The Heart of Philippine CulinaryArtistry

I’ve even heard of a chef who packs a rice cooker in his suitcase to ensure hot steamed rice in any foreign city he visits.

In Cebu, I found the muse of Filipino culinary artistry, the puso. There they hang in bunches on barbecue and litson manok stands along the road, like beautiful ornamental décor.

For the Visayans, it is simply a functional and efficient way of cooking and serving rice. But in my mind, this little package contains much of what Filipino cuisine stands for.

Its main ingredient is our national staple, rice. The use of naturally abundant coconut leaves for cooking and packaging is resourcefully Pinoy. Elevating cooking rice into an art form, the Visayan cook’s ingenuity leads him to cleverly weave the leaves into an aesthetically pleasing heart-shaped receptacle that functions as a practical method of cooking.

The origin of this rice tradition is not clear. But a 17th century Visayan dictionary refers to the puso. Its name is taken from the likeness of its shape to the puso or banana blossom. Historian William Henry Scott says in pre-colonial Visayas, it comes in different shapes and sizes: suggested by names like linalaki (masculine), binuwaya (crocodile-like), and umol sa datu (a datu’s fistful), the last referring to how rice is squeezed by the fist into a lump that one eats. Unfortunately, Scott and his sources are silent on what these varieties look like.

For Visayans, eating puso is ordinary. But for this Manila-born urbanite, eating this ornately prepared staple is a novelty. Cutting a slit through the leaves, one peels off the wrapper. The clumped rice still retains its heart shape until the diner softens it with his fork or fingers. While all Visayans know how to eat puso, few still bother to cook rice this way at home. Restaurants leave the arduous task to the skilled artisans in the markets.

To satisfy my curiosity about the puso, several Cebuanos suggest I head out to Taboan market in the morning to witness how puso is made. After a cup of coffee, I head for the market in San Nicolas along with Roy, a willing companion and translator. It is almost ten in the morning, but 22-year-old Glenn Namo is still busy making puso. Starting with two leaves, he performs visual calisthenics that result in a fine braid. With swift hand movements he can finish one heart-shaped receptacle in matter of seconds.

As with most culinary practices in the Philippines, this is a social activity. His 18-year-old wife Melinda joins him in making puso. She has been doing this since she was ten. This livelihood sustains the couple and their young toddler. As in everything done in the Philippine context, the abiding principle is "the more, the merrier". Grace Radaza, 37, joins the couple in braiding coconut leaves with her toddler sitting on her lap. At the young age of five, Grace learned this skill by hanging out in the market and observing those around her. They are paid P12-P15 per hundred puso-containers made.

Next to them is an old woman, sorting out the discarded ribs of the coconut leaves, which she will use for making baskets. Of course, in the process a lot of stories and tsismis are shared.

Grace shows me the small and large variations of puso. The small serving of rice is sold for P2 each while three large ones go for P10.

The leaf container is a marvel of function and design. The grains of uncooked rice are stuffed through an opening at the top. The midpoint of the puso indicates the amount of grains to be put in. The ends of the leaves allow the bundles to be tied, held, cooked and sold in bunches.

A few steps away from these skilled weavers, cans arranged in a row are boiling away. There I meet Tony Cailao, a 37-year-old Cebuano who has been selling puso for many years. He is in Taboan market from seven in the morning until seven in the evening, even later on busier days. Since the 1970’s, cooking and selling puso has been his livelihood.

Tony sits on a stool with a basin filled with rice in front of him. He expertly fills the puso receptacles to the midpoint of the diamond-shaped container without spilling a single grain. He then ties them into bundles of twenty. Ten bundles or 200 pieces of puso can fit into his big can of boiling water. If the grains are of good quality and are still new, less water is required.

Tony bites into the uncooked rice to assess its quality. "The harder the grain, the better the quality," he explains. After half an hour, the bundles are removed one at a time in an inviting haze of fragrant steam. The boiling water must be changed for the next batch or the rice will turn a yellowish hue.

As I walk around the market, fascinated by the expertise of the puso makers, I realize that at least six pairs of hands labor on every puso before I can eat it. There is the farmer growing the rice, the person milling the rice, the man who picks the coconut leaves, those who braid it, the man who fills it with grain, and finally the man who cooks it. Eating this cheap rice innovation in the span of a few minutes is the culmination of hours of collective labor.