Saturday, August 04, 2007 Kinamot as an art By Ober Khok
THREE days ago my cousin Roy sent me an e-mail asking about the restaurant, Kinamot sa Cebu. He asked, “How is it doing?” I laughed.
That place closed a few years ago, I told him.
Roy reminisced how much he enjoyed the pinakbet and the crunchy kangkong tempura that the restaurant used to serve.
“I try to make clones of these viands here in Nevada, where I am now assigned, to impress my girlfriend. Too bad my crunchy kangkong— I use spinach instead—goes limp by the time it reaches the table, and the pinakbet just doesn’t cooperate. My girlfriend, who has Filipino roots, and is familiar with Filipino cuisine, suggests that we go to the Pinoy restaurant instead.”
His e-mail digressed to matters of eating. He commented how, in Filipino movies, eating is the place where the most dramatic scenes happen.
“No story is without an eating scene. If the director wants to portray ‘the simple life’ or ‘rural setting’ or ‘poverty,’ eating is always done kinamot or using bare hands.”
He also asked if Uncle Gustav still likes to eat with his hands whenever inun-unan (fish cooked in vinegar) is served at home and whether Tita Blitte still serves her steamed lapu-lapu garnished with alternating bands of mayonnaise mixed with chopped egg yolks for yellow; pickle relish for green; and minced red bell peppers for red.
“I remember how uncle would rip off a portion of the huge fish so beautifully decked and how tita would react in mock anger.
“There’s something about fish that makes you want to eat it with your hands.
You know, Ob, when you live away from the mainland you call home, and you answer by another citizenship, these memories grow fonder.”
Yes, uncle still uses his stubby fingers to eat inun-unan. Yes, tita still makes her delectable lapu-lapu, a labor of many hours, which the family demolishes without mercy in one minute.
Spanish artist Pablo Picasso made a fish-bone impression after he was done with his meal. He called it art. I don’t know with Picasso, but at home we sometimes eat kinamot style.
To an outsider, this may seem unsanitary even if we soap our fingers before we dig in. That’s their impression. We call it art.
Soaping washes off our grimy cares of the day. Rinsing sets us for what’s to come, whether it’s fried fish of an ordinary day or beefsteak of celebration. The pre-flight rituals embolden us to sit at the table of life.
Then we fold our fingers and thumb into the shape of a teardrop, or a rosebud.
The gesture may not reflect all that we feel, but then, as tita would say: “It’s either tears or roses in life.” And I thought life has many shapes when it came to feelings.
We feel hunger as we pick up some rice using the tips of our fingers. We press the rice, form it into a tiny ball, and push it into our mouth using our thumb.
It is a neat motion. Not a grain falls if you know the art of making rice balls. It is not only a lifestyle; it takes a lot of patience sitting at the table of life.
“Whenever I miss Cebu, I eat kinamot style in Nevada,” Roy ends his e-mail.
“It’s either tears or roses in life,“ tita says while slicing the onions for the beefsteak. (ober.khok@yahoo.com)
