Amy Besa & Romy Dorotan: The food activists

When Anton Ego took the first slurp of the rodent-prepared ratatouille in the movie of the same name, he was immediately and violently transported back to the provincial cooking of his mother, and all the attendant sensations that come with the home kitchen, like warmth, comfort and family. This is why food is so much more than just physical nourishment; it is the entry point through which we learn about another’s culture, and the ending point at which we learn about ours.

Amy Besa and her chef husband Romy Dorotan, authors of the cookbook Memories of Philippine Kitchens, are right about expatriate Filipinos searching for their identity through their cuisine. I think I only truly appreciated Filipino food when I lived abroad and started craving those home-cooked meals. Unsatisfied with the watered-down versions served in restaurants, I began learning how to make them myself until I had perfected my own adobo recipe (and every Filipino should have their own!). In New York — that is, in Manhattan — there were only three Filipino restaurants in the downtown area. Elvie’s on 14th Street was a turo-turo, and across the street Krystal’s Cafe had a large projector that beamed Pinoy TV shows or karaoke jams. When Krystal’s closed last year, Pistahan opened up a few doors down, and there I was always amused by the expressions on the faces of non-Filipino diners. Unless I made the trek to Queens on the far end of the 7 train, these were the only places I could go if I needed a sisig and chicharon fix.

Then there was Cendrillon, which was established in 1995, but she was a different creature altogether. The upscale restaurant, which claimed a cocktail bar and a posh address, had the reputation for being “fusion” or “pan-Asian,” definitely not ethnic — not in SoHo. Throughout the years, however, Cendrillon began asserting more of its Filipino roots, an effect, perhaps, of the couple repeatedly coming back to the Philippines to do research for their book starting in 2003. Frank Bruni, the Anton Ego of The New York Times, tasted Chef Romy’s tangy adobo in 2005 and experienced a “taste revelation, realizing as never before just how far into the background of most cuisines these notes recede.” Pleasantly assaulted by the sourness, he proceeded to tackle the oxtail kare kare, with its killer sidekick, the “challenging” and “pungent” fermented shrimp paste. 

Besa was recently in Manila to receive her and Dorotan’s presidential Pamana ng Filipino Award, which is given to outstanding Filipinos abroad. At a talk she gave at Enderun Colleges with feminist economist Marina Durano, Besa let out the news that Cendrillon was closing down after 13 incredible years, but rebirthing as Purple Yam in a more affordable area of Brooklyn. With this she also cleared up the misconception that they were raking in the money. It is really the couple’s dedication and passion to sharing their vision of Filipino food that has kept them going in the fickle restaurant industry all these years.

“It saved my life,” Besa says about opening Cendrillon after realizing that Wall Street was not for her. “My advice to you,” she says, addressing the future chefs at Enderun, “is that you will never be successful unless you accept and embrace your culture.”

This is something she learned herself, on a nearly four-decade journey that has taken her from Manila to the United States and back again, to the far-flung provinces of the Philippines, recalling and recreating handed-down recipes from generations before, going back to the roots, back to the beginning, back to the elemental flavors of fermentation: sour and salty. 

Filipino food can be divided into three historical eras, that of pre-refrigeration when bagoong, patis and suka were heavily used; industrialization, which introduced sugar into diets as energy fuel for factory workers; and the succeeding periods of colonialism and globalization, when processed foods with their preservatives and chemicals came to the fore. Now, we are starting to come full circle, as the organic and locavore food movements are gaining popularity around the world, not just because they trendy but because they are healthy and sustainable.

“The fate of what happens to people is in the hands of food professionals,” Besa stresses. “The flavors of pre-refrigeration are part of the legacy that we have.” Heritage and heirloom food — meaning original varieties of livestock and crops with unique traits passed down through generations, are the new food trend within the organic food movement. On special occasions, Besa likes to serve heirloom rice with a side of history. “It’s about sharing what our ancestors ate,” she says. “When a farmer abandons his terraces, that rice variety is gone.”

At this point, Marina Durano offers a caveat when thinking about the idea of food legacy and food movements. “Should hunger be a legacy?” she asks, pointing out that the well-being of a rice farmer is not the same as the well-being of a Pinot drinker. Foodies who relish the glamour of fine and rare varietals and get wistful about the notion of terroir should also be thinking about how they connect, for example, to the threatened livelihoods of rice farmers.

It is a fact that “being connected to the land” is a more expensive lifestyle choice than buying canned goods at the supermarket or ordering takeout. Organic veggies cost more and are harder to find. People make sinigang out of sachets because it’s more convenient than foraging for tamarinds and guavas. Besa counteracts this by noting that in the long term, it’s more costly to be eating unhealthy food, since the toxins can make us sick and the additives will make us obese. Organic should not have to mean expensive. If the government helps our farmers convert to agricultural methods that do not rely on pesticides and artificial fertilizers, then organic farming can become a sustainable practice.

Besa is perhaps what you would call a food activist, someone who wants you to care about where your food comes from. Especially as a Filipino, for whom eating means more than just filling the belly, it’s an act that holds the family together. It’s the creation of home and friends, of memories and legacies. And it’s never more obvious than at this time of the year, when we do the holiday rounds and end up ourselves looking like the Christmas ham. With influences from the Chinese, Malay and Spanish alongside truly indigenous foods, ours is a rich and interesting culture. “Filipinos cook with love,” Besa states. “That’s why Filipino food is delicious.”