Attendant to the deep Catholicism we’ve inherited from Spain’s more than three centuries of colonization is the practice of fasting and/or giving up certain types of luxuries as a form of penance during Lent, in particular abstaining from eating any type of meat. Though we faithful are obligated to fast and abstain from eating meat only on Ash Wednesday (the official start of the cuaresma or 40 days of Lent) and Good Friday, a lot of devout Catholics practice varying degrees and forms of self-imposed sacrifices, the most common of which is having meatless-Fridays for the whole of Lent , or even going dessert/chocolate-less, soft drink-less, smoke-less, and of late, the good Manila Archbishop Luis Antonio Cardinal Tagle urging the faithful to give up watching one’s favorite telenovela (soap opera) and spend more quiet time with God this Lenten period.
Ergo, have you ever wondered why many Filipino households would have monggo soup and tuyô (dried salted fish) on Fridays, some not just during Lent but even as a year-round practice? And, in a strange twist of faith (pun intended), in Bantayan Island just off the northwestern tip of Cebu, the locals got papal dispensation in the 19th century (so the local historians claim) to eat meat on Good Fridays since fishermen do not set out to fish on that day, and besides, they subsist on seafood the rest of the year anyway. Stretching a bit this dispensation, the natives not only feast the whole Holy Week but also have lechon on Good Fridays (quick, book me a flight to Cebu!).
As for me, admittedly, the main reason why I anticipate with so much excitement the coming of Holy Week is not so much its religious significance (forgive me, Father, for I have sinned), but the once-a-year appearance of the precious bacalao ala vizcaina on our mother Imang During’s table. This indulgence in itself may warrant some form of penance. And, as a penitence for my wrongdoing, I willingly forego the pleasures of meat. It has always had a special niche in my heart — nay, stomach — topping my list of special-occasion dishes, not just because my mother cooked it, but because of its savory flavors like no other, with its milky white, buttery meat (oops, I mean flesh, no meat remember? Wink, wink). Though the prohibitive bacalao from Spain can be bought year-round, somehow it’s never the same if you have it any other season (Dulcinea Restaurant serves it year-round). Just try having queso de bola and jamon in July, two other Spanish imports we associate with the Christmas season. But I digress too much.
What is bacalao anyway? It is actually the Spanish name of codfish found in the cold waters of the North Atlantic. It is one of the most important fishes in the history of mankind, as fresh, frozen, or dried and salted. Locally, the imported fresh/frozen kind is known by its Japanese name gindara, while the Portuguese call it bacalhau, and the French morue. Nowadays, the term bacalao is universally accepted to mean dried salted cod. It is milky white, delicate, and tender when desalinated (usually soaked in water for 24 hours, with three changes of water), with the lomo as the prime, most expensive cut, while the tail is stringy and dry, being the cheapest cut, and lends itself well to a wide array of cooking methods and sauces.
Bacalao’s superstar status in the gastronomic world hasn’t always been so. In the past, its reputation has suffered from its being unattractive in appearance and considered a “penitential†food, or at best it was the poor man’s fish (just as tuyô and daing are to us). And since medieval times in Spain, there has always been a heavy demand for dried salted cod, especially during Fridays and Lent. In its dried form, it keeps and travels well, especially important during those pre-refrigeration times. And much earlier than that, the Vikings valued dried fish as a foodstuff on their long sea voyages.
This cold-water fish largely comes from the North Atlantic seas, particularly Scandinavia, Scotland and Newfoundland. But perhaps we should credit Spain and Portugal, who popularized and perfected its preparation, for the sublime status it enjoys today. Both claim to have more than 365 different ways to prepare it year-round. And it was the Basque fishermen who initially discovered, introduced and traded bacalao salado (salted) to the whole of Spain more than 600 years ago, and then spread out to its former colonies in the Americas and the Philippines. Hence, as former colonies, we all share a common “bacalao tradition†associated with Lent in our respective cuisines.
When the Spain Tourism Board invited me to attend the food conference Madrid Fusion last January, one of the specific requests I made was to try as many bacalao dishes as time permitted in the different destinations they were going to take me to after the conference. Hombre, was I in for a treat! It was a veritable bacalao road tour, a moving bacalao feast. I said it before in my last column and I’ll say it again — I got more than I bargained for. There’s more to eat than the vizcaina we are most familiar with.