"The best and only way to appreciate and understand a city is to sit, stroll, or simply live and allow the city to come to you, not through your mind but through your senses; not through your action but by the city's own volition, alighting on you almost imperceptibly as you sit perfectly still...Then you eat. If you have chosen wisely, and if it's a chef who knows what he is doing, you will be doing nothing less than eating a distillation of the city, its culture, its inhabitants; its very soul." Clinton Palanca, The Mad Tea Party
Vigan, Ilocos Sur
I.
The brick walls filled with artistic renderings of the streets of Vigan and its 19th century houses, and the darkened ambience of Café Uno would make it the best place to meet a secret lover, or perhaps, more innocuously, to have a quiet time and have a good meal. And a good meal you will have. The menu brings to mind the very essence of the city. Exotic yet familiar, foreign yet its tastes resonate with one's identity. Pinakbet with bagnet. Igado. Inarabsab. Longganisa. Empanada. The very names of these Ilokano dishes evoke the simple yet hearty meals of which they are. These are not sophisticated, complex dishes that require convoluted processes. These are simple food, comfort food, soul food: cholesterol-laden, fat-filled, totally-bad-for-you-but-totally-delicious food. Simmered in Iloko vinegar, washed with bagoong, deep fried, mixed with herbs and spices, they beguile, and bursting with delight, they fill you. Earthy, uncomplicated, aboriginal elements and from these, cooked in ways that hark back to the times of yore, come out offerings that transcend the ordinary.
II.
Walking along the cobbled streets of the city, one is filled with a sense of nostalgia, a longing for what has been irrevocably lost. The antique houses seem to whisper age-old secrets, intrigues and stories of inhabitants long gone. The washed out walls that faintly bear names, enticements, marks of life that no longer exists, faded clues to what have been, intimations of our own mortality, and loss. The clip-clopping of horses pulling karatelas echo through the streets, a rhythm that pounds with our heartbeats, summoning the poet in us, resurrecting long lost dreams and the silence becomes a dirge for what we have let go, what we have to lose. And we pine for that which we no longer have - the tender touch of a mother, the tentative steps of a child, a father's booming laughter, small things that have slipped through the hands of time, and we come away a bit sad, our footsteps echoing in the emptied chambers of our memories.
III.
The old bell tower stands forlorn - yes, majestic, and yes, impressive, and yet, it stands there, on a hill, desolate, its silenced bells vandalized, overlooking the white-washed tombs of long dead ancestors.
IV.
Dusty, yellowing pages of books - you might as well have been reading the life of its owner. Books that are sublimely beautiful, terribly clever, sophisticatedly witty. Decaying picture books, grimy pages of vaguely salacious contents pawed surreptitiously in darkened halls and dust-filtered airs grown fetid by dank thoughts and impious fantasies. There they are: overpriced, out of date, and yet compelling. These are remnants of a life, clues to a life lived with certain choices, in a certain way.
Vigan, Ilocos Sur
I.
The brick walls filled with artistic renderings of the streets of Vigan and its 19th century houses, and the darkened ambience of Café Uno would make it the best place to meet a secret lover, or perhaps, more innocuously, to have a quiet time and have a good meal. And a good meal you will have. The menu brings to mind the very essence of the city. Exotic yet familiar, foreign yet its tastes resonate with one's identity. Pinakbet with bagnet. Igado. Inarabsab. Longganisa. Empanada. The very names of these Ilokano dishes evoke the simple yet hearty meals of which they are. These are not sophisticated, complex dishes that require convoluted processes. These are simple food, comfort food, soul food: cholesterol-laden, fat-filled, totally-bad-for-you-but-totally-delicious food. Simmered in Iloko vinegar, washed with bagoong, deep fried, mixed with herbs and spices, they beguile, and bursting with delight, they fill you. Earthy, uncomplicated, aboriginal elements and from these, cooked in ways that hark back to the times of yore, come out offerings that transcend the ordinary.
II.
Walking along the cobbled streets of the city, one is filled with a sense of nostalgia, a longing for what has been irrevocably lost. The antique houses seem to whisper age-old secrets, intrigues and stories of inhabitants long gone. The washed out walls that faintly bear names, enticements, marks of life that no longer exists, faded clues to what have been, intimations of our own mortality, and loss. The clip-clopping of horses pulling karatelas echo through the streets, a rhythm that pounds with our heartbeats, summoning the poet in us, resurrecting long lost dreams and the silence becomes a dirge for what we have let go, what we have to lose. And we pine for that which we no longer have - the tender touch of a mother, the tentative steps of a child, a father's booming laughter, small things that have slipped through the hands of time, and we come away a bit sad, our footsteps echoing in the emptied chambers of our memories.
III.
The old bell tower stands forlorn - yes, majestic, and yes, impressive, and yet, it stands there, on a hill, desolate, its silenced bells vandalized, overlooking the white-washed tombs of long dead ancestors.
IV.
Dusty, yellowing pages of books - you might as well have been reading the life of its owner. Books that are sublimely beautiful, terribly clever, sophisticatedly witty. Decaying picture books, grimy pages of vaguely salacious contents pawed surreptitiously in darkened halls and dust-filtered airs grown fetid by dank thoughts and impious fantasies. There they are: overpriced, out of date, and yet compelling. These are remnants of a life, clues to a life lived with certain choices, in a certain way.
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