‘Carinderia’ memories with Tatay

One of my favorite parts of traveling with my late father for his sales job was our lunch breaks. Each stop felt like a small adventure because we never really knew how a meal would taste until the first bite.

From 2017 to 2023, we traveled about twice a month, and you can imagine how many hit-or-miss carinderia (eateries) we ended up in.

Once, in a small, half-closed carinderia between the boundary of Bulacan and Valenzuela, we were served half-cooked chicken, blood still visible in the bone, and we had no choice but to eat it because we hadn’t eaten the whole day.

In semi-rural places inside Bulacan or Pampanga, where we used to go, roadside carinderias were few and far between, so we had to trust our instincts. My Tatay had only two rules: parking space and display of pots that promised variety.

Every carinderia we entered had its own charm. I can’t remember their names or exact locations because I’m truly terrible at remembering places, but I can still recall the food and the memories we carried with us.

My top favorite was a small spot in Sta. Maria, Bulacan, where they served valenciana, chicken cooked in a deep red sauce. Its distinct flavor came from red bell peppers, softened to the point of disappearing into the dish, their color and taste absorbed completely into the meat and sauce.

The place was always packed. Back in 2021, a meal there cost only P60—a bargain, considering how flavorful it was. We returned again and again, not just because of the food or the ample parking space that even truckers used, but because my Tatay was determined to recreate the recipe at home. Every few weeks, he and my mother would take another shot at it, adjusting the methods, chasing the same savory aroma and the same sweet, thick sauce with bell pepper infused deep into the chicken. In the end, they succeeded in creating their own version of valenciana, but never a perfect copy.

Another favorite was in Pampanga, about a kilometer from the police academy and near one of my Tatay’s customers. It was there that I tasted pares (beef stew) for the first time with beef so tender it melted the instant it touched my tongue. Each time we stuck our forks into the meat, it fell apart, as if it had been simmered endlessly. It was pure bliss.

We always tried to arrive early because the pares always ran out quickly. My Tatay even became friends with the cook, who would immediately call out “no more pares” or “there’s still some left” as soon as she saw our blue Mitsubishi with white stripes. On our last visit, she wasn’t there. Her helper told us she had suffered a heart attack and was resting during the day. On our last visit, there was no pares.

My Tatay’s true favorite, though, was a small carinderia in Marilao, Bulacan, not just for the food but also for their dog. I never ate anywhere else in that area because of their flavorful adobong pusit and perfectly grilled inihaw na liempo that was never burnt, served in a cozy space with spotless floors, large electric fans, free soup, and linoleum tables that offered comfort to those sweating outside. The carinderia’s dog was obedient and quiet, always lying beneath a cart. My Tatay was especially fond of that dog.

When he asked the owner why it always stayed there, she explained it had been paralyzed since birth. My Tatay, who had cared for paralyzed dogs before, grew attached to it. Seeing the dog peacefully watching us eat, he saw our own dogs in its eyes, and so eating there felt a little closer to home.

And then there was the carinderia with the wide front yard, an honorable mention. It fit my Tatay’s rules perfectly, offering a broad spread of dishes that included adobong pusit in sweet sauce, a taste that almost rivaled my mother’s version. My Tatay swore by their Bicol express, though I found it too heavy with alamang and fat, and bulalo, whose marrow he deemed creamy and perfect to scoop.

I regret that I can’t remember where it was. What made it unforgettable wasn’t just the food but the atmosphere and the wide yard that felt like the grounds of a provincial home tucked inside a busy town. The blare of a television carried from the house, chickens wandering freely across the yard, and the air mixed with the faint scent of manure, rust, and old woodwork. Each visit felt like a brief escape before the road pulled us back into the concrete again.

I’m grateful that my Tatay led me to places beyond school and home. Now it hurts to think I may never see those carinderias again. They hold memories of my father that only I can taste. And I may never hear him say, “Kakain na naman tayo sa paborito mong carinderia.”

You will always be remembered, Tatay.

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Dominic Duquiatan, 25, writes not out of habit, but out of necessity, capturing memories before they fade.