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GROWING UP IN A FILIPINO-AMERICAN KITCHEN

Tropical Island Cooking is a book about enjoying Filipino food the way I grew up enjoying it, separated by oceans and continents from the lush Philippine Islands yet with a heart filled with Filipino spirit and tradition. I was born and raised in Chicago, halfway around the globe from the island of Cebu, where a russet sun shone over my parents’ general store as they sold kilos of rice and refreshing glasses of halo-halo to nursing students at the nearby university. When they sold their store and moved to the United States in the late 1960s, they brought with them traditions of language, religion, and food that sustained them in their new home. For my sister, brother, and me, those customs translated into a household where both English and Visaya were spoken, where Sunday mornings were reserved for church, and the kitchen was the heart of our home.

I had the tremendous privilege of being born into a family of excellent cooks, which meant that everyday meals were as delicious and lovingly prepared as the fiesta dishes offered at family celebrations. It also meant that kitchen shortcuts were not the standard. For example, coconut did not come pulverized and presweetened in a bag nor did coconut milk come in a can. Around the same age that I learned how to ride a bike, my grandfather taught me how to properly shred a coconut “homestyle” on a short wooden bench fitted with a round, serrated metal blade. My mother then soaked the shredded meat in water and squeezed it to extract coconut milk for guinataan, a savory coconut soup, or reduced the milk on the stovetop into latik, a thick cream spread on cassava cake. The squeezed, shredded coconut meat was dried or toasted for sweetened rice cakes. In setting high culinary standards, my family taught me the principles of quality, flavor, texture, and balance that set Filipino food apart as a satisfying and memorable cuisine.

My husband and I spent the better part of our twenties and thirties serving long tours of duty deep in the trenches of the restaurant industry—me in the back of the house, cooking, and he in the front. Fine-dining French, Italian, American, contemporary, and Pan-Asian restaurants were our training ground, allowing us to work our way through the kitchens and dining rooms of Europe and Asia without ever leaving U.S. soil. When we decided to open Rambutan in 1998, there was no question in my mind that the menu was going to feature the Filipino food of my heart. Although I was certain that most of the nearly 4 million Chicagoans had no notion what Filipino food was about, I longed to share the cuisine that my childhood and years of professional training had prepared me for—the flavors of Southeast Asia and the techniques of Europe combined in one kitchen.

Rambutan wasn’t the first Filipino restaurant in Chicago. A handful of brave pioneers already ran Filipino eateries that were northside mainstays. But what I wanted for my own place was a cuisine that reflected my roots while embracing my American upbringing. It meant serving traditional Filipino cuisine that included the wonderfully fresh and vibrant ingredients available locally. Thus, the culinary doors were flung open to endless possibilities. Adobo, a Filipino national dish, was no longer just for pork or chicken when Maple Leaf Farms, a local duck farm, sold fresh duck right across the border in Indiana. I could, without guilt, forgo frozen bangus (milkfish) for fresh day-boat Lake Superior whitefish. Never again did I have to open a can of Ligo sardines to make misua soup when my fish purveyor delivered fresh sardines within forty-eight hours of being caught. And tomato-cucumber salad could be easily completed by the addition of Wisconsin buffalo mozzarella instead of the native caribou cheese, kesong puti. That is how both my restaurant and this book were born—out of a deep respect for my native cuisine alongside an understanding of American dining and a desire to use fresh local products.

Jennifer M. Aranas