Buko (coconut)

A short story that I wrote in 2020 which was published in Room Magazine’s issue 46.1 in Winter 2023.

If you like it, consider buying the issue to read more work about food from Asian-Canadian diaspora voices.

The knock sounded as Maricel was basting sweet sauce on barbecue skewers. She hoped the applewood smoke grounded the dish to a North American palate. It was Filipino-style like her parents made, which meant the meat was tougher. 

“Coming!” She scrambled to wrap up her tasks. The cake she’d made earlier was out of the fridge and facing the door. It was decorated with edible flowers, brown sugar spirals, candied fruits, and a chocolate slab iced with “Welcome Ivy!” The decorations were extravagant, but hiring her first contracted staff was worth celebrating. She opened the door. 

A young woman with striped green hair and a half-sleeve of black tattoos entered. 

“Hi, welcome Ivy!” 

“Thanks, I’m happy to be here!” They clapped hands in a hearty handshake, the camaraderie between cooks. Maricel saw her look at the barbecue and knew she’d already decided it wasn’t juicy enough—a consensus in the industry was that to cook beef cuts ‘well-done’ was to ruin them. “It’s Filipino style,” Maricel explained. “The end bits may have the toughness of beef jerky.” 

“I love that!” Ivy’s brown eyes twinkled. “I moved from the Philippines when I was twelve.” 

After a brief orientation to the kitchen and eating (with no complaints about the juiciness) the pair got to brainstorming the menu for Maricel’s largest order to date. Maricel had been referred to a conference hosted by the Philippine Consulate General to Canada, for Filipino and Canadian diplomats and nurses. It was just in time to pay off Maricel’s loan: if they impressed the guests, referrals to the moneyed event sponsors would follow, keeping the calendar booked for several months. Maricel hoped she’d make enough revenue to be able to have a staff member full-time. 

“It sounds like they’re looking for your typical fusion that’s ‘exotic’ but familiar,” Maricel began. “They want Filipino food for North Americans.” She was thinking of menus fusing ingredients of multiple cuisines. Dishes called ‹Eastern roti rolls” that were influenced by South Asian and Middle Eastern curries on flatbreads: a McDonaldization of diverse dishes into trendy reconstruction. 

But Ivy wrinkled her nose. “How about we offer traditional Filipino dishes that are not as known? I mean, people have less familiarity with adobo stew or lumpia spring rolls than they do with, say, chow mein and wonton soup.” 

“But traditional cuisines can be hit or miss,” pointed out Maricel. “The Filipino attendees might like it but it›s the Canadian ones who’ll have connections here for future referrals… Also, would Filipino food be high-end enough for a conference like this?” She thought of how her family would make humble variations of chicken, beef, or pork cooked in stews or curries served hot over rice. 

Ivy’s lip curled and Maricel knew she’d offended her. 

Before Maricel could backpedal Ivy said, “If I may, I can make a simple dish to give you a taste for how we could incorporate these flavours into an event of this scale.” She didn’t wait for an answer and opened one of the fridges. 

Maricel caught up. “Yeah, help yourself. For this demonstration.” 

“Here, I’ll make you palapa.” Ivy gathered a coconut, some chilis, garlic powder, lime, ginger, scallions, sugar, turmeric, and dried shiitake mushrooms. “This condiment is added to every meal in parts of the region of Mindanao,” she explained. 

Maricel widened her eyes in recognition; her father was from Mindanao. 

Maricel kicked off her high-tops at her front door while holding a box of fresh, crusty pan de sal. Her basketball duffel bag swung from her elbow like a sack of potatoes. She inhaled a whiff of warm bread from under the rain-splattered wax paper before the pungent bangus fish smell could take over. 

“Mom, I brought breakfast,” she called. She hugged her mom who was frying bangus and yesterday’s rice in canola oil and garlic paste. She passed the living room where her older brother and his girlfriend with the pretty blue eyes and walnut hair were playing video games. 

“We’re gonna play upstairs.” Her brother muttered to her, nudging his head towards his girlfriend. “Mom’s cooking smells.” His girlfriend wrinkled her nose and followed him, leaving Maricel alone in the living room as the fishy smell of bangus grew stronger. 

Ivy’s palapa was a balance of spice, sweetness, garlic, zingy citrus, and earthiness that was separate from its components that tasted just as complex and delicious as it smelled. How had Maricel never tried this before? And this was only a condiment? 

Ivy said, “There is such a richness in culinary diversity in the Philippines that so few people, even Filipinos, know.” 

Maricel looked at her barbecue. “Yes, it’s delicious,” she admitted. “Still, like I said, is there a market for Filipino food? People haven’t ‘discovered’ it—”she made air quotes“—like they did with, say, Korean barbecue.”

“That’s a valid point,” Ivy conceded. “But if I may suggest…” 

Maricel rested a hand on her hip. 

“...your business is at a tipping point.” She was right; Maricel’s catering business was so close to owning all its equipment and getting some serious clients. “This is the time to take risks. And a good risk would be to be forward about featuring cultural cuisines rather than copying everyone else with fusion.” Ivy looked at Maricel. “You shouldn’t try to be like everyone else.” 

Maricel turned away. She was intrigued with the creative possibilities of Ivy’s last statement, but bit her lip as she considered her own denial back whenever she’d opened her lunchbox at school.

Maricel listened to the instructor explain how to skim off impurities as they floated from the bones of the bubbling broth. The class got to work. 

“My grandparents make bone broth with lots of marrow.” Maricel chatted with the instructor as he moved through the tables checking everyone’s progress. “They call it bulalo. They add fish sauce and lemon.” 

The instructor’s eyebrows raised. “Fish sauce and lemon? No, no. You never want to add an acid, let alone two acids, to bone broth. The broth must taste neutral and slightly meaty. It’s just a base. The only flavourings you should add are salt and aromatics like garlic and mirepoix.” He nodded at her chopping board with the discarded carrot tops and garlic and onion skins. 

Maricel stirred her bland bone broth with her head down and didn’t volunteer any more insights. 

They settled on a buffet split between Filipino-Western fusion, which Maricel would captain, and Ivy’s traditional Mindanao dishes. As they worked on smaller orders it was evident that Ivy was an asset to the business. A creative problem-solver, she figured out how to colour dough with vegetable extracts to get striped ravioli. She was a machine on the chopping board. Ivy even gave Maricel tips on how to roast the best lechon of her life. Lechon liempo was Filipino-style porchetta: roasted pork belly, a mainstay at parties. 

On the day of the conference Maricel moved with an extra flourish as she laid out her fusion spread on the waxy, emerald banana leaves which obscured the tablecloth. She’d really outdone herself this time: tinola chicken stew soaked in palm-sized, rice-and-potato-based puffy pillows, cauliflower drumsticks with adobo aioli and chicharron pork rind crumbs, pulled jackfruit in kare kare peanut butter sauce, baked tilapia fish and a vegan version, baked banana leaves in coconut cream, lumpia spring rolls, and the lechon liempo. 

She anxiously watched Ivy lay out the traditional Mindanao dishes she didn’t know. Ivy didn’t fuss about presentation. Many were in serving trays to be ladled onto a plate of rice: tiyula itum (blackened coconut milk chicken), inaluban a haruan (snakehead fish in coconut milk and sweet potato leaves), lininggil a kambing (caramelized curry on beef), steamed crab with sinigang tamarind soup, and other dishes Maricel didn’t recognize. She couldn’t dispel a doubt that the guests would turn their noses up at Ivy’s traditional food. Maricel sniffed the air to make sure there were no offending fish smells emitting from the spread. She didn’t want to micromanage, but had she remembered to tell Ivy not to build fish sauce into the broth for the chicken tinola? 

Ivy and Maricel stood behind the buffet, ready to answer questions about the food. The first guests approached the buffet, Maricel waited with bated breath. Canadian and Filipinos ooh-ed and aah-ed at the banana leaf spread, pointing curiously and reading out loud the titles and ingredient lists on the labels positioned beside the dishes. They helped themselves to a dollop of Ivy’s dishes, and Maricel’s dishes which were compact enough to eat with a couple bites. These guests held their plates of low-commitment finger foods in one hand to free the other for handshakes and articulation. 

Maricel noticed a woman in a silk suit exclaim in Tagalog to her peers when she saw the traditional dishes. The people ahead of her in the queue gravitated to sit and network at tables rather than stand. 

“Excuse me,” the woman in the silk suit called to Maricel. Maricel left her spot near the wall and walked towards her. Her name tag identified her as one of the diplomats. Her plate had a cauliflower drumstick with adobo aioli and a crispy rice tart with blackened coconut curry. 

“Hi, did you have any questions about the buffet?” 

The woman motioned towards the dish in the serving tray with an astounded appreciation. “I never thought I’d see inaluban a haruan at a conference in Canada!” She beamed. “Thank you for featuring the Mindanao specialties.” 

“Oh! You’re welcome,” Maricel said, flattered and caught off guard with the fondness in the reminiscent expression on the woman’s face. “Please help yourself to as much as you’d like.” 

“Do you have a business card?” 

Maricel inhaled, containing her excitement. “Yes, of course.” She pulled one of her newly-printed business cards from her apron pocket and presented it eagerly. The diplomat scanned the card, thanked her, and pocketed it in her silk suit. 

The diplomat continued down the table past a Canadian attendee, who hesitated, then picked up the ladle and poured some of the stew on his own plate. Maricel gazed with wonder as everyone savoured Ivy’s food while doing their networking. It was in stark contrast to what she’d avoided to fit in growing up. 

Maricel was delighted about the likelihood of a new customer, but something weighed on her excitement. She couldn’t stand against the wall watching the attendees love the food any longer. She walked away from the tables and opened the door to the parking lot for some quiet. It was sunny and breezy outside. 

“Hey, how’s it going?” Ivy interrupted her reverie. Maricel looked up. She had come out from the hall, too. 

“Oh.” Maricel shrugged. “It’s good, just getting some air.” 

“Want to sit?” Ivy gestured to the sidewalk. It was a breezy spot pleasanter than the formal dining hall. 

“Sure.” They sat on the curb. Ivy produced a pack of cigarettes and offered them to Maricel, who declined. Ivy lit one up. After a while Maricel said, “Everyone likes the traditional food. Great idea on that.” 

“Do you like it?” 

Maricel thought about it. “Yeah, I do. All the flavours are different from what I’m used to.” 

“What are you used to?” 

“Oh… well, you know, standard Canadian food. When I was a kid my parents made Filipino food but it wasn’t any of this stuff.” She let out a slow breath. “I used to get teased in school for my lunches so I stopped eating them. For the conference I tried to make fusion food so they would accept it. But they liked the traditional food more.” Maricel added quietly, “I didn’t know any of those dishes you made.” She sighed. “I tried to not be Filipino my whole life, and the whole time I wasn’t even Filipino enough.” 

Ivy stretched her limbs. “When I moved here, people said I was gross for eating rice with my hands. They would eat burgers and fries and then lecture me about cleanliness and manners.” 

Maricel knew the indignation of that hypocrisy. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

Smoke wafted from the corners of Ivy’s grin like a mischievous bakunawa, a Filipino dragon. “It used to bother me. Now look—I can cook and create with the food I know, and a hundred diplomats realized they actually love our food.” 

“Yeah. Oh! Someone wanted a business card! And I saw a guest get some of the traditional food after he saw someone else have some!” 

“See? They just needed to give it a chance.” 

Maricel thought of foods she liked. Adobo and pizza. Mais-queso savoury ice cream, and vanilla scoops on a cone. They were all delicious and comforting. Maricel leaned against the curb. The shade could be improved by one thing. “I wouldn’t mind chopping up coconuts right now.” 

Ivy sat up. “I brought some in the van. We can chop them up outside here.” 

Ivy got a plastic-wrapped coconut from the mobile fridge. The coconuts here had the round edges filed so the sides were the inner white husk but the base was flat and top was conical, tapered to a point.

“This is done with a machete.” Ivy said. “But since we don’t have them like we do in the Phils-” Maricel giggled because no one called the Philippines that “— we’re going to use a cleaving knife. You chop it cleanly, then rotate and do the same for the other sides until you make a square cutout.” She demonstrated professionally, popping the cut lid and the water sloshed inside. “Here, you try.” 

Maricel took the knife. She rotated the coconut and raised her knife high like God about to smite, trusting it would hit its mark. The coconut was like nothing in the forests surrounding Vancouver. But she was determined to approach this fruit from her parents’ homeland with confidence, so willing to crack through the tough exterior to drink the refreshing, sweet water inside. She brought the knife down to the mark. 

“Wow! Look at that!” Ivy cheered as Maricel cleaved the rest. “It’s even better when you’re under a buko tree making a pile for your cousins to drink.” She got some straws for them to sip directly from the husks. 

“Hey, what are those designs on your tattoos?” Maricel pursed and pouted her lips toward the patterns, the Filipino way to point at something. 

“Do you recognize them?” 

“No, I’ve never seen those before.” 

“These are traditional tattoos from the Waray people in the Philippines,” Ivy said. “My mom is from that group so I got these for her.” 

“Oh wow. That’s really cool,” Maricel said. She was ashamed to say that she’d never heard of tattoo traditions from the Philippines. 

“They hurt more than my other tattoos but they were worth it. They remind me where I came from.” Ivy said. Maricel lowered her coconut, so much more sturdy than a foil juice pack. 

Maricel couldn’t help but smile. Her greatest joy was making people fall in love with food. Slices of lechon carried centuries of roasting pork on bamboo spits while family gathered and children played. In every cassava cake and leche flan custard served side by side at gatherings, the tropical and Spanish influences complemented a pleasing texture of chewy and silky bites. And a bone broth could be improved by adding fish sauce and lemon. What made Filipino food a beautiful cuisine was the melange of cultural influences, the balance of taste groups, and the richness of history in its preparation. 

Even if they didn’t get as many referrals from this job as planned, she’d keep Ivy on the team. “We need to make these traditional dishes again. And we could make more fusion dishes if you want.” 

Their laughter rang out from the back of the van. It intertwined with the residual buzz of English, Tagalog, and Visayan, the clinking of spoons and forks scooping up stews and curries soaked in jasmine rice, and the smacking of lips over the last bites of candied calamansi fruit and leche flan custard. These sounds softened as they headed back from the parking lot, black and green hair fluttering, sipping on their coconuts.

—

By Abby Pelaez, 2020. All rights reserved. The contributed written content or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the owner.