Jack The Scribbler

Thanks for steak pic, Wikipedia

(This was published in the Manila Times’ Opinion Section on June 24, 2005.)

Getting up early on Saturday mornings is an aberration, like drinking nonalcoholic beer, buying original computer software, and wearing underwear at home.

For most people, Saturday mornings are best spent in bed, trying to catch some shut-eye lost during workweek, the five-day period in which many employees sit by their desks, check their e-mails and exchange gossip without actually getting anything done.

This, in turn, explains why corporations have hired additional employees called human resource personnel whose jobs include making sure that people are actually awake while at the office.

Fortunately, amateur opinion writers (also known as space fillers) such as myself have no need for such supervision.

After all, sleeping in the office is part of the job description, a fact that many colleagues have never failed to appreciate.

Unfortunately, last Saturday morning, as I was, uh, working, my wife reminded me that there was a social occasion we needed to attend to. Just the day before, both of us received an offer we couldn’t so easily refuse: we were invited to breakfast at a mid-end Quezon City restaurant by a couple we have lived and traveled with, here and abroad.

The breakfast invite, they said, was a gift to my wife, who recently celebrated her birthday.

That morning, despite my inclinations to extend bedtime until lunch, I gave in. After all, neither of us would pay for anything, including gas, parking fees, and tips.

According to the arrangement, our gracious and generous friends would pick us up, treat us to anything we wanted to have for breakfast, and drop us off at our apartment afterward, without any financial obligation whatsoever.

Yes, Virginia, the spirit of Santa Claus is still alive.

When we finally arrived at the restaurant, I immediately asked for a brewed cup of coffee, because I was still sleepy, having failed to take a quick shower, which would have eliminated lethargy as well as various other disagreeable odors.

Shortly after we engaged in banter about the weather, both political and meteorological, a waitress took our orders. It was at that point when I realized that breakfast was slowly turning into dinner.

Our male host insisted that I go for the restaurant’s specialty, steak and eggs.

It was a platter so rich, filling, and sinful that having the same breakfast for one whole week would probably result in a cardiac arrest not long after.

Unwilling to break social protocol, I got myself a rib-eye steak, which included fried eggs, mashed potatoes with gravy, and pancakes with blueberry toppings.

After all, what was a triple bypass operation between friends?

The last time I ate like this, like a pig feeding off a trough, I was wolfing down a huge slice of pot roast in a mid-end Manhattan restaurant during New Year’s Eve four years ago.

As expected, my future wife took care of the bill as well as the rest of my expenses when I visited her in the United States.

As a sign of my gratitude, I lost her in the subway during that same night. But that’s another story.

In my small world — a world of basic needs (running water, decent cellphone signals, and free copies of Pinoy Parazzi) — chili is big.
You got that right: Chili.
Chili makes a mediocre meal good, a good meal perfect.
Whether liquid or solid, chili is the best agreeable companion for every meal, next to a hottie and a cold alcoholic drink.
But then again, that’s just my opinion.
Which explains why I always keep a jar of chili handy — it’s always useful for correcting kitchen emergencies, which fortunately happen rarely owing to the utter lack of trying. However, that’s another story altogether.
Anyway, whenever I go out, I never pass the chance to try the house chili.
And thanks to my limited culinary adventures, I have discovered that the best chili in Metro Manila, perhaps even in the Philippines, isn’t for sale.
It’s for free — you just have to visit Kowloon House along Matalino Street in Quezon City to enjoy it.
To do so, you first have to pick something off the establishment’s menu, which is posted right up above the kitchen that also serves as the counter for orders.
And there, my friend, lies the rub.
Ordering food at that Kowloon branch is more difficult than getting the attention of a government worker five minutes before his/her coffee break.
Just this Saturday, I dropped by, relishing past, pleasant thoughts of Kowloon’s beef mami, consisting of tasty meat chunks so large and rich that if you eat them everyday for the next two years, you’d either suffer from a heart attack or choke to death.
My reverie about beef mami was interrupted when I was ignored a couple of times by the servers.
Had I been younger, I would have raised holy hell, demanding that I be waited on hand and foot, just like any regular asshole.
But times were now different.
Besides being older — and supposedly less assholish — I was wearing a tattered T-shirt that had more holes than the ozone layer.
In short, I looked like an old, loserish fogey in the making that deserved to be ignored.
Only until I sat down and grew a foot-long beard did a waitress take notice.
When my order arrived — a bowl of beef mami and a can of Coke — I asked for some chili.
Just like my supper, my request for chili was faciliated at a pace slightly faster than the speed of a three-legged turtle.
The chili was consumed the minute it arrived because the serving was no bigger than my thumbnail.
Partnered with a chunk of beef, it was delicious.
But taken individually, the chili was a meal in itself, giving off a melange of flavors — strong hints of garlic, pepper, and a sweet fruit which I can’t quite place (pineapple?).
After I consumed it in one go, I asked for some more.
However, the establishment refused to be generous, giving me the second serving in just about the same quantity.
I finished my meal and nearly licked the chili off the sauce plate it was served in.
And as I settled the bill, I discovered that I learned another lesson — or at least I think I did — from this whole experience of chili cutbacks: The best things in life may be free but sometimes you just can’t get enough of them.
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From the Digital Imaging Dept. Cropped photo shows Sophie Monk in an advertisement for PETA. Thanks, Zimbio.com.

Kiss The Cook Cafe seems too upscale for its location.

Or so it appears to customers who may find parking difficult, tricycles irritating, and the neighborhood itself unsettling.

After all, KTCC is situated along Maginhawa Street in UP Village, an area not exactly bursting at the seams with coño kids, socialites, and moneyed executives. (But then again, it could be argued that the neighborhood is getting trendier by the minute. About a dozen or so decent-looking, medium-rise structures are currently being constructed in what still primarily is a residential area, no thanks to record-low interest rates and Quezon City Hall’s spot zoning policies.)

In any case, of all UP Village’s establishments — from cafe cum bars to hole-in-the-wall, mom and pop operations — KTCC stands out.

Sliding glass doors, coupled with al fresco seating in front, lends some degree of charm and sophistication to the place, bringing it a notch or two above restaurants located just less than a kilometer away down the same street.

That’s not all.

KTCC’s overall decor and its dining implements indicate good taste; none of the bright and gaudy distractions plastered on fastfood outlets found on every city corner.

Of course, the ambiance is provided at a premium, which is fortunately within justifiable levels.

Besides offering impressive service — uniformed waiters are always on alert to fill customers’ goblets with water — KTCC’s food is, simply put, good.

Take one of its starters, a set of eight bite-sized spinach feta dumplings, which goes for P145.

Considered too salty by one foodie blogger, the dumplings — which consist of approximately five parts spinach and only one part feta cheese — prepares patrons for better things to come.

At first glance, the entrees appear no larger than the size of fastfood value meal servings.

But looks can be deceiving.

KTCC uses plates as big as steering wheels of regular, run-of-the-mill Isuzu Elf delivery trucks.

With more than enough breathing space between say, the brown rice and the salad, diners are given the first — but nevertheless false — impression that KTCC skimped on their servings.

That notion would be dispelled soon enough.

One of its basic entrees — the five spice pork spare ribs (P185) — manages to exceed expectations, both in size and taste.

Once dipped, bathed, or soaked in vinegar, the crispy brown tender meat morsels are filling. However, they may be too hot for those with less adventurous palates.

If that’s the case, then you can’t go wrong with the Asian braised pork belly (P285), served with a slightly sweet thick, brown sauce.

Since it is packed with flavor, every slice must be accompanied by a spoonful of rice, if only to distinguish and savor the essence of the sauce.

Gourmands, gourmets, and gluttons will hardly bother leaving any leftovers but those easily cloyed by rich sauces may find it a challenge to finish off an order.

In the meantime, those with temporarily overloaded palates can try a sip or two of KTCC’s fruit coolers. Priced at P80 a bottle, the coolers allow for temporary respites between bites, whether its lemongrass, calamansi, lemon iced tea, or passion fruit.

To provide a fitting end to a hearty dining experience, patrons are well-advised to partake of KTCC’s yogurt ice creams, perhaps among the tastiest in the city.

The dessert has one drawback though.

Of its five flavors — strawberry, chocolate, mango, vanilla, and pistachio — only three can be accommodated in a single order.

This is reason enough to get seconds or perhaps merit another visit.

Visitors may get to meet the cooks next time. However, kissing them for an excellent meal is entirely optional.

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Photo courtesy of Didang Alvarez. Thanks, Ma’am.