After four weeks in Paris I finally gave in to the craving: I cooked pininyahang manok and steamed rice in my studio and ate it with relish and a banana, lakatan. This was to be followed by a dinner of bistek - of course with ingredients I have to source locally. Without patis or msg they dont taste the same, but as they say, its the thought that counts. My perception can be moulded by French art and thought, but my digestion is still Pinoy, and cannot bear that much baguette for a prolonged period of time.
My craving is a manifestation that "you can take the boy out of the province, but not the province out of the boy". But even as this seems like a snobbish bourgeois remark, I actually delight in its utterance. Indeed How much of the Filipino spirit (and stomach, apparently) can you bring into Paris? My favorite past time in Paris is to look for other Pinoys and observe how they behave and react. Best time to do so are weekends, when they mingle with the other tourists at Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower and the Louvre.
Yesterday I heard a teenage boy tell his mother: "Mommy daming mestisa dito, no?" Mestisa is code for a local who has features of a Caucasian due to mixed parentage, and often refers to lighter-skinned damsels to the brown indigenous woman. Boy, they are white because they are white. This is Europe. But who cares for correctness? The boy has expressed his preference for light skinned girls, as many men do back home.
In Le Marais, a district in Paris often said to be one of the more fashionable area, two Filipinas were fighting over an open umbrella.
Manang One: ano ka ba, nandito tayo sa fashionable na lugar, tiklopin mo yang payong mo, kakahiya. Manang Two: eh umuulan. Ano ka ba?
You would think Manang One was more adapted to French life, aware as she is of the chic character of the district. But in fact Manang Two would be quite alright, open umbrella and what not. Manang One might not know it, but she was in fact expressing the Filipino value of pakikisama or pakikibagay, which often means surrendering ones comforts and idiosyncrasies to be agreeable to the public. The French have fought, died and indulged every possible deed to preserve the right of the individual and individualism as a world view. To assert ones individuality is a norm, not an exception. Perhaps Manang One did not notice but Le Marais was also full of white trash, emo punks, beggars and everyone else not in fashion wear. And please, they dont use the streets as a fashion ramp: thats a fantasy of all the sastre and gown-makers sa kanto.
At Forum Des Halles, an underground shopping mall, two men were calculating the price of an SD card in Philippine pesos.
Pogi One: Pare, bilhin mo na yan. Ten euros lang yan.
Pogi Two: Alanganin e. 500 pesos yan mahigit. Madami dami nang sardinas at bigas yan.
Pogi One: Nasa Europe ka tsong, wala sa Bambang. Sige maghanap ka ng sardinas sa labas.
I agree with Pogi One, as I did buy sardines from the grocery store and they cost 4€ each, sometimes 6€. Point is, when shopping in Paris, dont look for items from Quiapo.
In a cafe near Notre Dame:
Ate: Dad bakit ang lamig ng sandwich dito? Tigas pa ng tinapay.
Tatay: Di bale, isawsaw mo na lang sa kape.
Bunso: Dad, bakit nasa labas tayo kumakain? Sa loob na lang baka may aircon.
Tatay: Ano ka ba? Sure ako walang aircon sa loob kasi mainit.
Well, this conversation happened during the fall, when the temperature was around 5 degrees and heaters were turned on inside restaurants. As for the cold and tough baguette, I actually buy some still, to feed pigeons and crows.
Speaking of critters, I have not seen a single cockroach yet here. Or even heard crickets for that matter. Anyway I was gazing at the facade of Notre Dame at night when two women shrieked. A big rat darted from the bushes and into a small drain.
Women: Ay! May daga! (Pinay!)
Me: Hindi po daga, si Ratatatouile po yan...
At the Chapel of the Miraculous Medal at rue de Bac, after staring at the incorrupt body of St. Catherine Laboure and the rosary was being said in French by the churchgoers, I descried two Filipinos among them. Because they were praying: Aba ginoong Maria...
At the Louvre, near the Pyramids of IM Pei, a father was telling his kids: O ganda no? Diyan nakatira si Mona Lisa! His son replied, dumbstruck: Reyna ba si Mona Lisa?
Delightful.
But some Filipinos who have been here for a longer time managed to assimilate and fuse their Pinoy sensibilities with the French way of life. One acquaintance makes dinuguan from German blood sausages, sinigang from salmon belly and even arroz caldo from French hens and ginger. He manages to find some patis and goes on backpack to sell these to Filipinas in Germany. The Filipino market here is quite promising. Of course, I will have to find a source for bagoong for my pinakbet!
Finally Ive met a Filipina who is married to a French for more than a decade. She claims not to have seen that many Pinoys in Paris and that she now considers herself Parisienne. Intrigued by this claim I told her a story of how my recently deceased father in law (who she knows since childhood) made paramdam by appearing to a neighbor dressed in his burial attire. We were in Montparnasse and the brasserie was warm and cozy. She said: Kinilabutan ako! And she showed me goosebumps on her arms. Then she said it has been a long time since she felt that. I said: you are still Pinay at the very core, your body knows it.
Indeed being Filipino is in the gut. Even when he strolls along Champs-Elysee, or drinks wine at Montmartre or admire Monets at the Musée d'Orsay, he goes home, passes by a boulangerie and wishes they had pan de sal.
I do.
My craving is a manifestation that "you can take the boy out of the province, but not the province out of the boy". But even as this seems like a snobbish bourgeois remark, I actually delight in its utterance. Indeed How much of the Filipino spirit (and stomach, apparently) can you bring into Paris? My favorite past time in Paris is to look for other Pinoys and observe how they behave and react. Best time to do so are weekends, when they mingle with the other tourists at Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower and the Louvre.
Yesterday I heard a teenage boy tell his mother: "Mommy daming mestisa dito, no?" Mestisa is code for a local who has features of a Caucasian due to mixed parentage, and often refers to lighter-skinned damsels to the brown indigenous woman. Boy, they are white because they are white. This is Europe. But who cares for correctness? The boy has expressed his preference for light skinned girls, as many men do back home.
In Le Marais, a district in Paris often said to be one of the more fashionable area, two Filipinas were fighting over an open umbrella.
Manang One: ano ka ba, nandito tayo sa fashionable na lugar, tiklopin mo yang payong mo, kakahiya. Manang Two: eh umuulan. Ano ka ba?
You would think Manang One was more adapted to French life, aware as she is of the chic character of the district. But in fact Manang Two would be quite alright, open umbrella and what not. Manang One might not know it, but she was in fact expressing the Filipino value of pakikisama or pakikibagay, which often means surrendering ones comforts and idiosyncrasies to be agreeable to the public. The French have fought, died and indulged every possible deed to preserve the right of the individual and individualism as a world view. To assert ones individuality is a norm, not an exception. Perhaps Manang One did not notice but Le Marais was also full of white trash, emo punks, beggars and everyone else not in fashion wear. And please, they dont use the streets as a fashion ramp: thats a fantasy of all the sastre and gown-makers sa kanto.
At Forum Des Halles, an underground shopping mall, two men were calculating the price of an SD card in Philippine pesos.
Pogi One: Pare, bilhin mo na yan. Ten euros lang yan.
Pogi Two: Alanganin e. 500 pesos yan mahigit. Madami dami nang sardinas at bigas yan.
Pogi One: Nasa Europe ka tsong, wala sa Bambang. Sige maghanap ka ng sardinas sa labas.
I agree with Pogi One, as I did buy sardines from the grocery store and they cost 4€ each, sometimes 6€. Point is, when shopping in Paris, dont look for items from Quiapo.
In a cafe near Notre Dame:
Ate: Dad bakit ang lamig ng sandwich dito? Tigas pa ng tinapay.
Tatay: Di bale, isawsaw mo na lang sa kape.
Bunso: Dad, bakit nasa labas tayo kumakain? Sa loob na lang baka may aircon.
Tatay: Ano ka ba? Sure ako walang aircon sa loob kasi mainit.
Well, this conversation happened during the fall, when the temperature was around 5 degrees and heaters were turned on inside restaurants. As for the cold and tough baguette, I actually buy some still, to feed pigeons and crows.
Speaking of critters, I have not seen a single cockroach yet here. Or even heard crickets for that matter. Anyway I was gazing at the facade of Notre Dame at night when two women shrieked. A big rat darted from the bushes and into a small drain.
Women: Ay! May daga! (Pinay!)
Me: Hindi po daga, si Ratatatouile po yan...
At the Chapel of the Miraculous Medal at rue de Bac, after staring at the incorrupt body of St. Catherine Laboure and the rosary was being said in French by the churchgoers, I descried two Filipinos among them. Because they were praying: Aba ginoong Maria...
At the Louvre, near the Pyramids of IM Pei, a father was telling his kids: O ganda no? Diyan nakatira si Mona Lisa! His son replied, dumbstruck: Reyna ba si Mona Lisa?
Delightful.
But some Filipinos who have been here for a longer time managed to assimilate and fuse their Pinoy sensibilities with the French way of life. One acquaintance makes dinuguan from German blood sausages, sinigang from salmon belly and even arroz caldo from French hens and ginger. He manages to find some patis and goes on backpack to sell these to Filipinas in Germany. The Filipino market here is quite promising. Of course, I will have to find a source for bagoong for my pinakbet!
Finally Ive met a Filipina who is married to a French for more than a decade. She claims not to have seen that many Pinoys in Paris and that she now considers herself Parisienne. Intrigued by this claim I told her a story of how my recently deceased father in law (who she knows since childhood) made paramdam by appearing to a neighbor dressed in his burial attire. We were in Montparnasse and the brasserie was warm and cozy. She said: Kinilabutan ako! And she showed me goosebumps on her arms. Then she said it has been a long time since she felt that. I said: you are still Pinay at the very core, your body knows it.
Indeed being Filipino is in the gut. Even when he strolls along Champs-Elysee, or drinks wine at Montmartre or admire Monets at the Musée d'Orsay, he goes home, passes by a boulangerie and wishes they had pan de sal.
I do.
Pininyahang manok in Paris. Made from locally sources ingredients (aka FranPrix store at rue Francois Miron).
I was absent (being in Paris) from the conferment ceremonies of the Cultural Center of the Philippines 13 Artists Awards. My daughter accepted the trophy on my behalf. Photo by Annie Sarthou.
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