So long lives this

(photo was taken from here: Fan photos from Tingloy A Taste Of Paradise)

I should have savored every last retelling of the old story my mom must’ve told at least a thousand times.

My grandfather was Ireneo Martinez, “lobo del mar” or sea wolf to all those who knew him by profession.  A ship captain and harbor pilot, he was the one expert everyone wanted to safely guide their ships into harbor in stormy weather.

Being the best at what he did, lolo earned enough that he was able to buy three good-sized batels he used in the trade and transport of goods. This new source of income meant that lolo no longer had to spend months at a time away from home.

Home was Tingloy, a small island fishing community just off the coast of mainland Batangas. The family lived in relative wealth in a house that was the first real big house made of mortar and stone that for a long time you can simply tell the pedicab driver to take you to the malaking bahay to find it.

Sunday lunches were always a minor occasion at the malaking bahay, with the Spanish priest from the local church a regular guest after celebrating morning mass. It is from these little visits that my mom’s sister, Chabeng, would learn authentic Spanish cuisine. My mom, Nena, being the youngest and the spoiled baby everyone doted on, would never bother to learn.

Aside from the recipe, the Spanish priest would occasionally bring ingredients sent to him direct from Spain. And it is from these that my favorite aunt, Mama Chabeng, would learn that it is only with chorizo from Bilbao itself that one can make authentic paella. And when preparing kaldereta, absolutely no tomato sauce, you need olive oil and olives to get it just right.

It was a point of pride and truly a great pleasure to have the parish priest as regular guest at the Sunday lunch table. Grandfather practiced his fluent Spanish discussing theology, philosophy, politics and current events with the priest when they retire for coffee after the hearty Sunday meals.

It was all good times except for one Sunday, when unexpected guests came along with the priest for lunch. Grandmother was caught unaware and had prepared only one large escabecheng lapu-lapu for main course – mom’s favorite.

Of course, my mom and her siblings gave way, as good manners demanded. Whatever was left of the meal after the guests have had theirs would be their lunch. Nervously my mom, not yet eight, spied from the kitchen as the meal progressed. Remember, this was a time long before Andok’s Lechon Manok take-outs. Quietly she watched, until someone decided to turn the fish over.

“Inang, binaligtad na!” my mom cried on-top of her lungs in total anguish.

Mom would tell that story, always starting from the punch-line, whenever we’d finish off one side and turn the fish to the other. She’d only fill in the details right after.

I never really knew my lolo save for the stories my mom would tell.  I didn’t even get to see the 45 caliber pistol he used to drive away the tulisanes who would raid the fishing village from time to time. Nor the thank you note that President Manuel Quezon wrote after he spent the night at the malaking bahay. Lolo died from pulmonary disease when I was still just a baby of six months. Mom died when I was twenty-six. Mama Chabeng, who never married and lived with us most of her life, when I was thirty.

For us, the siblings, we carry on the punch-line like a tradition to this very day. It must be a little confusing to the kids, not knowing the back-story of it. We can never bring ourselves to fully tell it. It is mom’s story. It wouldn’t be the same, somehow.

Again, I should have savored every last retelling of it. Inang, binaligtad na.