Being a city girl in the early ‘80s was very different from today. We did things that all normal kids do and, apart from our clothes and some toys, our favorite activities were simple, down-to-earth and did not involve video games or fancy electronics. I was living in Alabang and on our quaint little Adelfa Street there were only around five houses. My best friend, Regina, lived in one of them and our afternoons were full of adventure. One day we were entrepreneurs, selling Tang on the street, inspired by the lemonade stands that kids in American Hollywood movies used to put up. More often than not we gave it away for free in the end. The next afternoon we were adventurers hiking up to “Big Rock” which many years later I realized was just a tiny boulder and our childhood monument was buried under shiny, new homes. We played hours outside, running around, sliding on our bums down the itchy Bermuda grass slope of our driveway. We were active kids and we needed our merienda.
Sometime between 4 and 5 p.m., usually, we would plop ourselves down on the hot concrete sidewalk, exhausted and sweaty with our white lampin cloths down our backs and like clockwork you would hear a familiar, friendly cry: “Tahuuuuu! Tahuuuuu!” Emerging at the end of the road would be the figure of a man carrying two large pails on his shoulders, strung together and dangling from sticks. With the heat steaming from the tarred street, he was like a cowboy in a Western movie: all fuzzy, moving in slow in motion. I loved the creamy soy texture, mixed with that sticky sweet caramel and beautifully tiny sago pearls. I loved how the pearls floated in my mouth and would randomly pop in chewy ways as I would bite on them.
My childhood was full of such food memories, sitting on the pavement. I used to eat balut, banana-cue, Chippies, green mango and bagoong, dirty ice cream and, of course, the ever-favorite fish balls. I washed them all down, sipping Royal Tru-Orange through a colorful straw drinking from a plastic bag. (You see, the vendors had to keep the bottles for refill and deposit so they poured the soft drinks into plastic bags.) Now, today, I split my time between Alabang and Makati and many times I wonder: Where did all the street vendors go?
The “taho!” and “balut!” cries seem to have become as rare as Darwin’s Dodo bird. This is true at least in the Metro area. Yes, we still buy fish balls and some souped-up, fancy version of taho, but most probably from a little franchised stand in some sort of food court served to you in a very impersonal (albeit more hygienic) manner. This is most likely a sign of development but I can’t help but miss having a more personal relationship with our humble and hardworking vendors who would try to make a living. There is, of course, a growing awareness and concern about hygiene, and rightfully so. I remember buying fish balls and never, ever taking any of that yummy-looking sweet and spicy sauce for fear that I might get sick to my stomach. I suppose nowadays we overthink what we eat and although it’s better for our health, we tend to lose out on that spontaneous moment of instant gratification.
Last Saturday I stumbled out of a bar — yes, I was a bit tipsy and that’s why I stumbled. Lo and behold! A classic example of the modern street food vendor. Shining there in the darkness, mirage-like on a deserted Makati street, steam and splatters of oil glimmering in shaky lamp light, crackles and bubbles mingling with his nostalgic cry: “Fish ball, squid ball, kikiam…” There was kind Jimmy, the modern fish ball vendor, selling me his produce with a cowboyish American accent. His station was clean. No flies! And wait — the sauces were in squeeze bottles! No worries about “double dipping” — sauce all you want! Elated at this sudden moment of inspiration (I was having writer’s block) I told him to smile for a picture and to watch out for next week’s food section. “Next Thursday, Ma’am?” “O po, next Thursday, abangan mo! Smile!” As my boyfriend was about to click away he said: “Wait! Kunin mo ang sign…” (Take the sign, he said.) I wondered why. Sure enough, upon inspecting the photo, there — emblazoned in black on bright yellow — was his slogan: “EAT MY BALLS.”
I can’t remember the last time I laughed that hard and all throughout the evening only one phrase kept blurting out of our mouths in between bouts of incontrollable laughter.
I first intended this article to be a nostalgic exploration of classic street food, but halfway through, it morphed into a tribute of those who make and sell it. Let’s applaud and support all the hardworking vendors who carry heavy taho pails and balut baskets, and those who push ice cream carts in the hot sun. Let’s be thankful for those vendors like Jimmy, who is out there at 3 a.m., ready to satiate your guilty craving for P5 a fish ball. Let’s not forget all the prep work that needs to be done and maybe the kilometers they have to cover just to get to that perfect selling spot. These small entrepreneurs are the backbone of a developing society.
For those who turn their ultra-antiseptic noses up at street food: remember our parents and grandparents who have lived full, healthy lives eating Manang Neneng’s banana-cue and all sorts of traditional un-sterilized fare. Your body can build its own immunity. However, to enjoy street food properly without spending the next week glued to the toilet seat, just bear in mind a few things:
1. For savory items: Make sure it’s freshly cooked, searing hot from a barbecue or deep-frying oil.
2. For cold items: Check if they use dry ice, that way the melting water from the ice can’t penetrate your food and contaminate it if it is not potable.
3. Avoid saucy foods that aren’t kept piping hot or sauces that aren’t in squeeze bottles.
And, well, remember the urban legend about street is actually being rat meat? As for my thoughts on that, I’ve been known to eat frogs and bugs, so as long as it’s hot, fresh and damn good… ignorance is bliss. At least my tummy hopes so!