Ala carte Vigan

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We’ve been in the Philippines for just over a fortnight but haven’t yet sampled much local food. Tonight’s the night. We place our orders—adobo for me, some juicy-sounding ribs for Duncan, and a starter of eggs in a garlic and chili sauce (for my benefit—I’ve got a cold).

We rehash our day as we wait for our food. A horse and cart ride around the city to see the sights: a giant gingerbread church and its belltower; a pottery factory on the outskirts of town; and, just as a happenstance, a lunchtime exodus of teenagers pouring out of the high school. At dusk, we strolled up Calle Crisologo, the beautifully preserved street with stone paving and colonial-era architecture that earns Vigan its UNESCO world heritage status.

Our starter arrives and I dig in, carving up one of the plump orbs with a fork and spoon. Big eggs, I think. As I separate the huge globe of the egg I suddenly realise why the name of this dish—balut—sounds familiar. An enormous hard boiled yolk is flanked by tiny, silky black feathers, all stuck together around a light grey mass. I look up at Duncan in horror. He’s rabbiting on about something and it takes him a moment to register the panicked look on my face.

“What? What is it?”
“I think this is that duck egg thing.”
“What duck egg...” His face loses all its colour. “Oh my god, is it? It’s not, is it?”

As I turn the egg over and cover it in the sauce (thank god it comes with sauce) Duncan calls over the waiter.
“Is this duck egg?”
“Duck? No sir, it is egg of chicken.”

Duck, chicken, it doesn’t matter. Balut is a fertilised egg, aborted part-way through development, then soft (or in this case, hard) boiled, and eaten from the shell. To us, it’s an abomination, abject—partway between two perfectly common foods, rendered completely inedible by being wholly neither.

Duncan has a weak tolerance for this kind of thing and can’t bear to have it on the table. In his urgency to be rid of the dish, he makes a hash of asking for it to be taken away. Unusually for him, he trips over his words and is clearly offending the waiter.

“I’m sorry,” I interject. “We don’t have this in Australia and for us, it is too different. I don’t think we will enjoy it.”

“But in Philippines, it is very delicious.” We assure him that we believe him, but we can't bring ourselves to try it. He reminds us we still must pay for it while the large table of Filipinos behind us laugh tears into their eyes at our expense.

We’re mortified, of course: by how close we came to eating a half-formed chicken; that we lumbered so clumsily and naively into a culture clash; that we were so indelicate in rectifying the situation.

A few days later, back in Manila, we tell the story to a cab driver. He laughs with us and assures us that balut is quite a treat, even the feathers. We’re still not convinced (even Anthony Bourdain only took one little nibble on Without Reservations, so we feel somewhat excused) but at last we’re seeing more of the real Philippines.

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Photos

Calle Crisologo
Charming and quaint, Calle Crisologo is blessedly free from vehicles.

Yee-hah!
Riding in the calesa.

St Augustines church
Duncan and Elliot are tiny in the doorway.

The belfry at St Augs
A sweet man from the church committee led us to the top of the tower, providing views across the province to the soaring Cordillera mountains.

Duncan and Elliot in our chariot
It was called Ferrari.

Vigan Cathedral
A short stroll from our hotel.

Crisologo at night
Elliot charmed the stall holders as we bumped him along the stones in a pre-bedtime wander.

Comments

[mum meet thrasher]

eeeck
Absolutely delightful post... :) laughed long and loud. I think I saw the no reservations episode. Merry Christmas.