Featured image:  WRITING FROM THE HEART AND THE GUT Food critic Ruth Reichl inspired many food writers

I wanted to write like Ruth Reichl. In addition to being a food critic for The New York Times and editor-in-chief of Gourmet magazine, she has written cookbooks, a novel, several memoirs on her life as a writer and editor. Reading her books and articles felt personal, like she was talking to me. She’s funny, and thoughtful. She paints pictures with words. She doesn’t just write about food and restaurants. Her pieces are peppered with facts and information. She writes about where food comes from, and the farmers and producers and servers and chefs behind what we eat. She asks questions and champions food issues. She elevated food writing into something that delved into society and culture rather than just describing food and writing recipes. She tells stories. I wanted to write like her.

But before there was Ruth Reichl, there was my mom. When I was six years old she started teaching me how to bake. When I was older, she taught me how to cook. I remember one summer when my brother and I were fixated on cooking beans and hotdogs, and my mom had to eat every atrocious seasoning combination we came up with—while diplomatically pointing out what could be improved.

Both my parents showed us how to eat well, but it was my mom who had more of an influence on me. She taught me to keep an open mind, and to be adventurous. “You can’t say you don’t like something if you’ve never tasted it,” she would tell me. So she trained me to taste everything at least once. Really taste it— put a bite in my mouth, chew, and swallow— not the childish trick of sticking out my tongue to touch the food that I always tried to get away with. When we would eat out, she would make a game of identifying spices and ingredients by taste and smell. I wasn’t old enough to realize she was training my palate.

EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT FOOD I LEARNED FROM MOM The author and her mother

I grew up eating homecooked meals. Some were more adventurous than others because we ate things like Indian curries, Hainanese chicken rice, beef rendang, Osso Buco, in addition to the usual picadillo, carne frita, and nilaga. One would think that my mom would insist on cooking everything from scratch, but she was a practical cook who didn’t mind shortcuts. I grew up believing I could cook anything I wanted at home— from scratch. But I also grew up knowing that if there wasn’t enough time to make a proper bechamel sauce for lasagna, cottage cheese with a little cream would do just as well. My mom shaped me into the kind of cook and writer I am today.

I was allowed to read any book or magazine in my parents’ library. Reading good writing taught me good writing. My mom encouraged the little stories I would write for fun. She introduced me to the works of Ernest Hemingway because she liked his writing style, and wanted me to always write with brevity and clarity. And then one lazy summer when I was in college, I devoured all the back issues of Gourmet magazine and Bon Appetit I could find at home. And my journey into food really began.

And then there was Tita Glenda—Via Mare’s inimitable Glenda Barretto, whose creativity and innovation uplifted Filipino food while retaining its true flavor and heart. She championed Filipino food to the world long before other chefs even thought about elevated Filipino cuisine. She opened my eyes to variety of tastes, colors, and ingredients that make our food what it is. From her I learned that Filipino food could look beautiful. And that I must use the best ingredients, and to always think of the person eating the dish.

GLENDA’S GAME Chef Glenda Barretto of Via Mare has elevated Filipino cuisine

Glenda Barretto was the first person who showed me how to be proud of Filipino food. In the early ’90s, I was helping to organize a dinner at the Coconut Palace for a group of gourmets from around the world. It was to be a Filipino dinner for people who regularly ate at Michelin-starred restaurants. So I went to her and asked Via Mare to cater, admitting I was worried and didn’t know how to impress these people with Filipino food. I left everything in her hands, and she helped me plan a feast. There was an appetizer buffet of local oysters on the half shell, delicate squash flowers stuffed with kesong puti, crisp bite-sized shrimp okoy, kilawing tanguigue dolloped on cassava pancakes, and a whole lechon with homemade liver sauce. The five-course sit-down dinner featured tinolang manok served in beautifully carved green papaya bowls and rack of lamb with caldereta sauce. Everything was elegantly presented and unapologetically Filipino in flavor. The guests dubbed it the best dinner of their trip, and I vowed to never again be ashamed of my country’s cuisine.

When I finally began to write for newspapers and magazines, I looked up to Micky Fenix and Omay Chikiamco both of whom are food writers, editors, and book authors. From spending time with them I learned how to structure my writing, how to ask the right questions, and more important, how to look beyond the little bubble of Filipino food that I knew. They encouraged me to explore provinces, visit markets, talk to vendors, ask questions, and discover the everyday dishes and local ingredients that were slowly being forgotten. Because of them, I go to the market every time I visit a new place.

MICKY’S FINEST Micky Fenix (center) is an institution in Philippine food writing

In 2020 I stopped writing. The fear that haunts every writer happened to me. I burned out. I couldn’t write, I couldn’t form sentences, I didn’t even want to visit restaurants. For three years, the fear of never having anything relevant to say again stopped me from writing. But maybe it’s time to try again. Because the words of every writer I have ever known keep running through my brain—just keep writing.

Before I sat down to type this supposedly simple article that took four excruciating days to write, I looked up Ruth Reichl’s articles for a little inspiration. I came across “The Italian Seafood Lunch Ruth Reichl Will Never Forget,” which she wrote for Conde Nast Traveller in 2020. I cried as I finished reading the last few paragraphs. Not because I was sad, but because of the sheer joy I felt at the way her words built the scene—with rhythm, and humor, with real lifeness, and clarity. And then I sat down and slowly typed out my first sentence.

I’ll never be able to write like Ruth Reichl. But I’m learning that it’s okay. I don’t have to, because I should have my own style. One that carries my voice, shaped by me, and by the women who helped me be who I am today.