The French Symbolist poet Paul Verlaine wrote in verse of his dream lover as someone who is "never quite the same ... nor wholly different" ( "Mon rêve familier"). A cheese expert from France, interviewed by Jeffrey Steingarten, used the same line to describe Camembert, the great and legendary unpasteurized raw-milk cheese. He used it to describe its complexity, how the cheese would taste a bit different each time, but somehow the quality of it is also the same as you might remember it.
I thought the same might apply to rice porridge, or "lugaw" in Tagalog, "lelut" in Kapampangan. Sure it's sometimes bland, but there are so many varieties and regional differences that a version of this ubiquitous and satisfying comfort food is bound to hit your Proustian g-spot. The right one, for me, releases an orgasmic torrent of memories. But even the blandest lugaw provides enough of a quickie, even as Chinese congee, because the texture and smell surely bring back memories of childhood. (Rice porridge, in fact, is a near-universal dish in most of Asia.)
Common toppings can include chicken (whole pieces, diced or shredded), slices of tripe or beef tongue (lengua). Some include seafood, such as fish or shrimp. I remember the prevalence of tripe as a topping when I was growing up in Pampanga. I also remember the brown bits of fried garlic, scallions, oil and calamansi that were mixed in or surrounded the meat toppings, creating a beautiful islet of color in the middle of the white risotto-like lugaw. The rite of eating began when you pushed your spoon against the toppings and garnishes, and started to mix them in a circular motion, coloring the white of the lugaw with an eddy of green and dark browns, till it all became a uniformly pale porridge the color of jicama skin. This act released the aromas of the meats, fried garlic, fish sauce or soy sauce, with golden drops of hot oil joining the mix to complete the savory, faintly acidic, slightly pungent and appetizing bouquet. You blew on the first scoop, the steam threatening to climb to your eyes, to cool it down and bring it to your lips to test the heat. You then wrap your lips around the spoonful of soft rice and meat whether it had cooled down or not anyway. Still too hot? You drew quick, short breaths in your mouth, which would by then have taken the shape of an O, like a woman in a Lamaze class. It was a cheap and satisfying dish, perfect even for the budget of an elementary school student or a laborer. What was it back in the 80's, ₱1 or ₱2?
My mom and grandmother's recipe, and supposed curative for fever and cold, reeked of ginger, which I used to pick out and set aside because I never liked its taste. (For some reason, however, I don't mind ginger with fish, which I've long associated as two flavors that go well together.) But their arroz caldo, as we sometimes called it, was very flavorful, with a savoriness and saltiness imparted by the fish sauce and ginger. It was also dark, oily and thick, with a mouthfulness I haven't found in any other lugaw.
Although I was always hoping to get a generous dose of meat topping when I was a kid, looking back on it now, the star was and has always been the lugaw and how it was cooked. The porridge sold by a lot of the karinderias, the small neighborhood "cafés" of my childhood was white as freshly cooked rice. A great-aunt sold it at her little store in the outdoor market. It was smooth, velvety and always served tongue-searingly hot, as hot as the occasional tongue topping itself. Nowadays, both modern and traditional Filipino and Chinese restaurants are bound to serve a version. The ones C2 Classic Cuisine and Gloria Maris serve, the latter a congee, remind me of the lugaw of yore: scalding, generously served, with few toppings relative to bowl size and a bland congee to which you need to add lots of soy or fish sauce to make it more exciting to the palate.
One of the best lugaws I've ever had, surprisingly enough, is on Philippine Airlines. It's served in its Mabuhay lounge and airline section, Mabuhay being the name for their business class. Their version is a little darker, a pale caramel arroz caldo with chicken and fish toppings. Kudos to the chef or menu designer, because the lugaw portion is ready to eat without much mixing: salty, texturally smooth, a hint of dilis—comfort food at 30,000 feet. This is closer to my mom and grandmother's dish, though it wasn't quite the same. But it wasn't entirely different, either.
Do you have a favorite recipe or restaurant for lugaw? What does it mean to you? Or do you think I'm full of crap, and that adobo or sinigang is the Filipino's madeleine? Feel free to share in the comments below.
I thought the same might apply to rice porridge, or "lugaw" in Tagalog, "lelut" in Kapampangan. Sure it's sometimes bland, but there are so many varieties and regional differences that a version of this ubiquitous and satisfying comfort food is bound to hit your Proustian g-spot. The right one, for me, releases an orgasmic torrent of memories. But even the blandest lugaw provides enough of a quickie, even as Chinese congee, because the texture and smell surely bring back memories of childhood. (Rice porridge, in fact, is a near-universal dish in most of Asia.)
Common toppings can include chicken (whole pieces, diced or shredded), slices of tripe or beef tongue (lengua). Some include seafood, such as fish or shrimp. I remember the prevalence of tripe as a topping when I was growing up in Pampanga. I also remember the brown bits of fried garlic, scallions, oil and calamansi that were mixed in or surrounded the meat toppings, creating a beautiful islet of color in the middle of the white risotto-like lugaw. The rite of eating began when you pushed your spoon against the toppings and garnishes, and started to mix them in a circular motion, coloring the white of the lugaw with an eddy of green and dark browns, till it all became a uniformly pale porridge the color of jicama skin. This act released the aromas of the meats, fried garlic, fish sauce or soy sauce, with golden drops of hot oil joining the mix to complete the savory, faintly acidic, slightly pungent and appetizing bouquet. You blew on the first scoop, the steam threatening to climb to your eyes, to cool it down and bring it to your lips to test the heat. You then wrap your lips around the spoonful of soft rice and meat whether it had cooled down or not anyway. Still too hot? You drew quick, short breaths in your mouth, which would by then have taken the shape of an O, like a woman in a Lamaze class. It was a cheap and satisfying dish, perfect even for the budget of an elementary school student or a laborer. What was it back in the 80's, ₱1 or ₱2?
My mom and grandmother's recipe, and supposed curative for fever and cold, reeked of ginger, which I used to pick out and set aside because I never liked its taste. (For some reason, however, I don't mind ginger with fish, which I've long associated as two flavors that go well together.) But their arroz caldo, as we sometimes called it, was very flavorful, with a savoriness and saltiness imparted by the fish sauce and ginger. It was also dark, oily and thick, with a mouthfulness I haven't found in any other lugaw.
Although I was always hoping to get a generous dose of meat topping when I was a kid, looking back on it now, the star was and has always been the lugaw and how it was cooked. The porridge sold by a lot of the karinderias, the small neighborhood "cafés" of my childhood was white as freshly cooked rice. A great-aunt sold it at her little store in the outdoor market. It was smooth, velvety and always served tongue-searingly hot, as hot as the occasional tongue topping itself. Nowadays, both modern and traditional Filipino and Chinese restaurants are bound to serve a version. The ones C2 Classic Cuisine and Gloria Maris serve, the latter a congee, remind me of the lugaw of yore: scalding, generously served, with few toppings relative to bowl size and a bland congee to which you need to add lots of soy or fish sauce to make it more exciting to the palate.
One of the best lugaws I've ever had, surprisingly enough, is on Philippine Airlines. It's served in its Mabuhay lounge and airline section, Mabuhay being the name for their business class. Their version is a little darker, a pale caramel arroz caldo with chicken and fish toppings. Kudos to the chef or menu designer, because the lugaw portion is ready to eat without much mixing: salty, texturally smooth, a hint of dilis—comfort food at 30,000 feet. This is closer to my mom and grandmother's dish, though it wasn't quite the same. But it wasn't entirely different, either.
Do you have a favorite recipe or restaurant for lugaw? What does it mean to you? Or do you think I'm full of crap, and that adobo or sinigang is the Filipino's madeleine? Feel free to share in the comments below.
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