Burnt Lumpia: Filipino Food | Filipino Recipes | Culinary Hijinks

Abalone Kinilaw

I have this vague childhood memory of a cousin, or an uncle, or someone, bringing my grandparents a freshly caught abalone from who-knows-where. Upon presentation of the abalone, the household of grandparents, aunts, and uncles went absolutely bonkers--like if Ed McMahon had just handed them a check the size of two mahjong tables.

After everyone had settled down a bit, the strange-looking sea creature was then shucked and transformed into what I remember as two dishes that day: the first was some sort of abalone soup, and the second was the Philippine ceviche-like dish of kinilaw. Although that would be my only experience with abalone (at least for many many more years), I never forgot its unique and delicate flavor.

Then, many many more years later, I would be reaquainted with abalone at an epic dinner at Urasawa. After being served awabi (abalone sushi), as well as abalone liver (tasty!) that memorable night, the flavors immediately brought me back to that fateful day at my grandparents when they went ape-shit for abalone.

So what makes abalone so special? Well, for one, it tastes incredible. Although some find abalone's flavor similar to that of squid or clams, the texture of these moluscs are the closer comparison--all have a chewy bite to them. Flavorwise, I think abalone tastes like abalone. Sounds like a cop-out, but I really think the flavor of abalone is one-of-a-kind. It tastes briny and sweet and of the sea, but delicately so.

Aside from its unique flavor, wild abalone is also pretty hard to come by. Although small farm-raised abalone is plentiful and available commercially, wild Red Abalone is prized for its large size, thickness, and flavor.

In California, commercial harvesting of wild abalone is completely outlawed. The only way to obtain abalone is to dive for it yourself with a snorkel and by holding your breath--SCUBA gear is not permitted when abalone diving. Also, abalone can only be harvested north of the San Francisco bay between April and November (with a break in July). Although these regulations seem like a pain (there are many more I didn't list), they are meant to sustain and protect red abalone populations in California--which is a very good thing.

And because it's such a rare culinary treasure, abalone is a fairly pricey commodity, which is probably why my grandparents flipped out all those years back, and perhaps why abalone can only usually be found in high-end joints like Urasawa. Luckily, I scored some abalone for free (and legally) on my fishing trip a couple weeks back.

Pacman Punch

If you're Filipino and/or a boxing fan, chances are very high that you'll be watching Manny "Pacman" Pacquiao take on Miguel Cotto this coming Saturday. And if you are going to be watching said match on said day, I'd be willing to bet that you'll be doing so in the company of friends and family at a fight party.

And whether you're hosting a fight party of your own, or just mooching off of someone else's Pay Per View, why not loosen things up by contributing a lively libation in the form of a good ol' fashioned punch? That's right. Punch. Punch in the cocktail world is very much like Zombies in the movie world--they're so hot right now.

But I'm not talking about your grandma's punch that's laden with 7-up and sherbert (though that is dang tasty stuff). Nor am I talking about that bowl of hooch you may fuzzily remember from college (good times). Instead, how's about a wonderfully refreshing punch made with fresh fruit juice and good liquor--a balanced punch that Soda Popinski would sip with his pinky in the air, yet would still knock him on his arse.

So to commemorate what will hopefully be another historic victory (7 titles in 7 weight classes!) for my main man Manny, I've devised a simple, yet potent, potable that you can easily whip up for your own fight party festivities on Saturday. It's a concoction I like to call Pacman Punch (pun definitely intended).

Kinilaw Softly

Kinilaw is an indigenous Filipino dish of incredible freshness, usually (but not always) featuring slices of raw seafood quickly bathed in a sour liquid. Filipino Kinilaw is a little bit like Latin American Ceviche in that the seafood can be dressed in citrus juice, however, the similarities end there. Where the raw fish in a Ceviche is drastically transformed and "cooked" after marinating for hours in citrus, the raw fish of Kinilaw retains its freshness after only a few moments in a sour bath.

On the scale of doneness for international uncooked seafood dishes, Kinilaw would perhaps sit smack-dab in the middle: Japanese Sashimi (raw), Filipino Kinilaw (rare to medium rare), Ceviche (well done). At least that's how I look at it.

In his book, On Food and Cooking, Harold McGee writes:

"Kinilaw is the indigenous Philippine version of acid marination. Morsels of fish or shellfish are dipped for only a few seconds into an acidic liquid, often vinegar made from the coconut, nipa palm, or sugarcane, to which condiments have been added."

Although different Filipino vinegars are the primary souring agent in Kinilaw, Kalamansi juice and other citrus juices like dayap lime, can be used as well.

To balance out the sourness, condiments and additions to Kinilaw usually include copious amounts of chopped onions, ginger, and chilies--although things like green mangoes, kamias, tomatoes, and garlic can also be added.

As far as seafood goes, everything from fish, to sea cucumbers, to sea urchin roe, to crabs and lobsters, can be made into Kinilaw. Even raw oysters dressed in vinegar or kalamansi can be considered Kinilaw. Now while fresh raw seafood may be the most popular and well-known form of Kinilaw, there are other raw items that can be quickly bathed in vinegar and/or citrus and still be considered Kinilaw.

For example, vegetable Kinilaws can be made from bittermelon (ampalaya), or banana hearts, and there even exist Kinilaws of raw or partially cooked meats such as beef kinilaw and even goat kinilaw. The type of Kinilaw depends, of course, on where you are in the Philippines and how hungry you are, I suppose. In fact, during my visit to the Philippines last summer, I actually enjoyed quite a few spoonfuls of goat kilawin (raw goat meat, skin, and innards, shallots, ginger, salt, and vinegar) in Ilocos Norte.

Mmmmm. Raw goat meat.

Oh baby I like it RAAAAWWW!
Kilawing Kambing (Goat Kinilaw), ca. June 2008

In the book Kinilaw: A Philippine Cuisine of Freshness,  Edilberto N. Alegre and Doreen G. Fernandez write:

"The Ilocanos know when to have their kilawin--in the morning when meat is freshest, since animals are butchered at dawn."

Word.

But since my dawns are dedicated to deep sleep and mouth breathing, and because I have zero access to freshly butchered goat meat, I figured I'd stick to the more manageable seafood variety of Kinilaw for this particular post. And how.

A Shot of Gulaman

Gulaman, to those not in the know, is a Filipino gelatin-like substance made from dried and processed red seaweed. Gulaman may be better known in other parts of the world as Agar-Agar, agar, or carrageenan. Put even more simply, Gulaman can best be described as "Filipino Jello."

Wobbly cubes of Gulaman can usually be found in Filipino sweets, sitting atop tall glasses of Halo-halo, or mixed into cool drinks like Sago at Gulaman (a Filipino dessert kinda-sorta-but-not-really similar to bubble tea and jelly).

Although Gulaman, at first glance, does look a lot like American jello, there are some very key differences. Firstly, Gulaman is 100% vegetarian since it's made from seaweed, whereas gelatin is made from the crushed bones of puppies, kittens, and koala bears (a sad but true fact). Gulaman also sets at room temperature (and can be kept out at room temperature), while gelatin needs to be refrigerated. Lastly, gulaman does not melt in your mouth (or in your hand for that matter) like gelatin does. In fact, once set, gulaman will not melt again until it reaches 185 degrees F. So unless you're a dragon, you'll have to chew on gulaman a bit before swallowing. And if you are a dragon, hey man, that's cool.

In spite of the differences between gulaman and gelatin, gulaman can (and should) be used in many of the same ways as gelatin. For example, gulaman lends itself particularly well to the following gelatin-friendly applications:

• Good ol'-fashioned wrastlin'!
• Office pranks
• Edible alcoholic shots

While I would have loved to experiment with the first two items on that list (especially the wrastlin'!), I only had enough gulaman to try my hand at edible cocktails.

Out on Parol

Every year around Christmas time, the wife and I like to drive around various neighborhoods looking at all the different Christmas lights people have hung on their homes. Although the wife likes to ooh and ahh at all that is bright and blinky, I just like seeing how many Filipino households I can spot during these night-time drive-bys.

How is it that I can pick out a single Filipino household from the hundreds of other twinkling homes? My Filipino readers may already know the answer to this, but I'll clue everyone else in too. In addition to the normal strings of Christmas lights stapled/nailed/duct taped to the eaves of houses, Filipinos may sometimes display a large star-shaped lantern, called a Parol, in their windows or on the outside of the home.

For instance, here's a look at my parents' home with a Christmas Parol in their window:

And here's a look at me and the wife's place with our Parol in one of our upper windows:

I know, the single string of lights at our place is totally weaksauce, but me and ladders are mortal enemies.

Thin-Skinned

I received another windfall of kalamansi limes from my mother recently, whose tree was bursting with bright orange orbs of the Filipino citrus. The longer a kalamansi sits on the tree, or the older it gets, it will change colors from green to orange. I'm guessing that because kalamansi are grown so abundantly and used so frequently in the Philippines, you will rarely find an older, orange-hued one there. Such is not the case for my mother, who is lucky enough to have a tree that produces more fruit than she can use. Hmph.

The bag of fruit that my mom unloaded on me contained about a jillion orange kalamansi, and only a few green ones. So I decided to conduct a very unscientific and inconclusive experiment in which I compared the traits of green and orange kalamansi limes. Prepare to be awed.

Kalamansi are smaller than lemons. Mind blowing.

Firstly, I noticed that both the green and orange kalamansi were smaller than a lemon! Mother-effing crazy, right? Wait, hold your applause, there's more!

After cutting open the green ones and a couple of orange kalamansi, I found that both are thin-skinned and orange-fleshed. The juice yielded from both was also orange. I then squeezed some of the juice into separate teaspoons and gave the samples a taste. The juice from both samples tasted sour with a hint of orange fruit--I couldn't find any discernible differences between the green and orange kalamansi. All of this info is earth-shattering, I know. I'm already crafting my speech for the Nobel Prize in Awesome.

So, in conclusion, the skin color of kalamansi doesn't matter. Green or orange, it's still Filipino on the inside (and that, boys and girls, concludes today's After School Special).

Although I was riding a natural high from my ground-breaking findings, I still had a bagful of kalamansi with which I had no idea what to do. Since they were already so "ripe", on the verge of decomposing, I figured I'd at least squeeze 'em and freeze the juice for a later use.

Bistek: Two Ways

The Rachael Ray 30-minute approach to cooking meals is completely lost on me. It's not that I don't think cooking a weeknight's dinner in a quick and efficient manner is a bad idea--it's brilliant actually--it's just that I am molasses-slow in the kitchen. Constructing an entire meal in 30 minutes or less would be somewhat of a miracle for me (heck, it sometimes takes me longer than that to drop a deuce).

I like to move at my own pace and take my sweet lollygaggin' time when I'm in the kitchen. I may look up at the green digits on my microwave clock one moment, look back down at whatever I'm chopping, stirring, or cursing at, and then look back up at that clock an hour later not realizing how much time has lapsed (or that my wife is hunched over on the couch with a painfully grumbly tummy).

And this is why the wife cooks a bulk of the meals during the busy work week, and on the lazy weekends I'm on kitchen duty. When we do plan meals during the week that I will be cooking, I usually have to do the prep work the day before so that we can eat at a decent hour the following evening.

But I've recently discovered a Filipino dish that seemingly allows me to bend the space-time continuum so that I can feed the wife and myself on a weeknight. I don't even have to fake "the gout" and take a half-day at work so I can have more prep time in the kitchen (not that I've ever faked "the gout" before, ahem).

This dish I speak of is Bistek--which is just beef marinated in soy and kalamansi and then cooked with onions. That's it. No, seriously. That's all Bistek is. Just take some meat, soak it in some soy and kalamansi juice for half an hour, then throw everything into a pan (marinade and all) with onions, serve with rice, and enjoy.

Saucy

I realize I'm probably the last Pinoy on the planet to discover the quickness (the quickness!) with which Bistek can be made, but better late than never I say. I've also read that the word "Bistek" is a Filipino corruption of the English word "Beef Steak". But I don't believe this explanation of nomenclature considering there are numerous Latin dishes that go by the name "Bistec Encebollado" (also steak and onions). So, like many other Filipino dishes, I'm pretty sure our Bistek, at least in name, is of Spanish origin as well.

Considering this connection to Spain, I found another use for Bistek via Mexico (Spain once governed its Philippine colony from Mexico [confusing, but true]). Instead of cooking the beef and onions in the marinade on the stove, I grilled the steak and onions on my barbecue:

Grilled Bistek

I then sliced the meat and threw it into a tortilla topped with the onions, some queso de bola (edam) cheese and some cilantro:

Bistek Tacos

The Bistek Tacos would probably also fare well with a little topping of Atchara as well. Although the Bistek Tacos lack the sauce that the traditional preparation includes, the longer marination of the meat ensures the maximum toyomansi taste (flava in ya mouf!).

I used sirloin for the traditional Bistek, and flank steak for the tacos, but I think either meat would work for either situation. I found both applications to be amazingly easy to prepare and were perfect for a quick midweek dinner.

Filipino Bistek (Citrus Steak and Onions)

Serves 2 to 4

1 lb. sirloin beef, sliced thinly
1/4 cup kalamansi juice (or lemon juice)
1/2 cup soy sauce
3 cloves garlic, smashed
1 Tablespoon oil
1 large onion, sliced into thin rings
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Place the beef, kalamansi juice, soy sauce, and garlic in a large zip-top bag, or in a shallow dish, and marinate in the refrigerator for 30 mins.

Heat the oil in a large saute pan or skillet over medium-high heat. Remove the meat from the marinade (reserve marinade, do not discard marinade) and sear the meat on all sides, 4-5 minutes total. Remove meat from pan, place the meat in a bowl, and set aside. If the pan is dry, add a bit more oil. Add the onion rings to the pan and saute for 3 minutes.

Pour the reserved marinade into the pan with the onions, being sure to deglaze and scrape the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon or spatula. Bring the liquid to a boil, reduce heat to low and simmer for 10 minutes. Add the black pepper to the sauce and taste for seasoning. If the sauce is too salty, or too sour, add 1/2 cup of water if necessary. You can also add water if you just want to have more sauce.

Add the meat back to the pan and cook for another 2 minutes. You can also thicken the sauce with cornstarch if desired. Serve with rice.

Bistek Tacos

Serves 2 to 4

1 lb. flank steak (leave whole, do not slice)
1/4 cup kalamansi juice (or lemon juice)
1/2 cup soy sauce
3 cloves garlic, smashed
1 large onion
Salt and pepper, to taste
Olive oil
Tortillas (flour or corn)
1/4 cup edam cheese, grated
Cilantro, for garnish

Place the beef, kalamansi juice, soy sauce, and garlic in a large zip-top bag, or in a shallow dish, and marinate in the refrigerator overnight.

Cut the onion into 1/4-inch slices, then place the onion slices on skewers so that they are easier to grill. Brush the onion slices with olive oil, then sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Remove the meat from the marinade; reserve the marinade. Place the meat and onion skewers on a hot grill over high heat. Grill the meat and onions for 10-12 minutes total for medium-rare meat, brushing occasionally with the reserved marinade. Remove the steak and onions from the grill and allow the steak to rest for 10 minutes. Discard the leftover marinade.

Thinly slice the steak against the grain. Place the steak and onions in warmed tortillas, then top with cheese and cilantro.

Gin and Juice

I know I've lamented in the past about the poor fruit production of my Kalamansi tree, Kal. But for all intents and purposes, Kal has had a pretty decent and citrusy summer so far by yielding a fairly sizeable crop for me. Albeit that the kalmansi I pick every now and then are still quite small and haven't grown to the size I would like (ideally, they should be about an inch around), they are still bursting with juice. And these small tart-tinged orbs are indeed a step up from my slim pickins of yesteryear that all but died as soon as they reached the size of a grain of rice.

But Kal's meager offerings aren't entirely his fault. He's relegated to a corner of our balcony (our condo has no yard, just a small porch and the aforementioned balcony) where he is kept under close watch by our garden gnome, Reggie.

Kal and Reggie, BFFs

As it is, Kal soaks up about 4 hours of sun a day. I've read that citrus needs at least 8 hours of sun, so I'm sure Kal's smallish limes are directly correlated to his lack of solar energy.

And it has also occurred to me that perhaps I lack the green thumb gene that seems to be so very prevalent in my family. Both of my grandfathers are wonderful gardeners who have grown all sorts of goodies in their respective backyards, I have an uncle who owns and tends a large sprawling farm in the Philippines, and my parents spend weekends in their garden tending to their supply of various halucinogenic fungi  magic poppy fields  cannabis  coca plants  uh, fruits and veggies.

Although I presently lack any gardening prowess in my DNA (I'm hoping it's still too early to tell), I've at least seemed to inherit my father's appreciation for a good buzz via a stiff drink (well, that and an undying, forever-burning internal rage). And while Kal's bounty is always good for a squeeze into a small dish of soy for a toyomansi dipping sauce, I've found that the majority of the Kalamansi I pick usually ends up in a cocktail glass to sate my inherited thirst for blurred vision and hiccups.

The Oyster. Considered.

My dad has this saying that if you don’t get mad, it won’t get fixed.

This maxim usually applies to certain circumstances in which my old man is trying to repair something around the house or in his garage.  The scenarios usually start off very innocently, like screwing a shelf into a wall, unclogging some backed-up pipes, or genetically engineering his clone.  But as soon as something goes wrong—like a missing shelf bracket, a futile and useless plunger, or a volatile and unstable strain of DNA—my dad goes berserk and starts cursing up a storm.

He usually starts off with a few innocuous “Goddammits!”  Then he moves on to  spewing out some “Sons of bitches!” that serve as a warning to those within earshot that he’s about to blow his top.  But once he starts dropping F-bombs and MotherF-bombs, it’s time for my brothers and I to scurry away and hide, lest we be commanded to find my dad his “Pillips head screwdriber”.  On such occasions of unbridled fury, I always want to tell my dad that Jesus was a carpenter. But I don’t think he’d get it, and then he would surely stab me with said screwdriver.

My dad’s rage doesn’t last forever.  Once he’s done fixin' whatever he was fixin', he calms down, shrugs his shoulders, then walks over to my mom and mutters his mantra: “If you don’t get mad, it won’t get fixed.”

Now, I’m not much of a handy guy.  I own zero powertools and most of my handiwork consists of erecting crappy Ikea furniture.  So in terms of being a man about the house, I haven’t witnessed any of my father’s fury passed on down to me.  However, it’s a completely different story when I’m in the kitchen.  My inherited wrath was no more evident than when I tried shucking oysters for the first time.

Kalamansi Granita

Conventional wisdom usually dictates:

“Don’t eat the yellow snow.”

It’s sage advice, really.  And it usually makes sense considering the circumstances that cause the yellowing of snow:

• Huskies
• Rabid Raccoons
• The Abominable Snowman, Yeti, and/or Sasquatch
• Tauntauns
• Drunken Eskimos Canadians Russians Cold Climate Drunks in general

However, this advice does not take into consideration my sublimely yellowy and snowy dessert: Kalamansi Granita.