Gisuwat ni Miguel Cesar Escaño  • April 11, 2026

Fiction/Literary • Short Stories

You called me your little “harang,” which meant chili. 

“Why not call me sili?” I asked him, as chilis are known as “sili” in Cebuano. 

You laughed at my question and said that “sili,” in your corner of the island, referred to a man’s private parts. 

I glowered and slapped your shoulder before laughing all the same. 

“Funny how an innocent word like sili can mean something scandalous somewhere else,” I remarked. 

You put your shoulder around me and drew me close. “I’m glad I met you. I’m learning so many new things and new words from you. Hey, I’m just good at cooking. You’re something else. You know about food, its history, and its place in society. You’re a food scholar. Me, I just cook and I just eat.”  

I wasn’t the socializing type of girl, like I told you many times. I preferred to spend time with books more than people. I found most of my college classmates shallow. They preferred to talk about the latest gossip around campus rather than talk about our lessons or about news that actually mattered. St. Louis was supposed to be the premier journalism school in Ormoc, but my classmates seemed to be more concerned about looking good in front of the camera or sounding articulate when doing mock reporting for the radio. 

Group assignments were always so frustrating. I was often stuck doing most of the research, including the fieldwork if it was necessary. One time, my group was supposed to do a video feature on the food stalls along the boardwalk. I was the only one in my group who interviewed any stall owners. I was the only one who sampled any food and asked them what made their food unique and different from the others. 

Most of the stalls were Sutukil–short for “Sugba, Tuwa, Kinilaw”—traditional Cebuano fare. Ormoc was a coastal city, and its seafood was always fresh and served every day. Sugba meant grilled fish. Tola meant fish cooked in a ginger-based soup called tinola. Kinilaw meant fish served raw almost like Japanese sashimi, which was the usual comparison. 

If any of my groupmates had bothered doing any research, they would have found out like I did that Kinilaw was closer to ceviche from South America, particularly Peru. Ceviche was fish “cooked” in citrus juice, typically lime. Filipino kinilaw, on the other hand, was raw fish “cooked” in vinegar and chili. 

Was kinilaw an export from the Galleon Trade? After all, it linked the countries in South America governed by Spain to the Philippines? It was an interesting topic I wanted to research more about but none of my groupmates wanted to. 

Keep our report simple, they insisted. I disagreed. Food was simple, yes, but rich in history. Food evolved over time, changing from place to place, adapting to local ingredients and absorbing new trends. 

One of the Sutukil stalls was how I met you for the first time. One Sutukil stall called “Marasa” served kinilaw unlike any other. Its kinilaw was served with vinegar, chilis, and gata or coconut milk. The gata gave the kinilaw an unusual taste different from the Cebuano kinilaw I was accustomed to. 

“Unusual?” You appeared from the back of the stall as I was interviewing the owner. You were frowning as if I had just insulted your cooking.

“Unusual as in different, not unusual as in strange,” I said, stammering.

“Don’t mind him,” the stall owner said. He gave you a stern look.

“He’s buang. He must like you because he only teases girls he finds pretty.”

I blushed at his remark and quickly bowed my head to hide my embarrassment. Inside, my heart fluttered.

You laughed. “You’re right about that,” you said to him. “She’s guwapo,” you said, looking me straight in the eye.

“You idiot!” The stall owner hurried over to where you were standing, which was a few feet behind him, and smacked the back of your head. 

“Guwapo means handsome. You just insulted her. You should have said guwapa, which means beautiful. Don’t get simple words mixed up.”

You rubbed the back of your head and walked over to me. You offered your hand, a gesture of greeting and at the same time an apology.

“Sorry, I’m not fluent in Cebuano. I get words mixed up like you just found out. I’m Boyet by the way.”

“I’m Trisha,” I said. “Before I accept your apology, you have to tell me about your stall’s kinilaw. Why does it have gata?”

“It’s not my recipe,” you said. “Waray kinilaw always has gata. In fact, Waray cooking usually has gata. I could say that it’s because we have lots of coconuts, where gata comes from, in our region, but that would be simplifying it. Why don’t we sit at the table, and I’ll tell you what I know?”

 You glanced at the stall owner behind you. He was still glowering from the unintended insult you gave me earlier.

“You make it up to her, you hear,” said the stall owner.

You grinned sheepishly. “I’ll more than make it up to her,” you said. “I’ll make her a meal that lives up to our stall’s name, ‘Marasa.’”

Smiling, you guided me to a nearby table and told me to wait for a while as you prepared my food.  

We ate kinilaw on our first anniversary. I insisted on it, saying it reminded me of how we met. You wanted to cook me something more luxurious like steak or more familiar to my taste like pochero, but I waved off your suggestions.

“Unusual is better,” I said.

“Unusual as in strange?” you remarked, giving me a sly side eye.

“Unusual as in unique,” I said, reaching over and kissing your lips. “Your lips taste like kinilaw. Sour, spicy and creamy all at the same time. I prefer your version of kinilaw, the Waray kind, to what we have here in Ormoc, the Cebuano version. It’s funny how food in different parts of Leyte, Ormoc on the western side and Tacloban, where you come from, on the northeastern side, have very different tastes.”

You kissed me back before answering. 

“Do you know that Waray means “nothing?” you said, grinning. “What would I be without you? Waray. Without you, I would be nothing.”

I rolled my eyes at you. “You’re better at cooking than you are at making jokes.”

I gestured to our plates on the table between us. We still hadn’t finished our food. There was still some kinilaw left.   

My mouth was already salivating with anticipation as I filled my spoon with kinilaw. The slices of fish, rompi—barracuda you said made the best kinilaw—were flecked with chopped red and green chili peppers and glistened with gata and vinegar.

“I’m glad this kinilaw will make me forget your Waray humor,” I said before swallowing a spoonful.

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