by Dr Rahim Said
You know what they say about Manila — it’s a city of contradictions. A place where the traffic moves slower than your aging uncle’s dial-up modem, but somehow your Grab driver still manages to appear out of nowhere.
A land where balut (that infamous embryonic duck egg) is celebrated as a delicacy, but God forbid you ask for halal Middle Eastern cuisine, because you might as well request a unicorn burger with a side of fairy dust.
I found myself recently in a newly opened, supposedly “modern halal bistro” in the heart of Manila, enticed by a menu description that read like poetry. Sheshtahok Chicken — grilled Middle Eastern chicken skewers marinated in yogurt, lemon, garlic, and exotic spices, served with cucumber raita, chili sauce, and fresh pita bread.
In my mind’s eye, I saw plump, juicy, glistening skewers lovingly grilled by a bearded chef named Mustafa, who spent his teenage years perfecting the family spice blend somewhere between Damascus and Cairo.
I imagined soft, pillowy pita, cucumber raita so refreshing it could be bottled as cologne, and a chili sauce that whispered sweet nothings before knocking your taste buds senseless.
Reality, however, is a cruel and humourless prankster.
What arrived at my table could best be described as culinary manslaughter. Two miserable, desiccated chicken skewers — the kind you might find abandoned at a third-rate night market after a typhoon — lay limply on a token shred of banana leaf, which looked like it had been harvested from a plant suffering from depression. Next to them sat a solitary slice of onion, looking lonely and mildly resentful, and two slices of tomato halves that clearly didn’t sign up for this gig.
The rice was equally tragic. A small lump of white grains with the unmistakable texture of over-soaked Uncle Ben’s instant rice, topped with what appeared to be charred, oily shallots. If you’re unfamiliar with the experience of chewing on what feels like deep-fried pencil shavings, you are truly missing out.
I took one brave bite of the chicken, it fought back. It was a hardened, blackened relic of what once may have been poultry, so tough you’d think it had spent its formative years on a prison workout programme.
One bite and I was seeing visions of my dentist shaking his head, dollar signs in his eyes.
Naturally, we sent it back. The chef, probably still Googling “what is yogurt marinade?” was unavailable for comment, but the waitress returned sheepishly to offer us some “fresh fruits” as a peace offering.
A few slices of oranges, four tired wedges of pineapple, one strawberry eight blue berries that had clearly seen things neatly packed for us to take away.
Mercifully, she waived the charge for the chicken, perhaps sensing that no court in the land would convict me for whatever might have happened had I been billed for it.
And so the moral of this sad, chewy tale reveals itself: do not, under any circumstances, order Middle Eastern cuisine in a city where the national pastime involves simmering meats in soy and vinegar, and where half-formed duck embryos are considered snack food.
If you’re a Muslim traveller in Manila with strict halal requirements, save yourself the trauma — stick to eggs, fruits, cereals, or perhaps make peace with vegetarianism for a few days. And please, don’t bring instant noodles; it’s bad for you, your arteries, and the environment.
In hindsight, the absurdity is poetic. Manila, a city that can pull off five-star karaoke, over-the-top Christmas decorations in September, and funeral wakes that last longer than some marriages — still cannot, for the life of it, produce a decent skewer of grilled halal chicken.
Some things, dear reader, are best left to the professionals.
The views expressed here are entirely those of the writer
WE