By Rex Catubig

 

“IT’S a constant battle, a war between remembering and forgetting.” ~E.E. Cummings.

Aside from family, my brother had three great loves: politics, women, and food. It was his love of food that forged the bond between us.

As kids growing up in the barrio, we were no strangers to rural Bisokol; but as we grew older, he re-introduced me to the more urbane Escargot.

Dinner at his house was always a lengthy affair: thick slabs of New Zealand ribeye swimming in olive oil and topped with toasted cloves of garlic, and lengua estofado vied for attention. While Cabernet and scintillating conversation flowed freely.

Weekends, his family would go on staycation (years before it became fashionable) and I would be in tow. I got to know Caesar Salad prepared table side at the Hyatt. And my rural palate learned to savor the exquisite taste of thinly sliced Smoked Salmon.

Around the same period, I was initiated into exotic Japanese cuisine–mainly sashimi, teriyaki, and tempura–which I knew merely as camaron rebosado in my neck of the woods. Sushi had not yet aroused devotion then. For authentic Japanese experience, Kimpura Garden was the place of adoration. But Hyatt’s Tempura Misono was the undisputed toast of the town and to be on a first name basis with the host was a badge of snobbery.

But while you could take me out of Calmay, you could not take Calmay off me. In one ridiculously embarrassing moment in failed sophistication, I was asked what bread I prefer with my entrée. Haughtily, I said, “Croissant, please”. Condescendingly, the waiter softly whispered, “We serve croissants at breakfast only”. I dropped all epicurean pretenses after that.

It’s a conversation piece that he would fly to Hongkong in the morning, catch lunch there, then fly back the same day. During my trips with him from Los Angeles to Manila, he would insist I take the Business Class so we could break our flight together and have a layover in Hongkong to dine on Chinese food.

But this passion for food might have been his Achilles heel. He had his first hypertensive attack when he was twenty-one. But that never slowed him down to eat to his heart’s delight. Food was always at the top of his crave list and the best restaurants were dog eared wherever he was.

Eventually, perhaps because of his diet and sweet tooth, he had a fight with his tooth fairy. had stubborn bouts of toothache, and thought a root canal would offer deliverance. That drove him to visit his dentist. And that led to a horrifying revelation. Without because or buts, he was asked to consult a doctor.

Tests confirmed a dreadful medical condition that he never imagined. The verdict stunned him: naso-pharyngeal cancer was boring into his gum and his jaw. Undergoing radiation therapy sessions totally shattered his vanity. With plasters all over his head, he looked like Frankenstein as he was thrust into a claustrophobic tube. But that was nothing compared to the pain that wouldn’t go away and hounded him night and day.

I repeatedly urged him to play music and turn up the volume to drown out the pain. But he was inconsolable.

When my cousins from abroad came to see him, he cried unabashedly and intimated his wish for death to end his ordeal.

Barely two months after turning seventy-four, after a year of battle with the mean nemesis, with a third grandchild on its way, he untied the chef’s apron and ventured to parts unknown.

My brother was a very religious person as well, and never missed Sunday mass and Holy Days of obligation. He would drag me to church the way he would drag me to a fine restaurant. So when he departed, I believe he had been invited for the big Feast in the company of the Lord at his Banquet table.

Bon appetit and blessed birthday, Kuya Luis “Louie” Catubig! Save a seat for me.

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