HOLY SHIT!

Okay, so I thought I had to wait for a book to be published for this idea to come alive, BUT STUFF IT!

I went to Melbourne to personally hand in a book proposal, (1) mainly to get the FEAR OUT—you know, like that Friends episode where Rachel yells at Chandler, "YOU AND YOUR STUPID FEAR!" I really felt that. I felt it when, at the end of the meeting, I walked out deflated.

The biggest mistake I made? When they asked me, “So, who will read this book?” I said, "Filipinos and the Filipinos in the diaspora!"

And the moment those words left my mouth, I FELT IT. The energy in the room shifted—from excited to deflated, in milliseconds. Like the sound of crunch, travelling from the moment your teeth are just about to shatter something to the instant your brain registers it. That was the visual. But the real crunch—the gut-punch moment—was when my reality-check-logical-brain said this:

"Sorry, but the people who actually buy cookbooks are middle-aged white women."

Sorry, no offence—but that was the HARD TRUTH I had to face.

There it was. The gut-punch. The untold truth, the unspoken energy. That this book was "too niche." That at the end of the day, it wouldn’t sell, because I wanted to write this book for Filipinos—and no “white ladies” (pun intended for Filipinos only) would ever understand what I’m about to share with you.

(2) So I Worked on This Book Proposal for Months.

And I built it from everything I’ve always known. The makeup of who I am at heart—Filipino, photographer, designer, prep cook, baker, storyteller.

I know this because I have lived it.
I know this because I am curious at heart.

I never settle for just a beautiful photograph. I need to dissect why it’s beautiful. That’s why I went deep into Dynamic Symmetry with Myron Barnstone—to unlock what makes a shot work. That’s why I studied Dr. V.S. Ramachandran’s Laws of Aesthetics. That’s why I obsessed over The Art of Flavour by Daniel Patterson and Mandy Aftel.

The patterns were always there:
Contrast. Tension. Push-and-pull. Anticipation and release.

The science of satisfaction is built on contrast—without it, we feel nothing.
Light needs dark. Sweet needs savoury. Crispy needs soft.
Contrasts shape our world.

So here it is, folks.

Are you ready for this?

Because from here on in, there is no turning back.
Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

What If I Told You There’s Another Way of Seeing Filipino Food?

Not through the endless dance of tinikling—caught between colonisation, outside influence, and the search for validation.

Every time someone asks, "What is Filipino food?" why do we always start dancing between— "Oh, it’s Spanish-influenced… also Chinese… maybe a little American…"

Like a bit of this and a bit of that. But when you really look at it, it is nothing like Spanish food.

Yes, there are influences. But we make it our own.

Our great doyennes of Filipino food—Doreen Fernandez, Felice Sta. Maria, Amy Besa, and many more—have proven this through their research and writing. This narrative served a purpose. It was how we explained our food to make it relatable, to gain global recognition.

But here’s the thing—we have always danced between wanting recognition and rejecting it.

Perfect example?
Gordon Ramsay calls Filipino food a "sleeping giant" and Filipinos go HELLS NO, MR. RAMSAY. WE AIN’T SLEEPING!

So what is it?

What are we not seeing?

Filipino Food is Built on Contrast.

Do you ever notice?

• Every bite of lechon is crispy before it gives in.

• Every sip of sinigang shocks before it soothes.

• Every spoonful of halo-halo is cold, creamy, chewy, and crunchy—all at once.

Chicharrón. Lumpia. Adobo. Ensaladang talong.

This isn’t just a one-off pattern. This is our entire cuisine.

Filipinos don’t hold back when it comes to contrast. We do this instinctively. We don’t need to be told.

We just get it.

How Filipino Contrast is Different from Other Cuisines

Every cuisine uses contrast. But each one defines it differently.

Thai Food? Contrast is bold, fiery, textural—but it’s about balance through layering. Every flavour is distinct, but it builds up to something cohesive.

Japanese Food? Contrast is present—but it’s about precision and control. Tempura is crispy, but delicate. Sushi plays with texture, but in restraint.

Vietnamese Food? A contrast powerhouse, but refined—everything is stacked, not colliding.

French Cuisine? It’s about harmony over extremes. Butter rounds out acidity. The flavours transition smoothly. Nothing is jarring.

But Filipino food? We don’t layer—we collide.
We don’t gently introduce acidity—we pour suka straight onto grilled pork.
We don’t balance contrast—we let it fight, until the satisfaction hits.

We don’t do subtle transitions. We slam textures and flavours against each other until they create something deeply satisfying.

Filipino food doesn’t care about being polite. It wants you to feel it.

This Contrast is in Everything We Do

It’s not just in our food. It’s in our daily life, our rituals, our way of thinking.

The evidence is in:

• Science (satisfaction = contrast)

• Psychology (tension = engagement)

• Philosophy (push-and-pull = balance in extremes)

• History, culture, identity.

And if we finally recognise what has always been there, maybe we can finally articulate Filipino food in a way that isn’t about colonisation, outside influence, or validation.

We don’t need to keep proving ourselves. We only need to look from within.

At its core, Filipino food is about contrast.
Push-and-pull. Tension and release. Extremes colliding to create something deeply satisfying.

Or as the great Claude Tayag says—“linamnam.”

There! It’s out in the open. And now, it looks like my writing will follow this thread—to uncover this way of seeing Filipino food, because trust me, there’s a lot to unpack. There’s a whole book proposal about it, but you know what? I’m not holding back. I’m not going to wait for this to unravel in three or however many years.

The time for this conversation is NOW.

Whatever will be, will be.