I have a cbox you know

Please be informed, I already have a cbox right there on the right side of the page... -->
Okay. Maybe not exactly 'right' of the page, 'lower down the page' then. Whatever, basta it's there. It's in black.
So for those who like leaving comments, maybe you'll find this helpful.
Lihog lang gali ah.

Cafe Laguna

Bad publicity is still publicity. So this 'eatery' could still thank me.


On October 31, as a way to celebrate Halloween and our extolling grace at being single still at the glorious age of twenty-four, my roomate and elementary gal pal, Ma. Jessica "Icai" Senador and her duty-mate (upod sa duty) Lexie Joyce Tapispisan, who is my newfound ka-NBSB (no boyfriend since breakup) coerced me into going out with them to the mall instead of going home to Lambunao. There we met with another elementary bud, Myrene Tess Leonida. She's also working with Icai and Lexie at the OR department of Mission Hospital. Myrene and Icai are a different kind NBSBs, though. These three girls have got such wonderful love/sob stories that the world simply has to hear about; but those can wait.

It is not the aim of this current entry to talk or rant about love, lost love and everything else in between. Rather, this entry is all about food and dining and how much one should spend on such things.

Now, in SM City, the four of us ate an early dinner at Cafe Laguna where the food was superb, the place great, the price sky-high and the service not on par with any of the abovementioned. Oh, and have I mentioned the sky-high prices?

And okay, I have to mention this or else these girls will accuse me of suffering from Transient Global Amnesia--Alej Lutero, another ex-elementary classmate, piped in for a little chat while we waited for our order. Some words exchanged, and he's off and finally we had our dinner. Anyway, this isn't about him, as I've already stipulated. This is about the restaurant.

For starters, our drinks arrived. The three of us Lambunao girls ordered a fruit shake each while Lexie, the Hiyas sang Roxas, got milkshake. And then we had pork sinigang, sauteed mixed vegetables with shrimps, chicken in pandan leaves and one serving of rice each.

I have yet to make my research regarding Cafe Laguna, but from what I have heard so far, its other branches, the one in Cebu, most particularly, are very well known for the palatable dishes they serve along with the great ambience. Ho- kay. So they say.

The food indeed equals expectations. It should. Why shouldn't it when each of us shelled exactly PhP250 each? A dinner worth one thousand pesos should taste like one thousand persos. And it did. Congratulations!

As for the ambience, it actually spells "perfect for your picky relatives from abroad of whom you're too 'ilang' to bring to a genuine Pinoy 'turo-turo' for fear of foot and mouth disease and/or salmonella and/or e-coli and/or snatcher and/or holduppers and your own fear of being tagged 'kuripot.'" And it was perfect, what with the cafe's subdued lighting and chintzy green sofas and some light wooden tones, and a number of shiny glass surfaces too. It's quite an interesting choice of interior decor and design for a restaurant serving Pinoy cuisine.

The menu was laid-out well, although there was a bit of deceit in there. I am a sucker for coffee and chocolate and I felt cheated when I saw a well-staged still life of succulent tablets of native 'tsokolate' on the menu, searched for the beverage name, only to learn that "hot choco," according to our waiter, actually just refers to commercial hot chocolate and not the 'tsokolate' I know that comes from actual cacao seeds which were dried and ground using 'lusong' (huge, rectangular, wooden mortar with the hollow part in the middle, either ends are wide enough for you to sit on and have your balls crushed if you happen to be a guy and a very careless one when it comes to using the 'hal-o') and 'hal-o' (huge wooden pestle), mixed with a little sugar and milk, molded on round-shaped cutters, and finally packed by 5's or 7's (depending on the thickness) on white bond paper and ready to be sold or given as pasalubongs to friends.

And to top the uber-superb experience of dining in a new, 'popular with the in-crowd,' chos Cafe Laguna, the beverage bar was racked with an array of both (at that time) currently and a-while-ago dished out, used and very much unwashed shake tumblers, water goblets, and other such stemware. And, along with the crew that is as restful to see as shoppers on a three-day sale, the spectacle was there for us, and the rest of the other customers, to bear.

And oh, the service- I don't know how others see those waiters and waitresses. But for someone who's so used to places such as Pecho Pak and Andok's and all those "happening" eating places for my wee people and I, I could get used to the waiters and waitresses of Cafe Laguna. They're not much unlike those of the two chicken houses I mentioned above. Really. They're just so "chummy." I suppose "class" has already ceased to mean "cautious and careful and prudent." Think: Joining in on diners' conversations. Isn't that lovely?

Point of the commentary: Next time, go to Annie's or Stanley's or, at your pickiest, Tatoy's or Breakthrough or Ramboy's if you're looking for good old authentic Pinoy gastronomic feasts. At half the price of a meal in Cafe Laguna, you can get twice, even thrice, the number of dishes and even get to have a few beers afterwards. Ambience? All these places (except for Ramboy's which is in Boardwalk, Diversion Road) are in Villa. What could be better ambience than a seaside one? Tatoy's and Breakthrough even have air-conditioned function areas for those maarte relatives of yours. And you get to have the nicest, most "happening" persons to wait on you.

Next topic: What PhP500 could get you at Villa. Mmmm-uhmmm!

Maia - Adel - Kat night-out

Wow. It's been a while since the three witches gathered around their boiling cauldron. Last December 11, 2009 the three of - Katherine "Kat2x" Sumaylo, Mary Rose Adelle "Ade(K)l" and I met at, of all names a person can think of for a restaurant, Ulo-Ulo City at Aurora Subdivision near San Agustin.

What did we do there? Wala lang. Ranting slash raving slash brainstorming. There were "Eureka" moments when puzzles were solved because missing pieces finally fell into their proper places - "Aha! Kaya pala!"

So, those two "kaututang-dila" of mine and I enjoyed that T-ice session (sang-una Lone Star pa na tira ta girls noh?) talking about things and people that we digged and buried. Hahahaha!!!

Ah, well... Hope this holiday season will be full of more surprises.

See http://www.digg.com/ for the latest digs on news.

The blue is not here in Iloilo

The final poem --

* * * * * *

Words escaped from our closed lips,
drifted out of the open window
(Open them, you said, because the car stinks.
I said, I didn’t notice, but alright—
Let’s. Besides, we should enjoy December.)
and got smudged into the black canvas outside
much like the green, yellow, red and blue
Christmas lights
that streak past the hazy highway
as we drove by signs and stores, and houses and trees,
and memories and drinks,
and kisses shared on doorsteps and under sheets,
and on these familiar streets.

Every letter, every phoneme,
they tried so hard to clutch at the rolled-up windows—
unwilling to be left behind,
desperate to be listened to.
Perhaps they would be much like the sticky little black fingers
of ghost-eyed children as they clutch at our t-shirts and jeans
(or my hair, if they were hungry enough),
should we bother to stop and get down
at that corner of Javellana and E. Lopez
where they stand close together like death’s little army,
several months’ worth of dirt their armor,
a biting pang in their stomachs their only weapon.

But then, I knew they would be much more like the children,
should we happen to pass them again a bit later
when they’d all be lying asleep on Marlboro boxes quilted together,
wrapped in nothing but their diluted dreams,
fingers splayed open for a kind passerby’s (or Santa’s!) gift—
weak and willing to be pried away from the car windows
by our indecision and pretend forgetfulness
and be dissolved into the cold biting air,
indifferent if they won’t find our ears.

And so all we hear
are the hum of orange streetlights
and the ring of blurred figures and vehicles that we pass.
(I’d say the streets also have notes of blue,
but blue was there in Roxas Boulevard
and not here in Iloilo.)
These sounds, they are the swish-swash of rain
pelting down a taxi’s fiberglass window,
creating rolling stripes of gray and yellow
on your face while you held my hand and looked at me
too long an afternoon ago.
Much like now, when you would take your eyes off the road
and your eyes would ask me questions
whose answers I wouldn’t, at the moment, dare unveil.


And so I turn towards the vignettes that we pass by-
my favorite madwoman in her peach blazer and yellow shopping bags,
walking perhaps to McDonald’s, ready to seize sundaes from reluctant hands;
and there, see there, a motorcycle splayed on the pavement, its rear wheel still rolling,
nearby a TV crew with their rolling cameras and microphones and extension wires,
one policeman drowning in an aftermath of a frat fight.

And all I hear
is the rumpling of your hair against your baseball cap as you adjust it in between gears, too many times in one block alone.
Did you speak just now?
I’m sorry I was too busy listening for those words flailing outside the window,
their clamor must sound like that poor high school boy’s last sighs
as he held out his hands against the glint of knives and eyes
there in Magsaysay Village,
where we, too, once parked and travelled each other in the dark.

All you hear,
I know,
is the sound of my sweat gliding down my temple to my collarbone—
It feels warm and then all at once icy.
Are you hearing what I was saying?
Or is it those words that you hear?
Those words, they now flatten themselves at the rear windows,
like wet pages of newspapers plastered on the glistening asphalt of Luna Street
several typhoons ago.

Those words,
They must now be shivering
like I had, so long ago
when your hands left my breasts
to close the windows.



-END-
12.12.09, 17:36

yet another unfinished poem

Words escaped from our closed lips,
drifted out of the open window
(Open because you said your car stinks,
I said I didn't notice, but alright-
let's, besides we should enjoy December)
and got smudged into the black canvas outside
much like the green, yellow, red and blue
Christmas lights
that streak past the hazy highway
as we drove by signs and stores, and houses and trees,
and memories and drinks,
and kisses shared under sheets,
and these familiar streets.

Every letter, every phoneme,
they tried so hard to clutch at the rolled-up windows,
unwilling to be left behind,
desperate to be listened to.
Perhaps they would be much like the sticky little black fingers
of ghost-eyed children as they clutch at our t-shirts and jeans
(or my hair, if they were hungry enough),
should we bother to stop and get down
at that intersection in Javellana and E. Lopez
where they stand close together like death's little army,
a month's worth of dirt their armor,
a biting pang in their stomachs their only weapon.

But then, I'm sure they would be much more like the children,
should we happen to pass them again a little later
when they'd all be lying asleep on Tanduay cardboard boxes quilted together,
wrapped in nothing but their diluted dreams--
weak and willing to be pried away from the car windows
by our indifference and make-pretend forgetfulness
and be dissolved into the cold, biting air,
uncaring if they won't find our ears.

And so all we hear
are the orange streetlights, the blurred figures we pass,
(I remember Roxas Boulevard, only there's no blue here in Iloilo)
your hair rumpling against your bullcap as you adjust it too many times in one block alone,
my sweat gliding down my temple to my collarbone--
icy and then suddenly warm.
They sound much like the swish-swash of rain
beating down a bus window,
creating rolling stripes of gray and yellow
on your face as I stare at your eyes
too long ago,
much like now, when you would take your eyes from the road
and look at me, as if I was a stranger you’ve just offered a ride.