The ‘Yu Dynasty’ within me
Kate Yu
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“Where do you live?”
People I randomly meet these days always ask me this. I half-jokingly answer:
“Cathay Pacific—I’ve a permanent seat up there.”
Since last year, my life has become a whirlwind of trips all over the world, sometimes up to three different countries in one week. And while the lifestyle on the surface is glamorous and exciting, like any gold-plated faux jewelery, scratch a bit and you’ll reach its tarnished core. In the case of a jetsetting lifestyle that whizzes me to New York, Switzerland, Tokyo, and all over Asia, the horrifyingly ugly truth is that these days, my key source of nutrition is none other than plane food.
I disgustingly realized that recently, up to 80% of my meals has consisted of horrid, plasticky, “It-doesn’t-really-make-a-huge-difference-if-it’s-business-class” plane food. Yuck. Period. There is a reason why plane food has a foil cover. Aside from reheating purposes, it gives you time to mentally prepare before taking a sneak peak inside to assess the food quality. At that point you then decide to either give in to hunger and dig in, or gently reseal the lid and order extra drinks—lots of them.
Of course this is not the stuff of great tearjerkers, but it is especially during these times I become wistful and reminisce about my old life in Manila, back in the kitchen of my parents, lovingly fed in the kitchen of my father.
I was an over-fed child back in the eighties. I grew up in a household bursting at the seams with food painstakingly prepared, planned, and meticulously replenished. If the coup d’état attempts during those turbulent years had eventually led to war and food shortage, my parents could have easily fed several families for months. Seriously.
My dad’s “feed-my-family-philosophy” was to estimate what was actually needed, multiply it by three, add another fifty percent buffer, and then purchase the resulting amount. We never bought fruits in kilos but in kaings, or massive baskets filled with at least ten kilos of fruit. Needless to say, we had to eat at warp speed to keep the sweltering Manila heat from spoiling them first. We even had at least five different types of fruits sitting around in our house in case of “fruit fatigue” on the second kilo of our rambutan while watching our favorite show then, “V”. At the tender age of eight, I had proudly mastered the art of speed eating and fully reapplied the principles of crop rotation in my fruit consumption habit.
Back then, a complete meal meant having at least five different dishes from all major food groups. This probably explains why when I was a kid, the only thing I was ever truly, mortally afraid of was death via hunger. That one shook me to the core.
My family was a very closed-knit tribe of five. We all loved to eat, and the kitchen was the well-oiled machine that fueled our food-centric family life. On weekends we could get totally spontaneous and prepare pancit, arroz caldo, and Chinese Chicken Feet for a mid-day snack. No one else in my group of friends had a kitchen so fully stocked; you could actually do hard-core pancit at the last minute. But we could in my father’s kitchen was because it was always fully provisioned—freshly prepared chicken stock, different types of Chinese noodles, chicken, garlic, spices, cabbage, carrots, mushrooms appallingly named tenga ng daga (rat’s ears), dried shrimp, fresh shrimp, eggs, pork. We had it all. Our fridge also always had stocks of fruit salad, beef tapa, and pancit lomi as “emergency back up”.

The Yu Dynasty
We can never choose our parents, but I was lucky enough to be brought up in a nurturing home. I fondly remember how our meals would start not with the appetizers but with the careful preparation that goes even before those. On Saturdays, we woke up at 6:00 am, braved the dewy mornings to get choice pickings at Farmer’s Market in Cubao, Quezon City. Farmer’s back in the eighties had a vide variety of fresh meat, seafood, and vegetables. The drive there was my alone time with my father—a time for me to talk about what happened in school and ask all my questions, like “Where do people go when they die?” or “Why do we have so many dragonflies at home?”. He would also always ask me what I’d like to eat for that week. I would precociously recite what I wanted—sugpo, sinigang, paros, kare-kare, and his ace recipe for pata tim.
Upon reaching the stalls, he would teach me how to check the fish for freshness (red gills, bright eyes, etc.) and how to pick out the ripe fruits (and how the method changes from watermelon to mango to chico, from atis to bananas). One hour later we would be driving home, weighed down by kilos and kilos of fresh meat and my favorite seafood—talakitok, kitang, pampano, sugpo, besugo, lapu-lapu, blue marlin, and bangus. We would also stock up on vegetables and fruits for the entire week. He already had specific suki (favorite vendors), allowing us to quickly navigate our way through the best stalls. I would always get freaked out by the sticky floor and the strong slimy smell of the market, but always found the experience to be an adventure with my dad. The rest of the morning, our kitchen would noisily hum as it churned out dish after dish after dish for the consumption-frenzied week ahead of us.
I miss the sights, the smells, and the sounds of our kitchen back in the eighties. Back then, I remember my dad would buy fresh paros (clams) and crabs and throw them into a pail of water to keep them alive before cooking. He would then assign all three of us children to stand guard and holler if the crabs managed to escape from the pail. Our eyes would gleam as we watched the crabs literally fall all over themselves, tugging at and stepping on one another until one escaped and pottered around our kitchen. My sister and I squealed, so our helper caught and tossed the crab back into the pail. It was one of the coolest things we’d ever seen back then. Looking back, it was the only time in my life I observed “crab mentality” at work, and actually found it entertaining.
One day I asked my father why there was so much food around. He simply declared we were descendants of the Yu Dynasty and must uphold their famed culinary tradition. It gave us all a good laugh, and we gamely kept that joke alive over the years. Obviously he was the “Emperor”, my mother was the “Empress”, and my sister Eiza, my brother Orlan and myself were all “heirs-in-waiting”. The grand couple spent so many years training us to become worthy of our supposedly famed culinary heritage.
My father said one day we would have children of our own, and he would like for us to be able to care for them and feed them the way he and my mom did for us. He also said that one day he would share with us the divine secret recipe for his mouth-watering adobong atay (liver) and our all-time favorite, pata tim. These two recipes, when revealed, should be framed and take pride of place in the annals of our family history. I will not oversell, but you have not lived until you have tried these two dishes.
When we outgrew the crab-guarding role, we were promoted to “slicing assistants”, and then eventually promoted to the highly-aspired for role of “assistant imperial chef”. My sister and brother had the natural talent, but I, apparently never did.
Over the next ten years, all three of us we would be assigned to cook a family meal once a week, which involved preparing the menu, buying the ingredients, and cooking the meal. It was our very own home version of the “Iron Chef” TV program, and the key judges were my mom and my dad. The whole thing was quite simple, really—try not to burn down the kitchen and remember the criteria for judging: taste, creating a menu of complementing tastes, and keep the kitchen clean. Each meal was an event in itself: we would excitedly plan the menu and spend time in the kitchen slicing, dicing, peeling, measuring ingredients, and even plating the final dishes. We scoured cookbooks and got inspiration from other cuisines like Italian and Japanese. You’d think we were training for the cooking Olympics or something.
After the meals were prepared, we would nervously sit everyone down and wait with bated breath as the emperor and empress took their first bite of everything. They would always give us honest comments, like “Wow, this tastes great!”, “Too salty!”, or “Oh my god, what is this?” My mother also never failed to play the Paula Abdul role (from “American Idol”) by finding something positive in an utterly desperate situation and comforted us with constructive comments. And even in my darkest cooking moments, I could always rely on my brother Orlan to be kind enough to take another bite, even if it might mean a bit of a stomach ache later on. Now that was love.
Over the years, despite how hard I tried to improve, I burned down our crock-pot (yes folks, it can be done!), sliced a few fingers, and even completely messed up instant soup mixes. While my brother eventually whipped up gourmet dishes by the time he was 15, I declared when I was 16 that maybe in the scheme of things my role in the Yu Dynasty kitchen was to be the official “food taster”. It was either that or dish washer, so I obviously went for the sexier title. My mom kindly concurred, claiming that back in the old days, Chinese emperors had to rely on food tasters to survive. She was that type of mom—supportive until the end.
Once I found my ultimate purpose, I finally felt comfortable in my own skin and stayed away from the family kitchen. Our family dinners no longer became stressful events but a time for laughter, stories, and sharing. For years, we would start eating at 6:30 in the evening and end at around 9:00 because there was so much food to be had, so many stories to be told and retold and jokes to share.
The staple dinner always had various combinations of our favorite dishes, halabos na hipon, piniritong pampano, relyenong bangus, steamed crab, bistek Tagalog, menudo, mechado, morcon, dinuguan, pancit lomi, and many others. But for us the highlight was always my father’s pata tim and adobong atay.
We would always try to get him to reveal his secret recipe for both. His adobong atay was so much more succulent and tastier than the chicken and pork version. He finds the freshest cow liver, then slices it into bite-size morsels, seasons them well, and simmers them in a concoction of soy sauce, vinegar, garlic and secret spices. The adobo would always come out just right—not too tender nor too chewy, with a strong garlicky flavor. The best part was the sauce: good enough to drown your rice in or use for tomorrow’s sinangag. He would say, one day when we are ready, he will show us. And whenever he feels particularly dramatic, he would explain: “The surprise comes from combining contrasting flavors at just the right balance so they can enhance and bring out the best in the meat.”
Those family dinner marathons saw us through teenage crisis, teenage rebellion, and a lot of other family dramas. There was always food to soothe, feed the hunger, and fuel the laughter. Our tribe of five had so many various interests a typical dinner would include conversations that ranged from the philosophy of Socrates, the latest work of a literary artist, to my high-marketing project, my brother’s paintings, and my sister’s recent science experiment. Those dinners were the best times of my life.
When the new millennium hit, the millennium bug underdelivered versus the hype, but a different bug entered our synchronized family life. With all three children working, family dinners got fewer and farther between, until eventually they stopped. My sister left for the US and soon after, my company moved me to Singapore.
I was not ready to go. During my entire college life I begged my parents to let me live in a dormitory, so I could experience an independent lifestyle. When it finally happened, I was terrified. I thought, I needed more time in my father’s kitchen, eventually earn the right to know the secret recipe for his pata tim and adobong atay. I was still a disgrace to our culinary heritage and didn’t want to leave with certain things undone. I thought I would be back in Manila within two years and pick up where I left off—but it’s been six years and counting.

The food taster turns into an Adobette
In the summer of 2002 I finally moved into my own apartment in Singapore. During my first-ever grocery trip to Cold Storage, I promptly stocked up to feed a family of five. Staring at my extremely full refrigerator several weeks later, it finally hit me: I was no longer part of the dynasty. I was alone.
I tried to relieve the experience and attempted to cook adobo at home. Of course I could not find cow liver in Cold Storage, so made do with chicken cutlets instead. I bought Del Monte vinegar in lieu of Datu Puti, and did away with laurel leaves. After cooking away like a mad woman, in just under thirty minutes I managed to prepare an utterly crappy dish, and almost burned my new saucepan. Worse, since I cooked for two (which really meant nine as I was used to my father’s formula), I was stuck with an anemic excuse for a dish for a month. It wasn’t even good enough to give away.
Soon after, I learned Lucky Plaza in Orchard road had local stores and restaurants. I fondly call it the official “Mothership” for us Pinoy overseas folks. And just like that, I embraced the new experiences and friends that living in Singapore brought into my life, while enjoying the safety blanket of Lucky Plaza’s restaurants for my crispy pata fix.
My Singapore life happily hummed along until one day the inevitable happened—the day when insurmountable homesickness beats you to a whimpering pulp. As with all OFWs, once the initial euphoric phase of relocation dies down, an incredible sense of loneliness eventually starts to sink in. It starts with a mere hint of introspection when you ask yourself the one question that gets progressively harder to answer. That million-dollar question: “What am I doing here?” In the beginning you have a well-rehearsed speech on how the opportunities here will come only once in your life and you should grab life by the proverbial horns. Then you follow up the bravado by talking about how the long-term benefits outweigh the short-term sacrifices.
And over the months, as you experience loneliness, homesickness, work-related stresses, and you cannot clearly see what the promising future looks like, this question quickly degenerates to “What the hell am I still doing here?” It eventually hits any OFW; it’s just a matter of when, how, why, and how intense and cathartic the whole experience is going to be. Worse, it comes over and over again at the most inopportune times.
Mine was building up and eventually reached a massive crescendo the year of 2003. All my friends who had gone through a similar experience decided to leave Singapore and pursue whatever truly made them happy elsewhere. During one particularly low day, I ran into a colleague of mine during coffee break. He’d also had a rough day, and we both found ourselves bonding over coffee and shared woes, despite not really being close because we had separate sets of friends. He asked me why I was so down.
I was sorting through a lot of issues and couldn’t quite articulate what was truly bogging me down. I missed home. I had lost sight of what I was doing in this foreign country, working my ass off towards a goal I wasn’t sure I wanted. I was guilty about spending time away from my loved ones back home. My long-distance relationship had just fallen apart. There was dissatisfaction, fear, and regret. As I attempted to sort through all these, all I could muster was, “I miss my father’s adobo.”
And to my colleague’s credit, he fully understood exactly what I meant. We both longed for time with our loved ones, for simpler times, and for more conviction in the life choices we made. Our rational selves convinced us we were doing the right thing sticking it out overseas and grabbing the opportunities but our other selves also wished we didn’t have to make the sacrifices.
He then shook us both out of our reverie and promptly declared, “Hay naku, hindi lang sa Pilipinas masarap ang adobo. Halika, magluto tayo at gumawa ng sarili natin.”
I was stunned. He was right.
The following day, he and his other friends welcomed me into his home. He whipped out his mother’s hand-written recipe book and lovingly prepared his family’s version of adobo while the other friends got me scandalized with stories of their recent ‘sexcapades’. I was shrieking, I was having a great time, and we ended up lunching for hours, gorging on food, and enveloped in laughter. As I looked around, I suddenly realized how surreal that moment was. I was in the company of three men with an alternative lifestyle—folks I initially had nothing in common with, but that afternoon we decided all we would do was eat, talk, and try this new adobo recipe—which turned out to be addictive. The taste of the succulent meat exploded in my mouth. The kind that hits the spot and calms the pangs of hunger. It tasted of home, or at least a different take on home. That dinner table didn’t have my parents and my siblings, but over the years, it has sat people who have since then become my second family. This unlikely cast of characters, in this foreign country—three men with alternative lifestyles and a conservative manang like me. The adobo had a new-found meaning in my life. Emperor Yu’s words came flooding back into memory—contrasting flavors do tend to bring out the best when mixed right.
We went through life in Singapore sharing good times, discussing our collective fears, dreams, aspirations. We comforted each other during our personal dramas, bailed each other out from failed relationships with men who didn’t deserve us and celebrated when one had a personal success or victory at work. They raided my closet and tossed out everything that screamed manang and were a hundred seasons too late.
My friend’s adobo became so famous it became the highlight of our social dinners and eventually became the name of our clique: Team Adobo, for an unlikely bunch of friends. And in the spirit of glamorizing our name, we re-launched it and called ourselves Adobettes. I had found a new family, and maybe a new role, a new opportunity to redeem myself and be a true blue chef as well. I was wrong.
The next year, we celebrated thanksgiving dinner at another friend’s house. We were supposed to bring our respective dishes for the potluck. I took on dessert and went with a Pillsbury instant chocolate cake mix for her three kids. Horrifyingly, that day I reached a completely new low, arriving one hour late with a half-burnt instant-bake cake in tow. We all had a good laugh and from that point on I was assigned the official role of “fruit-slicer” for all our subsequent dinners. It was fun. I was home, and while everything else has changed, some things remain unchanged—my complete ineptitude at cooking.
Since then, many people have become part of our Singapore family so we decided not to call ourselves by any name anymore. We know we still have a lot of bellylaugh-filled dinners ahead of us as we strive very hard to make our own homes and find our “families” wherever our ambition takes us—to New York, Switzerland, Hong Kong, and Singapore. This time we are more confident in our life choices and feel nourished by the strong bonds of friendship that have withstood the test of time and time zone differences.
I am now about to start a new journey in my personal life. Last year I met the love of my life, in a tiny tapas bar in Barcelona. During Easter, he took me to his hometown to show me Barcelona through his eyes, to make me experience the non-touristy sights, sounds and flavors. One day, he introduced me to the eye-popping range of authentic Spanish tapas, and as I devoured one mouth-watering tapa after another, a simple thought crossed my mind: “Tapas are great treats involving something extremely tasty carefully placed on top of a slice of bread.”
And just like that, new hope sprung within me. Maybe, just maybe, putting Jamon Iberico on top of Pan Con Tomate is something I can do to finally delight the palates of Emperor and Empress Yu for my next trip home.