Kowloon In My Heart

It's past nine in the evening. In less than an hour another work day will come to an end. Deep in the heart of my belly, the rebellious forces of my intestines are gathering. For the second time this week, I skipped eating dinner again. Blame it on my lack of appetite but if your stomach has been used to digesting Oatmeal for almost a year, it would surely grow weary of it. Come to think of it, I cannot remember the last time I ate rice for dinner.

So there.

My arms weak and my limbs close to collapse. I limp my way from P. Guevarra to a neighborhood known to its residents as Little Baguio in San Juan. From there, I need to ride a jeep that will take me across the rolling hills of that posh town and emerge a few steps away from Agora. From there all I need to do is hail a jeep bound for Divisoria to find my way home.

However, my real journey has just begun.

With an aching tummy, a frustrating work performance and a frail body abused due to erratic eating habits, the need to heed one's craving must be paid attention. When the mind takes over one's action, not even the consideration of money will stop it from fulfilling its goals.

And my mind speaks of one thing. Food.

What it desires is not just an ordinary dinner. It demands a serving of Jumbo Pao and three pieces of Pork Siomai only from Kowloon House.

Me: hails a cab across Puregold Agora.

Taxi Driver: Boss saan tayo?

Me: Sa Santa Mesa manong, pero daan muna tayo sa Araneta. May bibilhin lang po ako.

The taxi driver who is oblivious to my cravings will drive his cab pass the funeral homes and pass the massage parlors in that stretch of road only to make a brief stopover in the lone Kowloon House outlet in Araneta Avenue. As he waits inside the cab with its hazard lights blinking to serve as warning to speeding vehicles, I take all the time in the world placing my order to the attendant and savoring the steaming buns inside the traditional bamboo steam baskets while its sweet, woody aroma wafts under my nose.

In that brief encounter between me and the pork buns, the worries of the world suddenly evaporates like steam from my thoughts.

The big Siomai would be the first to go as the cab speeds its way home. It is my habit to ask the manong driver to partake on my little feast as a gesture of goodwill. I do this while devouring a piece of Siomai with three big bites. Sensing perhaps my greed, the cab driver would just smile and decline my invitation. The truth is, I have no intention of sharing my food. I have given up too much just to enjoy such life's little pleasures.

The moment I arrive home, I would sneak towards my room. Expecting to find my sister lying on my bed, I would drive her out while the oversized bun waiting to be eaten lay hidden in one of the mattress racks outside my room.

I would then grab the Jumbo Pao from its hiding place and feel its warmth as it rests in the palm of my hands. Taking it out of its plastic bag, I would gently peel the rice paper covering its base. With its soft bottom exposed to my gnashing teeth, I would pour copious amounts of sweet sauce as I brace my mouth for the first bite.

Glomp... Ah... Heaven.

The blend of sweet, cake-like dough, salted eggs, Chinese sausages and minced pork stuffed inside a plump bun would tempt you to bite some more...

And more...

And more... until you realize that the siopao you have rewarded yourself after a long boring day at work; the siopao you have craved the whole evening and the reason you took a long-way route from office, rode a taxi costing you P75 pesos just to get to the outlet, and revealed the hidden glutton in you when you kept its presence a secret from everyone at home, is already gone.

With my tummy now full and my cravings finally satisfied, I should have moved on to do other things. However, now that I think about it, the siopao's absence now leaves me empty.

Strange isn't it?

Is it because I have achieved a unique sense of taste for things only people from older generations would truly appreciate? Is it because I have gone beyond the cravings for Chowking, North Park and other high-end Chinese fastfood restaurants which sprouted across the city only to discover the source of them all?

I would never know.

As the Jumbo Pao's sweet aftertaste lingers inside my mouth, it opens some long-shut doors for vague memories of childhood to flow. I never thought I would remember, but strange how familiar tastes invoke a sense of longing:

It is almost midnight. Cramped in a small room in my grandparent's house, my mom and I await for dad's arrival. Since it's already late, he would never enter the house through the main door. Dad will surely get some tongue lashing from my mom's mother the following morning. Instead, we have a trap door next to the bathroom. It is where my dad enters when he doesn't want the entire household to know his arrival.

The moment he knocks on the trap door, expect me, who pretends to sleep the whole night jumping out of the bed to open the door and greet my dad. In some bountiful nights, he would extend his hand to give me a brown paper bag whose contents I already know.

"Pasalubong ko sayo anak..."

"Ano yan?"

"Miyaopao... diba gusto mo ito, hati kayo ni mama." He would say grinning.

Had I not rediscovered the Siopao from Kowloon House many, many years later. That memory of my good father would have been lost to me forever.