In my essay Extreme Push-and-Pull of Filipino Food, I introduced another way of seeing Filipino cuisine—not as a collection of influences but as something deeply its own. Too often, we hear, "Oh, it’s Spanish-influenced… also Chinese… maybe a little American…" But Filipino food doesn’t need to be explained through the lens of what shaped it. The concept of contrast in Filipino food has always existed—it’s just been waiting to be brought into focus. So here is my attempt at defining it, grounded in what came before me.

Before We Begin: A Note of Acknowledgment

I first want to acknowledge the hands that have shaped Filipino food long before it was ever written about—sa kamay ng mga magsasaka, mangingisda, tindero’t tindera sa palengke, at sa kalsada, at sa lahat ng tagaluto at tagapagluto—sa bahay, sa kalsada, at sa diaspora—who have carried its traditions through time.

Filipino food moves across 7,000 islands, shaped by land, sea, and the people who cook it. It carries history, migration, and adaptation—but it is not just a story of what was taken or given. It is what we made our own.

Filipino cuisine has been explored in depth, particularly in Tikim by Doreen Fernandez. And these books (and many others).

And also many Filipino creators in the diaspora and at home showcasing our cuisine far and wide. They, too, have defined Filipino food in their own way—each one offering its own lens, its own articulation.

But while these are not the only voices, the truest voices belong to the ones who cook and eat across the 7,000 islands. Filipino food has never needed permission to exist—it has always been here, carried in the hands of those who make it, day after day.

I’m not rewriting what exists—my definition comes from the common ground they share, without discounting the vastness of Filipino food. This is simply my personal summary, a way for me to articulate it with clarity and confidence. A way to carry it with me—so that when I am asked, I don’t stumble. I know exactly what to say.

What is Filipino Food?

Filipino food at its core is contrast—but not just any contrast. It’s a push, a pull, a collision of extremes. Crunch meets softness. Richness meets brightness. Sweet meets savoury. It is where land meets sea, where fresh meets fermented, where vinegar bites against the deep funk of bagoong and patis.

But its deepest, most defining note? Sour.
Sour is home.
It bridges the extremes, pulls the contrasts together—because Filipino food demands to be felt.

Contrast exists in every cuisine, shaped by what it values most. Some seek harmony. Some seek elegance. Some seek precision. Filipino food doesn’t seek balance—it thrives in the full force of push-pull extremes. This is what sets it apart. This is why it lingers.

Before colonisers, before influences, there was fire, there was steam, there was broth.
Inihaw. Pinasingaw. Nilaga.
With sawsawan as the final, sharp punctuation.
Elemental. Direct. Nothing wasted. Nothing excessive. Filipino food was never waiting to be defined. It already had a language of its own.

Colonial hands left their mark, but Filipino food never bowed. As Doreen Fernandez said, "You can impose your ingredients, but we will cook them our way." Beneath every dish runs an undercurrent of rebellion. Filipinos take, adapt, redefine—until what was borrowed becomes wholly ours.

But contrast in Filipino food isn’t just about flavour. It is a reflection of life itself. The tension between past and present, struggle and joy, scarcity and abundance. Filipino food is a pursuit of contrast—because contrast is where we find the deepest satisfaction.
Not just in eating.
Not just in cooking.
But in living. In surviving. In being.

In one paragraph:

Filipino food is contrast—push, pull, a collision of extremes. Crunch meets softness, richness meets brightness, sweet meets savoury. It is where land meets sea, where fresh meets fermented, where vinegar bites against the deep funk of bagoong and patis. But its deepest, most defining note is sour—sour is home. Filipino food doesn’t seek balance; it thrives in tension, in the full force of bold contrast. Before colonisers, there was fire, steam, broth—inihaw, pinasingaw, nilaga—with sawsawan as the final, sharp punctuation. It never needed to be defined; it already had a language of its own. Colonial hands left their mark, but Filipino food never bowed. As Doreen Fernandez said, ‘You can impose your ingredients, but we will cook them our way.’ Beneath every dish runs an undercurrent of rebellion. Filipino food is a pursuit of contrast—because contrast is where we find the deepest satisfaction. Not just in eating. Not just in cooking. But in living, surviving, being.

In one sentence:

Filipino food is contrast—push and pull, extremes colliding, sweet and savoury, crisp and tender, bright and rich held together by the sharp, defining note of sour, because Filipino food isn’t just tasted, it’s felt.

In the Form of a Poem:

Red, white, and blue. Stars over you.
Mama said, Papa said—taste what is true.

Sour and sweet, funky and bright,
Crunchy, then soft, dark, then light.

Mix it, dip it, pile it high,
Filipino food will never lie.

Sizzle and smoke, tangy and bright,
Flavours that dance, flavours that fight.

Kamayan shared, sawsawan made,
A taste of home that never fades.

Breaking It Down:

Red, white, and blue. Stars over you.
I’m not sure if you guys grew up with your mama and papa, lolo or lola reciting this rhyme to you—but I did. And I love rhyming poems because they stick. Maybe it’s why I loved Hairy Maclary when my kids were little, or why my daily affirmations (which I can share on request, ha ha ha) are all in rhyme too. It’s easy to remember, easy to recite, easy to feel.

Mama said, Papa said—taste what is true.
Food as truth, as something passed down through generations. A language that doesn’t need explaining.

Sour and sweet, funky and bright, Crunchy, then soft, dark, then light.
Peak contrast. Boom. Everything Filipino food is, distilled into a single line.

Mix it, dip it, pile it high, Filipino food will never lie.
Messy, abundant, real. Filipino food isn’t eaten neatly—it’s stacked, dipped, mixed, and spilled over.

Sizzle and smoke, tangy and bright, Flavours that dance, flavours that fight.
Movement. Tension and release, distilled into these words.

Kamayan shared, sawsawan made, A taste of home that never fades.
Filipino food isn’t just about eating. It’s about sharing. A ritual, a marker of home, something that stays with you forever.

And lastly, we leave you with a poem from Eunice. I commissioned her for this piece, but true to her spirit, she was adamant about not being paid in money. She insisted on the pre-colonial way of barter, ha ha ha, so in return, I promised her a dinner at Takam alongside our dear friend Christine. Because poetry, much like food, is best shared.

About Eunice
Eunice Andrada is a Filipina poet, educator, and cultural worker whose words move like water—shaping, carving, resisting. Born in the Philippines, raised between Iloilo and Parañaque, and now based on unceded Gadigal land, her poetry carries the weight of migration, memory, and land’s quiet rebellions. Her award-winning collections, Flood Damages and Take Care, navigate power, survival, and the echoes of colonialism, while her work in ecopoetics and community-led storytelling continues to carve space for Filipino voices worldwide. She has performed on stages from the UN Climate Conference to the Sydney Opera House, her poetry exhibited, translated, and studied in classrooms across the world. But beyond accolades, her work remains a reclamation—of language, of history, of what it means to belong.

On Sourness:
Filipino food is contrast, but at its deepest, most defining note—sour is home. It cuts through, pulls together, lingers on the tongue like memory itself. Here is Eunice’s poem on sourness, on the sharp bite of home, on the taste that refuses to be forgotten.

When I asked Eunice for this piece, I actually stipulated the "Red, white, and blue" line—something more structured than her usual fluid style. But she accepted the challenge, and in true form, made it her own. Thank you, Eunice (Ps. If you ever want to change this poem below to suit your fluid style, I would be more than happy to update it).

Red, white, and blue, stars over you.
Mama said, Papa said—sour is sweet, too.

Daing, paksiw, and sinigang,
Eyes squeezed shut from sourness so strong.

Bright sparks of vinegar on the tongue,
The taste of home wants to be sung.

Green mango, green papaya, and green batwan
Leave the seeds when you are gone.

Away from home, this much is true.
Mama said, Papa said—sour is sweet, too.