Ayungin Eaters

We always wanted a tamarind tree to prosper in our backyard. It never did. I must say, it is one of our true frustrations.

My mother used to say that we just have to throw the tamarind seed, spitting it out from our mouth onto the ground after munching the flesh of the ripe fruit. Don’t bite hard or you might crack the seed, thereby leaving the pungent taste on your tongue. The seed that hits the ground will germinate — it never happened.

We had papaya trees, rambutans, kamias, guyabano, and even banana trees but the tamarind was a desire. It was highly demanded in our household cooking, not only for “sinigang” but also for another native recipe called “pinangat”.

In my younger years, our mornings were often greeted by the familiar calls of women fish vendors making their rounds. Our barrio, Pinagbuhatan in Pasig, lay close to the winding channels that linked the Pasig River to the vast waters of Laguna de Bay.

Two kinds of fish were always offered or sold by these ambulant sellers shouting the combination: “ayungin at biya” (silver perch & native goby). I realized now that even though they don’t rhyme, they are forever imbued in the collective memory of the people. As if they fit together like “Tom and Jerry” or “Batman and Robin”, etc.

I am particularly interested in how fish like the ayungin shaped the so-called “Esskultur” or culinary tradition of people living near the Laguna Bay area. Back in those days, ayungin was sold cheaply. It was the fish of the common people. Father had a story that when he first went to the big city, Manila, to attend university, he met a townmate who happens to come from the next barrio, a well-to-do community. He referred to my father in jest as: “ayungin eater”. Of course, it was an insult to our place and people, masked in a joke.

“Pinangat” means cooking the fish with freshly picked tamarind, in a pot with a bit of water, a dash of cooking oil, and salt. Allowed to boil until the fish is cooked and the tamarind softens. As simple as that.

Many preferred a bit of the pinangat sauce on top of their rice, while the tamarind is crushed in a saucer with fish sauce or patis — now that is what we call “sawsawan”. The strange thing was, we had it even for breakfast. A German friend was shocked when I told her this story. Replying to me; “Was? … Fisch am Frühstück? (What? Fish for breakfast?)

The humble fish has come to symbolize a life marked by simplicity—often touched by hardship and struggle. It is the food of the common folk, yet it evokes a time when nature freely provided, when sustenance was found in what was readily available around us. It was a different world then. No wonder the older generation feels a wave of nostalgia at the sight of ayungin for sale. And what more when they taste it—it becomes a journey back to a cherished past.

The ayungin has become a rare treat now. You’ll be lucky to find some in groceries or public markets, and if you happen to spot some, I assure you, it is terribly expensive. Way beyond what it was when we were young.

"Give us today our daily fish."