I once heard Sir Teng Mangansakan, a Maguindanaon scholar, say that whenever he has non-local visitors, he brings them to local eateries/carinderia. I even heard him say, “Bakit mo sila dadalhin sa Jollibee eh may Jollibee din sa kanila? Ako binibigyan ko sila ng alwan.” When I heard that, I realized my mistake when I was still working at the Research Institute for Teacher Quality.
It was an educational research institution in the Philippines created in partnership between the Philippine Normal University (PNU) and University of New England (UNE) in Australia, mandated to support DepEd and CHED in their policies. And whenever my bosses from Manila visited here to facilitate the training of MBHTE’s top management, I would bring them to Black Scoop, Cheraf’s, and some other restaurants that sold what they would also find in Manila.
I wished I had brought them to Sinina ni Ina or Babo Ping’s, but I didn’t realize then that it was also an opportunity to introduce them to our local food and culture.
I love pastil. I grew up watching my grandmother make it, among other Maguindanaon dishes and delicacies. Before restaurants were judged by their Instagrammable walls and aesthetic tables, Moros back then judged eateries based on their quality and taste, and that’s why my grandmother was quite popular in her time.
At night, my mother would shred a steamed chicken by hand into tiny pieces. It probably took her 20 to 30 minutes to finish before she put them in the fridge.
Every morning, the smell of toasted onions and soy sauce filled the air as they cooked the chicken with the other seasonings.
If I wanted to watch them, I had to follow the kitchen rules I had memorized from listening to my grandmother tell other cooks about them all the time.
“You should not talk in front of food or seasonings so that you won’t accidentally spit on the food.” The customers might not know how their food was prepared, but my grandmother was strict about preventing “makakan i taw sa maldsik.” Another rule was to tie your hair or, much better, wear a hijab so that your hair or other dirt wouldn’t fall on the food.
“If you cook, you should always keep your nails trimmed or wash your hands with calamansi before and after touching the food.” But I didn’t mind the last ones because I was only there to watch.
One of my favorite parts was watching them make the pastil. Once the kagikit was ready, they laid out a rectangle-cut banana leaf and rubbed a little oil onto the back of a spoon, then onto the banana leaf. They scooped a cup of rice onto the leaf, spooned the kagikit over it, and gently swung the leaf from side to side to shape the rice. Then they folded it to tuck everything inside and stacked the finished wrapped pastil on a tray in a pyramid shape. They did this so fast, like they had a certain rhythm. It was as if their hands and the utensils they used had minds of their own.
Looking back, it was quite a lot of work for five pesos each. But I realized how passionate my grandmother was, cooking as if she were providing a service to people. Today, however, pastil is mostly sold on a plate instead of a banana leaf. I know people now skip the banana leaf, especially in much bigger eateries, because it’s more convenient and costs less for a business.
Is it still pastil if it is served on a plate, as long as it has kagikit? Because if that’s the case, then does pastil depend on the kagikit alone?
Because it still hits differently when you eat it straight from a banana leaf, and the experience of unwrapping it gives a certain traditional hit. It even tastes different when you have it a few hours after it has been wrapped and the banana leaf has contributed to the flavor.
