That’s it, pancit

So much has happened this week that demands comment: the passing of National Artist for Literature Resil Mojares, the announcement of a new batch of national artists, the cancellation of a writer over plagiarism and predatory sexual misconduct, new releases at the Manila International Book Fair, the flight of the Cayetano siblings, and the Supreme Court’s dismissal of long-standing Sandiganbayan decisions against former first lady Imelda Marcos. As social media commentary swirls in real time, I hope next week brings more perspective and context from mainstream media that generates light rather than heat.

While waiting, let us turn to pancit.

Food historian Felice Sta. Maria has recently been sharing her research on Chinese noodles. Having painstakingly indexed food terms across early Philippine language vocabularios compiled by Spanish missionaries from the 17th to 19th centuries, she undoubtedly has boxes overflowing with note cards. Lately, however, she has been mining the 17th-century “Dictionario Hispanico Sinicum” (DHS), rediscovered in the University of Santo Tomas Archives.

Dated to roughly 1620, this nearly 1,000-page manuscript contains over 20,000 Chinese words compiled by Dominican missionaries. Of particular interest are the Tagalog words adopted by the Sangleyes (Chinese residents of Manila) in their everyday speech. The DHS lay in plain sight for centuries until Spanish and Taiwanese researchers recognized its value—an archivist had dismissively inscribed “vale muy poco” (“of little value”) on its cover. Today, it is recognized as the oldest and largest extant Spanish-Chinese dictionary in the world.

In 19th-century watercolors by José Honorato Lozano, ambulant Chinese vendors sell pancit to locals. One charming scene depicts a couple crouched before a low table, eating noodles with chopsticks. In another, a Filipino holding a rooster negotiates prices with a vendor serving noodles in a blue-and-white Vietnamese bowl. Nineteenth-century travel accounts frequently mention Chinese noodles, as does José Rizal’s correspondence, which records regular shipments of miki sent to him while studying in Madrid.

Recently, while browsing the online catalog of Harvard’s Peabody Museum, I found a late 19th- or early 20th-century photograph donated by Desmond FitzGerald showing patrons outside the Panciteria de Buen Gusto. Is it safe to assume this establishment, located near San Fernando Bridge and Binondo Church, is the famous Panciteria Macanista de Buen Gusto mentioned in Rizal’s “El Filibusterismo”? And is it the same abandoned structure standing near San Fernando Bridge today? Before we install a marker on it and rebuild, we must be sure we pin the tail on the right donkey.

Decades ago at Casa Manila in Intramuros, I was shown a copy of the 19th-century Spanish-language newspaper El Expres. Remarkably, it was printed not on paper, but on fine white linen. Denied permission to photocopy it at the time, I must track it down again to take photographs. In it, editor Adolfo Puya wrote a feature on the Panciteria de Buen Gusto. Short on time, I noted only fragments, but I recall Puya repeating the word “limpia” (clean) half a dozen times. It made me wonder whether this was a paid promotional piece positioning the establishment against unsanitary competitors.

Puya described the Chinese server as having “the smile of a rabbit,” transcribing his greeting: “Muena tale, senolia. Cosa sisitalo? Quielelo comelo pansi? Aqui haselo saboloso y mueno, mueno po que este pasitelia no palejo que ota que jase pasi malo…”

If accurately transcribed, this pidgin translates to: “Good afternoon, Señor. What do you need? Would you like to eat pancit? Here I make it good and tasty—good, because this panciteria is not like the others that make bad pancit.” Puya noted that he barely kept himself from laughing out loud.

According to Puya, dishes were served on clean plates: ham, cabbage, celery, parsley, fried garlic, calamansi, lemons, tomatoes, chickpeas, chicken giblets, shrimp, and radish, alongside other condiments. All of these, he reiterated, were spotlessly clean. Large bilaos held fine and thick noodles in both yellow and white. The kitchen housed massive cauas (metal cauldrons), copper tachos, and kettles of boiling water, chicken, and beef broth.

The menu listed four noodle dishes—pancit lanlan, bihon, misua, and sotanghon (served either as a broth-based soup or dry as sotanghon guisado)—alongside non-Chinese fare, such as lengua estofada, pata salseada, lumpia, lechon asado, camaron rebosado, and chorizo frito (whether imported from Spain, brought from China, or made locally as longganisa remains unclear).

From a 17th-century Spanish-Chinese dictionary, to a photograph in Harvard, to a newspaper printed on linen, history is all about construction, and the missing pieces of this panciteria puzzle are slowly coming to light. There is so much on the Chinese in Philippine life that needs to be dug up to help us understand our past, and perhaps our present territorial disputes with modern China.

Comments are welcome at ambeth.ocampo@inquirer.net