You Can't Have the Recipe

Take a moment and close your eyes and think about a favorite dish of your youth. Whatever it is, can you remember the texture, the smell, the context in which it was made? Do you remember the first time you had it? Do you remember the last time you had it?

I have a couple of favorites from my parents’ kitchen.  One is a tripe soup called Papaitan, which over rice is hearty, sour, bitter; sublime. The other is a blood dish called Dinuguan (also known as Dinardaraan), and again, when ladled over rice and served steaming hot elicits a smile from my memories.  

When I grew up and started my adult life, I could always count on my parents to supply me with both of these dishes, leftovers really, from when they had made the dishes for themselves. Every time I’d savor both over rice and smile. But as they have grown older, and as my mother hasn’t been able to cook since her stroke, they haven’t been making these dishes as frequently. 

Over the last few months, my dad has taught his grandson’s how to make pancit, and it’s been a joy to watch the younger generation learn first-hand on how to make these traditional dishes.  A couple of weeks ago I spent time in the kitchen watching my dad create a simple chicken and zucchini dish that my niece enjoyed so much when she was a little girl. My mom would say that she would try to make it every time she would come over.

Above all else though I have semi-mastered a family favorite; my mom’s Filipino pork barbeque. Now I don’t know where the exact recipe originated from, but all who have tried it have really enjoyed it. But don’t bother asking me what the recipe is – you aren’t going to get it. And no I’m not sorry.

Back in 1983 my parents came up with the idea of selling my mom’s Filpino Pork Barbeque at the Minneapolis Aquatennial Block Party which had been held on Nicollet Mall. The Block Party was the kick-off event for the Aquatennial, and Nicollet Mall was reduced to foot traffic, with food vendors lining the streets. We had the southeast corner of 5^th Street and Nicollet on the same side as JCPenneys.

As we rolled up in our 1971 Buick Electra to off-load our gas grills and supplies, we really didn’t have a clue as what to expect; would the barbeque sell, how would the people like them? We set-up the booth, fired up the grills, and soon the Mall was filled with the smell of marinated pork cooking over open flame.

 Our questions were answered soon enough as people were lined up at the tables and we couldn’t keep barbeque coming fast enough! The demand was great enough that my dad and I drove back to Andover to pick up another couple of coolers full of marinated pork that we had held in reserve. 

People were wondering if we had a restaurant, and when we told them that we didn’t they looked as us with shocked looks on their faces.  More than one person asked us for the recipe.

For a number of years we sold my parents pork barbeque at the Block Party. The preparation was always the same, lots of cutting, marinating, and skewering. When pork butt was on sale at Country Market in Coon Rapids it always seemed like my parents cleaned out their stock. I’m sure more than one butcher shook their head as my parents loaded up the cart and headed for the checkout lane.

Year after year we would show up at the corner of 5^th and Nicollet and the Mall would open again to foot traffic for a few busy hours. We’d see a lot of the same faces;

 “I can’t believe you don’t have a restaurant”.

“We come here every year just so we can get some more barbeque,” they would say.

As the evenings came to the end, and the crowds would start to disperse, a few people would come on over and ask if had any leftovers. More often than not we didn’t have anything left.  Some would ask for my mom’s recipe and she would politely smile and tell them no. Many times I’d look over at my dad and catch him with a look of tired satisfaction on his face as he wiped the sweat off his brow as he took a well-deserved swig off of an ice cold Budweiser that he had stashed in one of the coolers.

In 1991 Nicollet Mall was shut down for construction so the venue for that years Block Party was moved to Hennepin Avenue. We were given a spot in front of Shinder’s Book Store, not far down the block from the Skyway Theater. 

The night started out normally but something just didn’t feel right. The crowd felt different; there was a general unease and tension that I couldn’t put my finger on. Maybe it was just my own mood, I remember being angry, the shine on the toy had gone away and it seemed more work than normal.  The year prior we had also decided to feature sweet corn along with the pork barbeque, and I knew that I’d be the prepping corn and not manning a grill. I wasn’t pleased.

As the sun began to set the crowd seemed meaner and less cheerful.  While not quite an ugly crowd, it wasn’t a friendly crowd earlier. As we started to finish up and break down the stand, shots rang out from up the street at the Skyway. The movie Boyz N the Hood had premiered that evening and tensions had spilled over into gunfire as the movie had let out.

As my siblings and I tried to expedite the cleanup process I looked back over to the sidewalk and saw our mom holding a bag full of tickets; our revenue for the night.  Running around her were people streaming away from the movie theater, away from the gunfire, and towards the crowd. She looked so small and helpless, and I immediately ran over to her not knowing what to expect. We left the site as soon as we could.

That was the end of our selling at the Block Party. It wasn’t the ending we wanted, but it was the one that we got.

Since then, the recipe hasn’t changed. None of us have the guts to change it, and really, why mess with perfection? Like my dad, I like to slice the meat and drop it into the marinade, having a frosty beverage before me. Where he would listen to 830AM WCCO, I’ll be watching some video on YouTube.

Grilling always brings back the memories of the block party flooding back, there is always that sizzle, burst of flame, and sweet smelling smoke as the fat drips onto the coals below. There’s that burn on your fingertips as you reach and flip each savory skewer, the fire letting you know who’s boss.  And more often or not there is someone looking over your shoulder asking the inevitable, “is it ready yet?”

I can’t wait for the day when I can look over my son’s shoulders while they are standing over the grill and ask them that very same question.

And they better not give the recipe away either.