You can find a lot of things crammed inside David Hontiveros’ head. His cranium holds worlds within worlds, the past and the future, the divine and the cursed, technology and magic. Perhaps no other Filipino writer has built a career so heavily immersed in genre writing: horror, science fiction, fantasy and comic books. He lives in a universe that he helped create.
“You know me on the boards as ‘Jim Crack,’ but my real name is Pequé.
The afternoon air is heavy with the distinctively sweet scent of bread. In a basket on a table is a dizzying array of breads, enough to feed a Filipino family for a week. The baked goods come in all shapes and sizes. There is a giant conjoined pair of monay, huge as a person’s buttocks. There are breads in the shape of a lechon and the form of a crab. Scattered around are pieces of egg pan de sal, little golden drops of cooked dough. Visible in the pile are the bonnet-shaped goodies called, of course, pan de bonete. There are examples of the dense pan de sal de suelo, among others. Placed together, they threaten to overwhelm the senses: How can there be so many kinds of bread in one place at one time?
Man cannot live on bread alone, or so the Bible admonishes, but some 25,000 mostly mom-and-pop bakeries around the country definitely can.
The Cordilleras may have rice terraces but the region is hardly the country’s rice basket, managing only a yearly harvest of heirloom rice.
If it tastes good, it must be bad for you,” is one mantra often ignored on the back burner when Filipinos stuff themselves.
Most people eat bread with the usual spreads—butter, cheese, jam.
Pasuquin biscocho. Laced with the sweet and spicy scent of anise, this one-of-a-kind, prewar bread is available only at Pasuquin Bakery in San Nicolas, Ilocos Norte. The biscocho has placed Pasuquin on the map where bread is concerned. You get two types—the classic crunchy biscocho and the soft and pillowy one. The crunchy version is made from the toasted inner and outer crust of freshly-baked breads. The soft biscocho can be unfurled from end to end, lavished with your spread of choice and rolled back again to be enjoyed as a sandwich.
Varsity player Marie Fe Sampaga admits the teasing still gets to her. When a player from the rival team called her “putol” (chopped) in a recent game, Sampaga recalls it took a lot of restraint for her not to hit back.
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