Ongoing: Bloggers United 2!
December 3rd, 2011 § Leave a Comment
It’s December!
Gift-giving is a tradition in the Philippines. When the “Ber” months start, most Filipinos would have probably begun their shopping in preparation for Christmas. They would take advantage of mall-wide sales and bazaars to get the best finds and discounts for their loved ones.
Here’s an event that’s right for you!
In lieu of Thanksgiving
November 27th, 2011 § 9 Comments
Let this post be in lieu of the recently celebrated Thanksgiving Day by the people in the West. The blog is almost a year old, and there are people to thank.
I am surprised to have maintained a blog for this long. My stamina has improved if not for the blogs I have read and the bloggers I have met.
Much thanks must be given to my readers who have dealt with the excruciating task of reading me. I say task because it would some times entail you to keep an open mind to consider an opinion.
Primarily, the blog was for food. I realized such great potential ‘scouring’ through lanes of food at the supermarket and trying out food in the locale. Thanks… I have gained weight!
To the restaurants I have been to, your food/ place/ service have been awesome I don’t mind giving them at least a 1 out of 5 rating.
To supermarkets I have raided, I applaud you for introducing food and brands to the Filipinos… Despite fake Tim Tam’s and many more!
I utter words of thanks as well to my college publication, Himati, for being an avenue for me to write.
A few more posts before 2011 comes to a close, and I would like to take this opportunity I endowed myself to thank those who have been part of the posts in sergeiwrites. Please don’t make me mention your names, God knows how many you are.
Lastly, I would like to extend my question to you.
Simple question, simple answer: What are you most thankful for in 2011? You may include a photo for added points. Cut-off is on the 31st of December.
I need your name, mailing address, and contact number. So shoot all these details as a comment or e-mail: sergeiserj@gmail.com (especially for photos).
Whoever answers the best shall get the goodies by January. The next post on this blog will be in December, so I should prepare for that. 
The Story of the Thirty and Twenty Seven
November 23rd, 2011 § 3 Comments
Two years ago was the darkest time for the media. Two years ago, fifty seven died. Two years ago, justice was not served… up until today.
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Remember the hole.
And the pens that fell from the hands of people whose families were made incomplete, whose bodies were left mangled further crushed by vehicles not more than six feet under, and whose stories were not known because of political interests. They are the thirty, who died last November 23, 2009, whose names we shall keep on remembering until we dig our own pits.
It all happened in Shariff Aguak, Maguindanao during pre-election period when every man who aspired to be the greatest was filing his certificate of candidacy. Esmael Mangudadatu, then vice-mayor of Buluan, was one of those men. He believed he would be successful if he used women and journalists to protect his bid and to make sure it was filed peacefully. Unfortunately, he was wrong as every person in that eight-vehicle convoy received fatal blows; his wife included, despite forewarning him via phone call about the private army of Datu Unsay Mayor Andal Ampatuan, Jr. stopping them on their way.
This was what happened: They were told to swallow the certificates of candidacy that they brought and at ten in the morning, bullets punctured the skin of those thirty and twenty seven more. Witnesses added that it happened fast. They say gun fires were part of the sounds of everyday life, and it was enough to maintain the silence. The people who live in the shanty located near the place of carnage heard the shots whilst farming, but it did not matter to them. Numbed by the sound, I supposed?
And there they were. By the cliffside were the fifty seven men and women who were left dead in vehicles, on the ground, and under the ground. Mangudadatu thought that they were immune from violence, but they all bled on the earth. Not a single life spared.
Thirty men and women from the media were murdered that Monday, the most number of deaths in the history of journalism.
Some were shot. Others were left with their zippers open; some women had their vaginas poked by a twig. Some bodies were bloated. Others’ faces were smashed. Some had to be dug out from a pit. And the others were either lying in the car or on the ground. Newspapers covered their visages; the same publications some of them worked for.
We used to feel safe when journalists were around. A safer world compared to having armed men deceiving to protect you. They guarded what was truth to most of us, and they assured that the worst will not ever occur. But November 23 marked that journalists were not as powerful as most of us thought they were. Like ordinary citizens, they are easy targets of government-purchased firearms and a backhoe.
“And how did the former government respond to this?” you might ask.
By eight in the evening that same day, the president without her caged shoes called for the military and the police, through AFP acting Defense Secretary Norberto Gonzales and Local Government Secretary Ronaldo Puno, to pursue the people behind the manslaughter.
The next day, the little queen placed Sultan Kudarat and Cotabato City under the State of Emergency; and more pits were excavated.
November 26, at the Pink and Peach Capitol, Presidential Adviser Jesus Dureza arrived with two helicopters to fetch Andal Ampatuan, Jr. who was said to have turned himself in. He was sent to the Tuna Capital for questioning, and then later sent to Manila to be detained at the National Bureau of Investigation. His charges? Seven counts of multiple murder.
On the 29th, Police Regional Office- 12 reported that there were rebels deployed in Maguindanao, allegedly consolidated by the Ampatuans. This ignited fear in the south.
December first, the Department of Justice charges Andal Ampatuan, Jr. with 25 counts of murder. Two days later, Versoza announces in a press conference that search warrants for the houses of Ampatuan, Jr., Ampatuan Sr., and Akman Ampatuan were issued by Francis Palmones, Regional Trial Court Judge in Kidapawan City.
More evidences came out pointing to the involvement of the Ampatuans (and the government’s). Finally on December 5, 2009, Martial Law was proclaimed in Maguindanao. And as if that was not enough, we live today without justice served to the fifty seven, who died; thirty of whom were from the media.
The government wished that Andal Ampatuan, Jr. be treated fairly; however, what about the people found dead in Sitio Masalay in Shariff Aguak? There was nothing fair about detaching these people from their families through death. There was nothing fair about those bloated bodies that resembled overripe watermelons that droves of flies devoured. There was nothing fair about leaving this incident as it is, as if it never happened, as if the lives that were lost were stones you just cast in a lake. Call it retributive justice, but forgiveness is earned. You ask for it.
It is weird when you wake up with the sun one day, but you realize that it’s cold. You want to know why, but the answers do not show up even after the sun has decayed. They say we just have to be vigilant and keep remembering. But at some point you ask yourself, what is the value of remembering the story of the thirty and the twenty seven men and women? The answers we want do not show up so we just… remember them.
These are the names: Benjie Adolfo, Rubello Bataluna, Jhoy Duhay and Ronnie Perante of the Gold Star Daily; Arturo Betia, John Caniban, Noel Decina, Rey Merisco and Fernando Razon of Periodico Ini; Mark Gilbert Arriola, Eugene Dohillo and Victor Nuñez of UNTV; Romeo Jimmy Cabillo and Reynaldo Momay of the Midland Review; Bienvenido Legarte, Jr. and Joel Parcon of Prontiera News; Marites Cablitas and Rosell Morales of News Focus; Marife Montaño and Gina Dela Cruz of Saksi News; Napoleon Salysay of the Mindanao Gazette; Lindo Lupogan of the Mindanao Daily Gazette; Henry Araneta of DZRH; Santos Gatchalian of DXGO; Hannibal Cachuela of Punto News; Ernesto Maravilla ofBombo Radyo; Alejandro Reblando of the Manila Bulletin; Lea Dalmacio of Socsargen News; Ian Subang of Socsargen Today; and Andres Teodoro of the Central Mindanao Inquirer.
“Those who are dead are not dead; they’re just living in my head.” – 42, Coldplay
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First published in HIMATI.
Video courtesy of HIMATI.
Photos from Move.PH and Ms Patricia Evangelista.
First Commemoration of the Maguindanao Massacre in UP Mindanao could be viewed on this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQvg-pcBiJs&feature=list_related&playnext=1&list=SP8C439CB21B0F6AB0
Pan De Manila
November 20th, 2011 § Leave a Comment
Here’s to the couch potatoes and condo-living bums out there. If you’re hungry and you have run out of options to eat, go for something that can make you full without adding inches to your waist line.
Pan De Manila is one of the best bakeries in the Philippines. While most loaves of bread are made inside metallic ovens, PDM prefers the pugon (traditional brick style ovens).
They offer a wide selection of pastries and bread, which include pandesal, wheatloaf, cheesesticks, and many more. They also make their own peanut butter, fruit jams, cream cheese, dairy cheese, coffee, tuna spread, and they even have ice cream specially made for them to complement their products.
PDM has officially made my menu for dinner or breakfast since I moved. The pandesal is my favorite. I get it warm and fresh from the pugon. It’s perfect from smell to taste.
Pan de Manila does not put artificial flavoring, coloring, or preservatives (sans salt) in their bread; they are also bromate-and trans-fat free. It is a healthy option.
The bakery targets neighborhoods and supermarkets, that is why there’s always a PDM bread close to home… if you’re in the Metro. They’ve also tried to reach out to a larger market by having their products available through the SM Malls. If you do not have Pan De Manila near you, City Delivery would be your best friend.
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‘Cause I make it sound like it’s an ad. But it isn’t.
RECOMMENDED!
I Won’t Break Your Heart – The Young Friends: http://the9089project.tumblr.com/post/13008239272/i-wont-break-your-heart-the-young-friends
First Week Discoveries
November 13th, 2011 § Leave a Comment
The first week of staying in the new place was (prepare for the overused adjective) AMAZING.
I enjoyed shopping for the things I needed, e.g. shower curtain, plate, glass and utensils, a broom, et cetera. I got so into it I spent the entire morning last Tuesday to buy everything, I thought, I needed.
I discovered that when buying stuff for the home, it is important that you know where to go. You might want to check where you can find the best home accessories at the most affordable price first. Most of the basic stuff you will need can be found at a supermarket. But for other furnishings and accessories, you might want to visit shops that specialize in making them or you might want to visit vintage/ thrift shops. Makati and Cubao might be good places to start. I shall scout for more places soon.
There’s more to buy, trust me. I don’t even have a wall clock yet! So I might go on shopping again until I feel that the new place is close to feeling like home.
Anyway, the place is amazing bar none. I say so because I am just 30 minutes to an hour away from work; and this is one of the factors one has to consider when moving. I used to go two hours before my shift starts when I was at North, therefore, I had to shell out more for fare and not to mention the stress I have to go through because of EDSA traffic. But thankfully, traffic is not much of a problem in Pasig considering the distance from the metropolis. This means I get to sleep more!
Furthermore, I get to satisfy my craving for carbs easily because Pan de Manila, my new favorite bakeshop, is close by. I get freshly baked bread daily. Pandesal for only 3.50 to 6.00 pesos, that’s warm, soft, and tasty; in addition to the other pastries they make. More of Pan de Manila on the blog, soon!
Moreover, I get to have delectable slices of cake in the condo courtesy of Bonus Cibus Cafe. I had Oreo Cheese Cake last Wednesday, and it made me happy for a while until I got a sore throat.
Also, their Sansrival Cake and Tapsilog are worth trying. You get your money’s worth. Cheese cakes are priced at 85, Sansrival at 70, and Tapsilog for 65. Gobble up all these goodies with water for free!
The best thing I thought I got from the condo was the awesome view of the sky. At night, I would just open my window and stargaze until I fall asleep.
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Read on posts about Pan de Manila and Bonus Cibus Cafe here in sergeiwrites soon!
Currently feeling rusty about blogging. Themed posts beginning next week! I might start a contest, but we’ll see.
Finally moved!
November 7th, 2011 § 10 Comments
Yeah, I guess I’m growing up. In line with graduating uni, leaving home, and getting a job, is finally moving to a place of my own.
I think this is perfect time to play this as background music, c/0 my music tumblr: http://the9089project.tumblr.com/post/12379915928/fragile-dustin-ohalloran
I love the idea that I’m slowly moving on to adult life. I’m starting to know more about life, and getting in touch with it more than before. (I honestly felt like a bystander who would just watch everything pass by.) But now, it’s different. I find myself participating more in life.
Today was one of the most tiring yet stellar experiences I’ve had. From North to Ortigas to Pasig to Rizal to Marikina and back! Archie’s car has survived what is to be called Day One of my ‘condo’ life.
It’s been a dream of mine to get my own place and after… 5 months of being employed? I got myself a place where I can have more of me. LOL! Admittedly, I didn’t do it on my own. My mother still had to help me out, but this is with assurance I have to pay her off. HAHA.
Well, to cut the drama, here’s a few photos of my space:
“Things which matter most must never be at the mercy of things which matter least.”
I just realized that sometimes, you do not how much you have until you pack them.
Special thanks to Archie and Maxine for helping me move in, and for helping me carry my stuff to the new space.
Friends, our weekend jogs shall take place here. I’ll message the address if you want to visit the loner. 
EDSA Dream: No Traffic
November 1st, 2011 § Leave a Comment
This is EDSA.
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Home of traffic, and of the hot headed drivers of the Philippines.
This the longest stretch of paved road in the country.
And this is the reality you would have to face if you’re in Manila.
This is EDSA today.
I wish it were to stay like this forever.
Fewer cars, no traffic, and it would be so easy to get to work and back.
This is the reality that seldom happens.
A Sister’s Eulogy for Steve Jobs
October 31st, 2011 § 2 Comments
I grew up as an only child, with a single mother. Because we were poor and because I knew my father had emigrated from Syria, I imagined he looked like Omar Sharif. I hoped he would be rich and kind and would come into our lives (and our not yet furnished apartment) and help us. Later, after I’d met my father, I tried to believe he’d changed his number and left no forwarding address because he was an idealistic revolutionary, plotting a new world for the Arab people.
Even as a feminist, my whole life I’d been waiting for a man to love, who could love me. For decades, I’d thought that man would be my father. When I was 25, I met that man and he was my brother.
By then, I lived in New York, where I was trying to write my first novel. I had a job at a small magazine in an office the size of a closet, with three other aspiring writers. When one day a lawyer called me — me, the middle-class girl from California who hassled the boss to buy us health insurance — and said his client was rich and famous and was my long-lost brother, the young editors went wild. This was 1985 and we worked at a cutting-edge literary magazine, but I’d fallen into the plot of a Dickens novel and really, we all loved those best. The lawyer refused to tell me my brother’s name and my colleagues started a betting pool. The leading candidate: John Travolta. I secretly hoped for a literary descendant of Henry James — someone more talented than I, someone brilliant without even trying.
When I met Steve, he was a guy my age in jeans, Arab- or Jewish-looking and handsomer than Omar Sharif.
We took a long walk — something, it happened, that we both liked to do. I don’t remember much of what we said that first day, only that he felt like someone I’d pick to be a friend. He explained that he worked in computers.
I didn’t know much about computers. I still worked on a manual Olivetti typewriter.
I told Steve I’d recently considered my first purchase of a computer: something called the Cromemco.
Steve told me it was a good thing I’d waited. He said he was making something that was going to be insanely beautiful.
I want to tell you a few things I learned from Steve, during three distinct periods, over the 27 years I knew him.
They’re not periods of years, but of states of being. His full life. His illness. His dying.
Steve worked at what he loved. He worked really hard. Every day.
That’s incredibly simple, but true.
He was the opposite of absent-minded.
He was never embarrassed about working hard, even if the results were failures. If someone as smart as Steve wasn’t ashamed to admit trying, maybe I didn’t have to be.
When he got kicked out of Apple, things were painful. He told me about a dinner at which 500 Silicon Valley leaders met the then-sitting president. Steve hadn’t been invited.
He was hurt but he still went to work at Next. Every single day.
Novelty was not Steve’s highest value. Beauty was.
For an innovator, Steve was remarkably loyal. If he loved a shirt, he’d order 10 or 100 of them. In the Palo Alto house, there are probably enough black cotton turtlenecks for everyone in this church.
He didn’t favor trends or gimmicks. He liked people his own age.
His philosophy of aesthetics reminds me of a quote that went something like this: “Fashion is what seems beautiful now but looks ugly later; art can be ugly at first but it becomes beautiful later.”
Steve always aspired to make beautiful later.
He was willing to be misunderstood.
Uninvited to the ball, he drove the third or fourth iteration of his same black sports car to Next, where he and his team were quietly inventing the platform on which Tim Berners-Lee would write the program for the World Wide Web.
Steve was like a girl in the amount of time he spent talking about love. Love was his supreme virtue, his god of gods. He tracked and worried about the romantic lives of the people working with him.
Whenever he saw a man he thought a woman might find dashing, he called out, “Hey are you single? Do you wanna come to dinner with my sister?”
I remember when he phoned the day he met Laurene. “There’s this beautiful woman and she’s really smart and she has this dog and I’m going to marry her.”
When Reed was born, he began gushing and never stopped. He was a physical dad, with each of his children. He fretted over Lisa’s boyfriends and Erin’s travel and skirt lengths and Eve’s safety around the horses she adored.
None of us who attended Reed’s graduation party will ever forget the scene of Reed and Steve slow dancing.
His abiding love for Laurene sustained him. He believed that love happened all the time, everywhere. In that most important way, Steve was never ironic, never cynical, never pessimistic. I try to learn from that, still.
Steve had been successful at a young age, and he felt that had isolated him. Most of the choices he made from the time I knew him were designed to dissolve the walls around him. A middle-class boy from Los Altos, he fell in love with a middle-class girl from New Jersey. It was important to both of them to raise Lisa, Reed, Erin and Eve as grounded, normal children. Their house didn’t intimidate with art or polish; in fact, for many of the first years I knew Steve and Lo together, dinner was served on the grass, and sometimes consisted of just one vegetable. Lots of that one vegetable. But one. Broccoli. In season. Simply prepared. With just the right, recently snipped, herb.
Even as a young millionaire, Steve always picked me up at the airport. He’d be standing there in his jeans.
When a family member called him at work, his secretary Linetta answered, “Your dad’s in a meeting. Would you like me to interrupt him?”
When Reed insisted on dressing up as a witch every Halloween, Steve, Laurene, Erin and Eve all went wiccan.
They once embarked on a kitchen remodel; it took years. They cooked on a hotplate in the garage. The Pixar building, under construction during the same period, finished in half the time. And that was it for the Palo Alto house. The bathrooms stayed old. But — and this was a crucial distinction — it had been a great house to start with; Steve saw to that.
This is not to say that he didn’t enjoy his success: he enjoyed his success a lot, just minus a few zeros. He told me how much he loved going to the Palo Alto bike store and gleefully realizing he could afford to buy the best bike there.
And he did.
Steve was humble. Steve liked to keep learning.
Once, he told me if he’d grown up differently, he might have become a mathematician. He spoke reverently about colleges and loved walking around the Stanford campus. In the last year of his life, he studied a book of paintings by Mark Rothko, an artist he hadn’t known about before, thinking of what could inspire people on the walls of a future Apple campus.
Steve cultivated whimsy. What other C.E.O. knows the history of English and Chinese tea roses and has a favorite David Austin rose?
He had surprises tucked in all his pockets. I’ll venture that Laurene will discover treats — songs he loved, a poem he cut out and put in a drawer — even after 20 years of an exceptionally close marriage. I spoke to him every other day or so, but when I opened The New York Times and saw a feature on the company’s patents, I was still surprised and delighted to see a sketch for a perfect staircase.
With his four children, with his wife, with all of us, Steve had a lot of fun.
He treasured happiness.
Then, Steve became ill and we watched his life compress into a smaller circle. Once, he’d loved walking through Paris. He’d discovered a small handmade soba shop in Kyoto. He downhill skied gracefully. He cross-country skied clumsily. No more.
Eventually, even ordinary pleasures, like a good peach, no longer appealed to him.
Yet, what amazed me, and what I learned from his illness, was how much was still left after so much had been taken away.
I remember my brother learning to walk again, with a chair. After his liver transplant, once a day he would get up on legs that seemed too thin to bear him, arms pitched to the chair back. He’d push that chair down the Memphis hospital corridor towards the nursing station and then he’d sit down on the chair, rest, turn around and walk back again. He counted his steps and, each day, pressed a little farther.
Laurene got down on her knees and looked into his eyes.
“You can do this, Steve,” she said. His eyes widened. His lips pressed into each other.
He tried. He always, always tried, and always with love at the core of that effort. He was an intensely emotional man.
I realized during that terrifying time that Steve was not enduring the pain for himself. He set destinations: his son Reed’s graduation from high school, his daughter Erin’s trip to Kyoto, the launching of a boat he was building on which he planned to take his family around the world and where he hoped he and Laurene would someday retire.
Even ill, his taste, his discrimination and his judgment held. He went through 67 nurses before finding kindred spirits and then he completely trusted the three who stayed with him to the end. Tracy. Arturo. Elham.
One time when Steve had contracted a tenacious pneumonia his doctor forbid everything — even ice. We were in a standard I.C.U. unit. Steve, who generally disliked cutting in line or dropping his own name, confessed that this once, he’d like to be treated a little specially.
I told him: Steve, this is special treatment.
He leaned over to me, and said: “I want it to be a little more special.”
Intubated, when he couldn’t talk, he asked for a notepad. He sketched devices to hold an iPad in a hospital bed. He designed new fluid monitors and x-ray equipment. He redrew that not-quite-special-enough hospital unit. And every time his wife walked into the room, I watched his smile remake itself on his face.
For the really big, big things, you have to trust me, he wrote on his sketchpad. He looked up. You have to.
By that, he meant that we should disobey the doctors and give him a piece of ice.
None of us knows for certain how long we’ll be here. On Steve’s better days, even in the last year, he embarked upon projects and elicited promises from his friends at Apple to finish them. Some boat builders in the Netherlands have a gorgeous stainless steel hull ready to be covered with the finishing wood. His three daughters remain unmarried, his two youngest still girls, and he’d wanted to walk them down the aisle as he’d walked me the day of my wedding.
We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories.
I suppose it’s not quite accurate to call the death of someone who lived with cancer for years unexpected, but Steve’s death was unexpected for us.
What I learned from my brother’s death was that character is essential: What he was, was how he died.
Tuesday morning, he called me to ask me to hurry up to Palo Alto. His tone was affectionate, dear, loving, but like someone whose luggage was already strapped onto the vehicle, who was already on the beginning of his journey, even as he was sorry, truly deeply sorry, to be leaving us.
He started his farewell and I stopped him. I said, “Wait. I’m coming. I’m in a taxi to the airport. I’ll be there.”
“I’m telling you now because I’m afraid you won’t make it on time, honey.”
When I arrived, he and his Laurene were joking together like partners who’d lived and worked together every day of their lives. He looked into his children’s eyes as if he couldn’t unlock his gaze.
Until about 2 in the afternoon, his wife could rouse him, to talk to his friends from Apple.
Then, after awhile, it was clear that he would no longer wake to us.
His breathing changed. It became severe, deliberate, purposeful. I could feel him counting his steps again, pushing farther than before.
This is what I learned: he was working at this, too. Death didn’t happen to Steve, he achieved it.
He told me, when he was saying goodbye and telling me he was sorry, so sorry we wouldn’t be able to be old together as we’d always planned, that he was going to a better place.
Dr. Fischer gave him a 50/50 chance of making it through the night.
He made it through the night, Laurene next to him on the bed sometimes jerked up when there was a longer pause between his breaths. She and I looked at each other, then he would heave a deep breath and begin again.
This had to be done. Even now, he had a stern, still handsome profile, the profile of an absolutist, a romantic. His breath indicated an arduous journey, some steep path, altitude.
He seemed to be climbing.
But with that will, that work ethic, that strength, there was also sweet Steve’s capacity for wonderment, the artist’s belief in the ideal, the still more beautiful later.
Steve’s final words, hours earlier, were monosyllables, repeated three times.
Before embarking, he’d looked at his sister Patty, then for a long time at his children, then at his life’s partner, Laurene, and then over their shoulders past them.
Steve’s final words were:
OH WOW. OH WOW. OH WOW.
Mona Simpson
30.10.2011
The New York Times
30/10/2011
October 30th, 2011 § Leave a Comment
It’s 04:00 and I have no idea what to share to you, guys.
For the past days, it had been all about work for me. But there is something exciting coming up in two weeks, which I will gladly share to everyone. But for today, let’s talk about food.
The months that have gone by were months of Kitchen experiments. Here’s two of them:
Spicy Cheesy Pesto
What you’ll need to do is saute some garlic in olive oil, and make sure that those garlic cloves were squashed first and then chopped into bits (that’s how I like it). After that, I add a quarter of minced sweet onion.
Once transparent, I add a can of tuna, rosemary leaves, grated cheese, and allow it to simmer for 3 minutes. Once you see that it has thickened, add your pesto sauce. Season it with pepper, a bit of salt. Allow it to simmer for at least 3-5 minutes.
Plate your pasta, add your pesto sauce, put some parsley and grated parmesan cheese, and you’re set to go.
PBA: The Odd Combination of Pork-Broccoli-Ampalaya
Marinate your meat in soy sauce, lemon, and black pepper for at least an hour. Prepare your broccoli and ampalaya. Rely on your taste.
You’ll need the basic saute of garlic and onions. Once golden and transparent respectively, add in your meat. Put some soy sauce and oyster sauce. Add a bit of water. Allow it to simmer for at least 3 minutes.
Add sugar, season with salt and pepper. Squeeze a lemon, and then mix. Scoop a bit of cornstarch to thicken the sauce. Add your chopped broccoli and ampalaya, and mix again. Cover your wok for 1 minute to let the vegetables cook.
Add more seasoning. And you’re ready.
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P.S.
http://13weekends.com/ < —— This is one of the most beautiful blogs I have ever chanced upon. Please feel free to read its content and enjoy!
Nasi Lemak
October 23rd, 2011 § Leave a Comment
Finally, an opportunity to write about food! I know it’s been a while, but let this post help the Food category of this blog make a comeback. Ladies and gents, I introduce to you the home of Singaporean Cuisine, Nasi Lemak!
Nasi Lemak is located in Robinson’s Galleria, East Lane, Ortigas. (The moment you see Krispy Kreme, go inside that “alley”, and you’ll see this very simple resto.)
Same as before, criteria: Ambiance, Service, Food, Experience, and Price.
Ambiance:
Nasi Lemak is known for its Singaporean cuisine, but it also highlights other food from the Southeast Asian region. The place is simple, nothing fancy, and a very typical Asian restaurant. Earth colors all around, and it actually looks like a hideout.
There’s an area for couples to sit, and also where a group of friends can dine. It’s a pretty tight (literal) place.
It’s a good area to catch up, I think, especially if you’re the type who wants to communicate up close with friends. The distance between you and the person on the other side of the table is only about a foot or two. It makes it easier for you to tap a friend’s shoulder. (err..)
Service:
Service is good. On the table, there’s a buzzer that you can press to get someone to take your orders. It’s pretty convenient and it makes sure that all customers are attended to.
I also like how each of the crew knows how to explain and eat the food, especially for the Hainanese set. Moreover, these guys know their product well and serve with a smile, unlike… *coughs* Jollibee.
Food:
I’m 50-50 on their food, although I had a few favorites. The best one I had that night was Kueh Pai Ti, the appetizer. It had some lettuce, prawn, a shell, and the stuff inside… I don’t know what they were but it was awesome. I did taste a bit of carrot, garlic, and turnip?
Kueh Pai Ti
Another would be the Chendol. It’s a sweet treat with caramelized sugar at the bottom, pandan, ice, and a bit of milk (I know. But it was safe for the lactose-intolerant). I actually thought it was just taho with pandan. But it was a good experience trying it. My stomach didn’t hurt.
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Chendol
The other food we had: Char Kway Teoh, Hainanese Chicken set, Broccoli Beef and Tea Tarek.
Char Kway Teoh
Hainanese Set
Broccoli Beef
Tea Tarek
Experience:
I like the idea that they serve the food to you and explain how you would be able to best appreciate it. But aside from that, there was nothing else to experience except tongues being tied from the difficult names of their food.
Price:
Food is alright, but price doesn’t complement it well. I think some are worth the price, like Chendol, Kueh Pai Ti, and Char Kway Teoh, but the other stuff they had on their menu, I felt, were unreasonably priced. You may want to budget at least 250 to 500 if you want to dine in Nasi Lemak, which would include the meal, drink, dessert, and service charge.
All in all, I would give Nasi Lemak a 3 out of 5. I think it’s a good catch up place for friends, but you guys might want to just have appetizers then dessert here.
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So much about food, let’s see what I come up with next week. Keep coming back! More to come. For music goodness, follow www.the9089project.tumblr.com
Post credits: Archie, Jordan, and Maxine; TalesFromTheTummy and Trixie Torralba
