She said, he said

At the risk of being accused of washing our dirty dishes in public, I will now make a rebuttal to put some concerned and confused readers out there at ease. After all, adding a bit more spice wouldn’t spoil the tempestuous broth. I did not find it necessary to make a reply to my husband Claude Tayag’s most recent article aptly titled "He said, she said" (July 11). But I have been deluged with phone calls and e-mails, some sympathetic, some outright ludicrous, but all nevertheless amusing.

One funny comment is from my sister Lorraine wondering why I tolerated that he compared our family’s eating habits to the fastidiously autistic Dustin Hoffman (Rainman) and obsessive-compulsive Barbra Streisand (The Mirror Has Two Faces). A reader, with so much concern, asked how I truly feel when my "bitter" half makes me the butt of jokes, and in a national daily pa. I jokingly reply I have a very high self-esteem, which keeps me from boiling mad and throwing pots and pans at him. After all, there are always two sides to a coin. Our favorite niece Bea, though, saved the day for me. She says his uncle behaves like an infatuated, starry-eyed, head-over-heels lover who finds my every quirk fascinating and alluring. But of course, the poor uncle will deny this vehemently.

Our joke in the house is I am royalty and Claude a commoner. His taste in food is that of a peasant, thus we encounter daily problems on the table. Of course, this is just how we lovingly put it. You be the judge. Now, let’s see the other side of the coin – hearing it first hand from the royal horse’s mouth, a voice live from the Buckingham Palace. Ehem, ehem, ehem!

This whole thing started when I refused to eat one of my favorites, paksiw na bangus for lunch. He could not take it because he knows how much I like paksiw. I said since I was a child paksiw is eaten only for breakfast or dinner, but never for lunch. With exasperation, he barked, "OKAY, WHAT ELSE CAN YOU NOT EAT FOR LUNCH?" I said adobo, kilain and tapa. This freaked him out of his wits.

Okay now, this may sound peculiar to many but there is a rationale behind this. Paksiw, like adobo and kilain (similar to Ilocano’s igado), is cooked with vinegar and their flavor is best enhanced, hours after the cooking or even the day after. Thus, in my grandmother’s house, it is cooked in the morning and left in the clay pot ’til dinnertime or better yet for breakfast the following morning. By the way, Victor Lazatin, Claude’s cousin, of the prestigious ACCRA Law office, agrees with me. He can only eat paksiw na bangus for breakfast with the corresponding sinangag. His Visayan wife Cynthia can’t take that either.

About the burong isda and balo-balo debacle, any Pampango worth his tocino knows very well these two. Both sawsawan are fermented. Our "town-famous" buro is left in thick clay jars for at least three months to ferment. Thus, when sautéed with garlic, the aroma (stench, as he calls it) from aging envelops the whole house, if not the neighborhood. Claude’s balo-balo, on the other hand, is eaten on day two. And anyone blessed with common sense can tell you that anything meant to ferment is best when it has aged fully to maturity. Wine and cheese are perfect examples. Will you go for cheddar if there is Stilton? Will you sip a house wine if you are offered a vintage Bordeaux? Don’t connoisseurs pay a premium for such? But then, what can one expect from a hillbilly? And my, my, to have the guts to describe our "town-famous" buro as cat’s vomit! Our beloved Apung Pepang must be turning in her royal grave.

He says I am weird when it comes to my steak. Not at all, just different, I say. Although he’s right about having the sizzling steak in a fastfood bringing back memories of college dating days. And to this day, though I now can afford the more upscale joints, I still enjoy it as much. But don’t we all have such memories we capture in food? I know of a couple who loves sharing a double cheese Burger King Whopper. Not that they particularly like it. It’s just that it reminds them of their honeymoon in Barcelona, enjoying a Whopper amid Catalan-speaking people. And to this day, years after their honeymoon, they still eat it the same way. Sharing one Whopper, taking turns in bites and conversing in broken Spanish. It never fails to give them a high.

Claude serves our guests what they call a gourmet meal with all the works, from appetizer to dessert. He goes to such great lengths only to cap the meal with instant coffee! Ooops! NO, NO, NO!!! Instant coffee served in its labeled jar (imported naman, he says) and hot water in individual Pettyjohn stoneware cups pa man din! He’s so baduy! Now it’s my turn to get exasperated. Our good friends Billy and Marlene Mondoñedo of the famous Tinderbox (which by the way serves excellent coffee) will surely disown him for such ignorance. I am a habitual coffee drinker and I say it’s just not worth the caffeine. Coffee to me must be freshly brewed, black and strong. After all, as Billy proclaims, since the coffee is taken capping a meal, it’s only natural one should serve the best. Its aroma and aftertaste linger in one’s memory much longer after you’ve left the dining table. As for Claude, he can’t tell the difference anyway. He does not drink coffee at all. Remember he’s just a country bumpkin pretending to have some royal affinities.

To those who care, thank you but don’t worry. I am not the least slighted. We all have our idiosyncrasies, on and off the table. After all, when you marry someone, it’s for better or worse, in sickness and in health, warts, farts, quirks and all. Strange, but I find it odd how Claude eats his paksiw na bangus. With his right hand, he neatly assembles a chunk of chicharon (the home-made meaty kind, pititian), topping it with rice (newly cooked, buhaghag) and then a bit of the paksiw (the belly part only, mind you) smothered in soy sauce (Kikkoman) with crushed green chili and shoves it to his mouth in one fell swoop. Now, that’s uncivilized, not to mention deadly. He says he prefers it that way because that’s how he was hand-fed by his grandma when he was small. After all, he wasn’t born with a silver spoon!

I say stick to your guns, it makes life serendipitously delicious. After all, variety is the spice of life. Never mind what others may say. Pretty soon they’ll be eating their words. Don’t look yet, but guess who NOW prefers his grilled pork ribs well done (burnt), with the sauce on the side, please! He’s really a quick learner, that husband of mine.

* * *

Comments are most welcome. E-mail maryannq@mozcom.com.