What is Filipino Cuisine?
Introducing an exciting new asian kusina
Salt and Sour, Sweet and Smoke
To an outsider Filipino cuisine can appear chaotic, a mishmash of culinary influences that have come together. But trust me, there is much more to it. My Bisayà-roots thought me there is balance and wisdom at the heart of our kusina. Each taste has a purpose, every ingredient carefully considered not just for its flavor, but for how it fits into a larger picture of health, geography, and climate. In other words, to understand Filipino food, is to understand the Philippines. There are four elements that keep returning in our kitchen: salt and sour, sweet & smoke.
SALT
In Filipino cuisine, rice is king, but let's be honest—it’s bland. Plain rice, as much as it fills you up, is essentially just a vehicle for the good stuff: salt. My mother, who hails from Antique in Panay, often joked, "Rice without salt is like love without drama—boring." In our home, salt wasn’t just an ingredient; it was a savior for meals. Antique is one of the most lush provinces of all of the Philippines, and also a region were traditional salt gathering methods are still in use.
Tuyo, the quintessential dried fish, was a regular in our home, especially when money was tight. My mother would fry it up in the morning, the smell spreading through the house like a wake-up call for your sinuses. The saltiness of the fish, paired with rice and a splash of vinegar, turned breakfast into a full sensory experience. If you weren’t awake when you walked into the kitchen, you certainly were by the time you left.
But let’s not forget patis, the fish sauce that practically runs through the veins of every Filipino. The best patis, according to my mother, comes from pangat, the first press of fermenting fish. It’s treated with the kind of respect you’d give a bottle of fine wine, only instead of sipping it slowly, we splashed it generously over vegetables, rice, and anything else that needed a salty kick. My mother swore that patis could make even the most unremarkable meal into something you’d write home about. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I do know that the smell of a patis-seasoned dish is impossible to ignore—ask anyone who’s tried to smuggle a bottle past airport customs.
Then there’s bagoong, the fermented shrimp paste that’s as beloved as it is divisive. It’s potent, it’s salty, and it’s absolutely essential to dishes like kare-kare. I have vivid memories of watching my mother mash shrimp with salt, leaving them to ferment in a jar. When she finally deemed the bagoong ready, the smell hit you like a tidal wave. You knew dinner was serious when bagoong was involved. Paired with rice, it was like an edible dare—can you handle the salt? The answer was always yes, because without it, the rice just sat there, sad and tasteless.
In our house, salt didn’t just enhance food—it dominated it. Whether it was sprinkled over a piece of daing, mixed into vegetables with patis, or spooned out as bagoong, salt was the star. My mother would always laugh and say, “If you can’t taste the salt, you’re not eating it right.” And she wasn’t wrong.
SOUR
Sourness is the unsung hero of Filipino cuisine. It’s the zippy kick in your dish that makes you pucker up and say, “Ah, that’s good.” But the story of sour flavors in the Philippines goes beyond just taste—it's practical, too. In a country where the heat and humidity seem to hug you from every direction, sourness doesn’t just make food delicious; it actually helps cool you down. Yes, that bowl of sinigang isn’t just comfort food—it’s your body’s very own air conditioner.
You see, when you take that first sip of sinigang—a tangy, savory soup soured with tamarind or calamansi—something magical happens. Your taste buds go on high alert, and your body follows suit. The acidic zing from the sour soup kickstarts saliva production, which not only makes the meal tastier but also helps cool down your internal temperature. It’s nature’s way of telling you, “Chill out, I’ve got this.” So, the next time you're sweating buckets in the tropical heat, consider a bowl of sinigang your natural remedy.
But sourness in Filipino cuisine isn’t just functional; it’s about balance. Filipino dishes are all about finding that delicate equilibrium between flavors—sweet, salty, sour, and savory. Sourness is what often brings everything together. Take kinilaw, for instance. This dish is the Filipino answer to ceviche: fresh, raw fish marinated in vinegar. The acidity in the vinegar cuts through the richness of the fish’s natural oils, creating a refreshing dish that’s light, bright, and perfect for hot days. Plus, let’s be honest—anything that involves raw fish and a little bite of sour is instantly fancy, right?
Sour flavors are essential because they create that balance we all crave, whether we realize it or not. Think of it as a culinary tightrope walk. You’ve got your rich, fatty dishes—like lechon or adobo—that need something bright to lift them up. That’s where sourness comes in, like a sassy friend who tells you the hard truth you didn’t know you needed to hear. Without sourness, your dish could easily become too heavy or overpowering. But with the right amount of acidity, it all comes together in perfect harmony.
Even beyond the heavy-hitters like sinigang and kinilaw, sour flavors sneak their way into all sorts of Filipino dishes. Take paksiw, for example. It’s a dish where fish is simmered in vinegar and garlic, and it’s the perfect example of how Filipinos use sourness to preserve and enhance flavor at the same time. The vinegar doesn’t just bring a punch of flavor—it also acts as a preservative in the days before refrigeration was a thing. So, while you’re enjoying your tangy paksiw, know that you’re also partaking in a little bit of culinary history.
And let’s not forget calamansi—the tiny, mighty citrus that Filipinos add to practically everything. Whether it’s squeezing some over your pancit, dipping your lumpia into a calamansi-soy sauce blend, or adding it to a refreshing iced tea, this little citrus packs a punch. It’s like the Filipino version of a lemon, but with more sass. If you’ve ever had calamansi juice on a hot day, you know what I’m talking about. That tart, citrusy zing can make the hottest day feel just a little more bearable.
Ultimately, sourness in Filipino cuisine is about more than just making food taste good—it’s about creating balance. It lightens rich dishes, refreshes the palate, and, in a tropical country like the Philippines, even helps cool you down. So, the next time you’re sitting down to a meal of sinigang or kinilaw, don’t just savor the sourness—celebrate it. After all, it’s the balancing act that makes Filipino food so endlessly delicious.
SWEET
Sweetness in Filipino cuisine isn’t just for desserts—it’s a full-time flavor, popping up in the most unexpected places. Sure, we love our halo-halo and leche flan, but in the Philippines, sugar is a multitasker. In fact, it often cozies up with savory dishes to create that perfectly balanced bite. It's like sugar just couldn’t resist the party happening with all the other flavors and decided to jump right in.
Take tocino for example. This sweet, cured pork is practically candy in meat form. But don’t be fooled—it’s not just sugar for the sake of sweetness. That sugary hit balances out the saltiness of the cure, creating a flavor harmony that makes your taste buds do a little happy dance. Let’s be real—tocino is the reason breakfast is worth waking up for. Who needs an alarm clock when there’s tocino sizzling in the kitchen?
Then there's kare-kare, the peanutty stew that takes comfort food to the next level. The natural sweetness of the peanuts does more than just taste good—it mellows out the bold flavors of the dish. Especially when you pair it with bagoong (fermented shrimp paste), which packs enough salty punch to wake up a sleeping giant. It’s the sweet-and-salty combo you didn’t know you needed, like finding out your serious friend is secretly hilarious.
Filipino cuisine is all about balance, and sweetness is one of its secret weapons. It’s the glue that ties together the tang of vinegar, the bite of soy sauce, and the richness of meats. Without it, your adobo might just taste a little too sharp, or your tocino might be missing that delicious, caramelized edge. So next time you’re enjoying a Filipino dish and taste a hint of sweetness, remember: it’s not there by accident. It’s there to remind you that in Filipino cooking—and in life—everything is better when it’s balanced.
SMOKE
And then there’s smoke—a flavor that goes beyond taste to tell the story of Filipino culture itself. Smoke isn’t just there to make food taste delicious (though, let’s face it, it does that in spades); it’s a flavor born out of necessity. In a country where monsoons can stretch on for weeks and refrigeration wasn’t always an option, smoking was the OG food preservation method. That’s right—before your fancy fridge-freezer combo, Filipinos were out here smoking fish and meat to keep it fresh and tasty.
Take tinapa, for example. This smoked fish isn’t just a nostalgic breakfast dish—it’s survival in culinary form. The process of smoking extends the fish’s shelf life, ensuring you’ve got a backup plan when the weather isn’t cooperating. And the bonus? That deep, smoky flavor that infuses the fish makes even the most basic meals feel complex and rich, like someone put in way more effort than they actually did.
But when it comes to smoke, we can’t forget the grand champion of them all: lechon. Slow-roasting a whole pig over an open fire is more than just a showstopper at parties. It’s a nod to ancient preservation techniques, a reminder that long before we had iceboxes, we had fire and patience. And let’s be real—nothing says "celebration" like the smell of lechon roasting, with that crispy, smoky skin that makes you forget about every single diet you’ve ever been on.
Smoke in Filipino cuisine isn’t just about taste; it’s about ingenuity. It’s a testament to how resourcefulness and tradition have shaped the way we cook, eat, and celebrate. Smoke does double duty: it keeps food from spoiling, and it elevates it with flavor that’s earthy, rich, and totally unforgettable.
So the next time you dig into a piece of tinapa or savor that perfect bite of lechon, remember—you’re tasting centuries of history, survival, and a whole lot of smoky goodness.
