Mang Tomas' Adobo: Of Smells and Laughter

My husband was christened Mang Tomas by a peer . For whatever reason, I really do not know. I am not sure if it was because my husband uses Mang Tomas All-Around Sarsa which is a sauce from a blend of liver, vinegar and spices and has a distinct sweet and spicy taste. This sauce is mostly used for grilled and fried foods. It is purely coincidental I surmise.

Then this piece, written by son Daryl who also wrote two of the stories in my collection of hubs. In his creativity, he wrote a tribute to the legendary adobo of the Philippines, and to Mang Tomas.

The word is enough to remind one of a unique smell borne out of a heady mixture of garlic, vinegar and soy sauce.A well-loved Filipino dish, adobo has as many incarnations as there are Filipino families. Some say that families are defined by their recipe of the tradition-ridden cuisine; they even say that adobos make families. You, of all people, are aware of this. Tonight, armed with your version of the dish, you set out to seek the truth to the saying.

The kawali*, a rather large frying pan similar in shape to a wok, must be cleaned. Squirt. Scrub. Rinse. This is you readying it for the tribulations ahead.

Of course, you make adobo out of pork, too. However, chicken is what you have in the fridge right now; not to mention that it is cheaper.And there are so many things that you can do with chicken. You can turn it into tinola; transmogrify it into afritada. But if there's one thing that you can do with chicken that others can't, it's that you can make it into an amazing adobo. No other adobo comes close, if the opinions of your immediate family and friends matter. Anyway, you clean the chicken, chop it into wings, thighs, neck, and breast. Then you put the pieces into the kawali.Simple.

Of course, you start with the fundamentals. There's nothing really special about the soy sauce and the vinegar you use. They can be bought from the nearest sari-sari store. What matters is the proportion. A cup or so will do. No need for exact measurements - you’ve been doing this for years. As for the garlic, you mash some cloves in the mortar; the garlic's scent rings true through the kitchen into the living room. You can almost see your wife scrunching her nose, anticipating what is to come. Anyway, into the kawali some of the garlic goes.

You cannot do without these contrasts of flavor. A tablespoon of sugar here; a pinch of pepper there. No more, no less. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s that you should never put too much into anything. Remember that gravy? But that’s another story.

These are all condiments which few, if any, would ever dare to mix into their adobo. But you do anyway. A drizzle of ketchup and Mang Tomas will do just the trick. Of course, you do not forget the teaspoon of oyster sauce. Now, other people will frown, seeing how odd the mixture looks. But you digress.

After all of the ingredients are tossed around, you place the kawali onto the stove.You put a lid on it. Fire is put on maximum. And so the wait begins.

A sign that heaven is just right ahead.A fragrant odor wafts through the air, carrying with it a bite of acid. Perfect. You lift the lid, and a fresh wallop of steam greets your face. Undeterred, you carefully transfer each piece chicken onto a plate. Afterwards, you pour the sauce into a bowl.

Pour in a little oil onto the hot kawali. Fry the unused garlic. Turns out that the sharp smell of frying garlic is the last straw; each member of your family begins to enter the kitchen to see what’s cooking. You grin.

You go back to the chicken. You sauté the chicken with the garlic ; the collision of the taut skin with the rough garlic bits is practically sizzling.After a few minutes, you pour the sauce back in.

You give the chicken and the sauce some time to get to know each other once again. You wait as the sauce thickens; its smell becoming heavier and heavier with want as time passes. Or maybe that’s just you and your stomach.

You almost forgot to cook rice. You ask your son, “Anak, pasaing (Son, please cook rice).” He’s too busy listening to music. You ask him again. And again. “Anak, pasaing! (Son, cook rice, please)!” His head jerks up, and he goes to the kitchen to cook the rice. Finally.

You use the spatula to test if the sauce is thick enough. You dip it in the dark sauce. Notice how some of the sauce clings to the spatula? Hmm. You can’t resist the urge to taste it. Just a little lick. God. That’s good. The adobo’s ready. If only the rice were prepared sooner. You wait another twenty minutes.

The family gathers around the table. The rice is ready. Your son and daughter arrange the table for dinner. You make some nice iced tea, and your wife gets those nifty Coke glasses. Those would be perfect, you think.

As things go, your wife gets the first serving of adobo. She takes the thigh, which has never failed to be the most coveted part in the bunch. The son makes do with the legs, while you and your daughter are left with the breast, the wings and the neck. Your daughter does not look happy. You ask your son to exchange with her.Luckily, he concedes. As always, you are happy with whatever is left.

Your wife eats diligently; a sign that she's happy with the dish. Your daughter, as is her wont, exclaims of how good the adobo is. "Ang saraaaap... (Delicious...)" she mutters in between small bites. Your son is oblivious, too busy savoring everything. You can’t resist cracking a joke. Your son almost chokes in laughter. You laugh. They laugh. Somehow, the taste of the adobo is heightened by the presence of smiles, of laughter – of family.

Your son finally stops ravaging the plate, and complains how the adobo has ruined his diet. Your wife and your daughter are already preparing the food for the cats. Each plate is finally clear – though some of sauce still sticks to the plate. As you look at your family’s smiling faces, you realize: the adobo does not make families. Indeed, it is the other way around: it is the family which makes the adobo.