham-boor-jer”.)

Sinukmani (rice cake) by Cesca’s catering. They make the best linupak (or is it Nilupak) on earth, look them up.

After dining on all of the above with a kilo of rice, a gallon of cold salabat, and don’t forget the hot tsokolate, walk up and down Taal Volcano.