My hands were shaking, tears welling up in my eyes. I hope the waiter didn’t see me. I was sobbing so hard my tears added flavor to my meal.
It’s so hard to find cheap places to eat in malls nowadays. After doing my chores, I badly needed food since I hadn’t had my lunch.
Good thing I passed by this batchoy restaurant chain. I got my usual sisig value meal, a far cry from the real sisig but palatable enough to be paired with the batchoy. But I’ll not be filled with a bowl of soup, whether that be rated as the best offal soup or not.
Batchoy restaurants offer soy sauce and pepper to diners to season their soup, but I haven’t done it in years. So, I took my spoon, dipped it, gathered some of the soup with fried garlic and chicharon, then took a sip. Then nostalgia crept out of me.
I can taste the oiliness of the soup, the salty but satisfying taste, and the strong porky flavor. Every time I swallow, I remember the fishy smell of the river, the smooth texture of the wooden floor, and the quiet of our Sunday afternoons.
We lived in our church’s parsonage, and Sunday lunches were always stressful. We all served in the church, and as we were not Sunday Sabbath Christians, we still needed to prepare food after church services.
It would be okay if there were an occasion for that Sunday, and we did not need to worry about anything. But the quickest fix to having a meal is to buy some food. My family ensured that freshly cooked rice was ready, but when the time was short, or we needed a quick dish to satisfy our hunger, batchoy was the answer.
Hot boiling batchoy bought from La Paz market, whoever the seller is, will be a great addition to the lunch table. It has everything: carbs from the noodles, fat and protein from the offals and meat, crunch and aroma from the chicharon and spring onion. Its soup, given in excess to fill our heat-safe container, is always a refreshing treat for 6-8 people, although we only purchased two orders of the dish.
When the budget is enough, batchoy would be our meal’s soup to serve as a vehicle for our food. A local carinderia in La Paz cooks perfect saucy main dishes to satisfy us. But the partner could also be a freshly opened can of sardines or corned beef when buying ready-cooked meals was challenging. Sometimes, we could not even afford the batchoy; cooked instant noodles with beaten egg on top would suffice.
That was the batchoy for me. While I was eating my lunch, that was the batchoy for me. But was I crying because I finally had batchoy after a long time? No, I had one weeks ago. This was not even my favorite chain.
Were the tears evidence of how I missed the mundane life before? Those were the times I would nap after lunch, play the keyboard or guitar, or spend the afternoon at our church building’s rooftop with my girlfriend, talking about the service that ended and planning our dates for the week.
I immediately devoured my meal, my tears pouring, snot escaping my nose. I caught the waiter’s glimpse. I don’t know what he thinks about what he saw. But I guess I’ll not be eating batchoy for lunch anytime soon. I’ll try to have a big bowl next time.