A BARKER'S BRUNCH

A BARKER'S BRUNCH

(Travel and Cuisine)

Nestor Alagbate

J216

                    Crossing Aurora Boulevard along E. de los Santos Avenue in Cubao, one could see Aurora Overpass over E. Rodriguez Avenue. A light blue smoke made a distinct presence amidst the polluted mid-morning air. It emanated from the island beneath the towering LRT 2 tracks, from a shack made of salvaged materials. The patch of green provided by the island offered one's tired eyes a much needed relief from the monotony of the concrete jungle. The shack on the island evoked memories of some faithful nipa hut in a faraway province, sentiments strong enough to drag one's feet to the place. One wonders what was cooking. 

                    Two men were seated on an outdoor bench which looked more like a bed. The fat guy in his mid-forties, bare from the waist up, sported tattoos on his body. The execution of the designs suggested an amateur artist from some detention facility. He had a long scar on his left side, which made one wonder if he had sold a kidney. The other guy, in early thirties, certainly was a hawker judging from the bundle of towels on his left arm. One just could not resist curiosity about what sort of brunch displaced persons like them could have been preparing in such a place. 

                    The fat guy introduced himself to me as Taba for obvious reason, and introduced the younger guy as Bernard. Asked if he was a barker, Taba answered in the affirmative. "Have just been done with my turn," he explained. Bernard assured me I was safe in the place, and further introduced themselves as "Bisyang", as Batang City Jail gang members called themselves. "We are originally from Tondo," Taba added, "but moved here where work is."

                    A young mother of three was cooking chicken adobo. "My daughter," Taba introduced the woman. Noticing that the dish was all neck, one can surmise it was salvaged from some slaughterhouse. Devoid of vinegar, the woman had soy sauce from a sachet. Devoid of garlic, she made do with onion which looked more like rejects from nearby Arayat Market. Roaring vehicles climbing from EDSA muffled the sizzling dish, and smoke belching from exhausts rendered it odorless.

                    The two men were drinking Ginebra from a styropor cup, and "chased" it with water from a disposable plastic glass. Bernard ordered Taba to produce another bilog. "What was I your mayor for?" he reminded the older guy. Mayor is a term inmates address brigade leaders. Bilog (round) is a colloquial name Filipinos call the shape of the base of the smallest bottle of Ginebra San Miguel. This is to distinguish it from lapad (ellipse) and kantuhan (square). Taba returned in no time at all with another bottle of gin, and handed to me pieces of salted tamarind wrapped in yellow plastic. "Pulutan," he told me, referring to the finger foods that go with liquor. He placed the rest on the bench.

                    The woman and her three unkempt kids took part of the brunch. As the kids did not seem to be excited over the dish, one can surmise it was a barker's usual fare. The youngest, barely able to walk, fed a kitten which looked more like a stray than a pet.

                    The two men contented themselves with gin and salted tamarind. "You see this seed?" Bernard asked me. I nodded. "Do yo know where it came from?" "From some tree," I hesitantly replied, unsure of his reaction to my obvious reply. "Wherever that three is," he told me, "we will never know. I will throw this seed to the grass near that LRT post," he said pointing to the spot. "Take a good look," he said as he threw the seed. "Do you think it will grow?" he asked me. "Most probably," I replied. "Do you think it will bear fruit?" he asked again. "Well," I said, "if it manages to survive, maybe." "That's what city life is like for migrants from the provinces like us," he stated. "What do you really mean?" I asked. "I don't know where precisely you came from. Nor you know precisely where I did. By some chance we met in the city. After this drinking session, I'll never know what happens to you next, nor you will know what happens to me."

                    Any educator cannot but be amazed to find such a profound articulation from displaced persons under the tracks. Who would have thought that a lowly pulutan could eloquently illustrate one of the realities of life? Surely an all-neck adobo devoid of vinegar and garlic would have been illustrative of more realities. One could be certain that there is much to learn from a barker's muffled, odorless brunch.