Amazing grease: A tale of two ‘ngohiongs’
As mentioned in my column last week, in our search for good chow in Cebu City for our revised Linamnam book, Mary Ann and I were to discover another Cebuano original called ngohiong (pronounced ngo-yong.) It was highly recommended as a must-try by several sources, and that we shouldn’t leave the city without trying it, or at least, without witnessing how the locals devour it like there was no tomorrow. It has been around for generations, achieving near-cult status. Where to have the best ngohiong in the city is always a source of debate. Even Mary Ann’s dear pren (they call each other that) Cely Francisco, who originally hails from Bulacan but considers Cebu home, craves for ngohiong like crazy. Though she now lives in Manila due to her present work, it’s the first thing she asks for whenever she flies back home.
So, what exactly is ngohiong? Though it means five-spice powder in Chinese, in Cebu it is a fried vegetable lumpia, or spring roll, if you will, filled with sautéed ubod (coconut pith), bamboo shoot, or some other vegetable, but hardly any trace of the five-spice flavor. Cebu’s ngohiong is coated in batter, though, rather than encased in paper-thin lumpia wrapper. It is served with a chili sauce (some say the sauce distinguishes one ngohiong joint from another), and is always eaten with cold pusó, coconut frond-wrapped rice, another Cebuano staple the locals can’t live without. Here are two of the more popular ngohiong joints in the city:
Doming’s Ngohiong is a garage turned eatery hiding inside a residential village, off Vicente Ramos Avenue. It is a rundown garage of a decrepit bungalow, with no running water in its washbasin (a plastic jug filled with water and soap are provided, though), and a sh**ty hole of a toilet cubicle right next to one of its greasy tables, not to mention some stray cats hanging around ready to pounce on a just-vacated table for any leftovers. Not really the definition of a restaurant, is it?
What is amazing, though, is the large volume of dine-in and takeout orders (bagsful are whisked out by drivers of flashy SUVs) it does in half a day, closing by 2 p.m. or earlier when supply runs out. Its regular customers are oblivious to the surroundings, and can’t seem to have enough of its three-item menu, which are fried upon order and served piping hot: ngohiong, chicken parts, liver and gizzard, and, of course, pusó.
When we got there at 10:30 a.m., the joint was already teeming with diners. In fact, our table was already being cleared of a previous customer’s mess. Since we were unfamiliar with its ordering system, a lady approached us to explain how it was done. She turned out to be Heidi Cabaluna of Montebello Villa Resort, whom I met some two months earlier at SM Clark during a sisig cook-off I hosted during the MICECON conference. One had to get a piece of pre-stamped paper placed in a basket, tick off the order and hand it to someone over a concrete railing. Once you’ve paid, you then go back to your table and wait for your order to be served. Heidi was having an early lunch with her grownup daughters, ordering two dozen ngohiongs and a basketful of pusó. It was she who mentored us on the finer points of ngohiong, as well as recommending other joints to try. So, how was Doming’s ngohiongs? Well, why bother fixing the place when it’s raking it in, right?
Across town on Junquera Extension St. is a self-serve canteen called Chinese Ngohiong that serves cheap food to the students of Kian Kee school just across the street. It was past 12 noon when we got there and had to endure the long queue outside under the sun. Once we got to the glass-encased food display, we placed our order by pointing at the item we wanted, then paying for it and it is served right away, just like in any canteen. Available were basically the same greasy stuff as Doming’s, and more. Its ngohiong are bigger, it has taupe rolls (fish and pork sausages rolled in bean-curd sheets), meatballs, chicken wings, liver and gizzards, and crab relleno stuffed with its own meat mixed with potatoes, and pusó of course. We couldn’t discern any difference between its ngohiong and chili sauce and that of Doming’s, though. Further down the street are more stores selling the same fried stuff.
For the life of us, Mary Ann and I couldn’t get the hang of the Cebuanos’ near-obsession with ngohiong and pusó. It’s their comfort food, the food that sustained them from childhood to adulthood. One can’t argue with food memory.
