Tales from the Bo. Fiesta in Vienna
“It has been quite a long time since I ate biko, halo-halo, ginatan, and palitaw.” That was my very dear friend Cynthia on the other end of the phone, deliriously excited about the delicacies she expected to get at the Barrio Fiesta festival in Vienna taking place that weekend she would be in town. So she traveled 461 kilometers from Dornbirn – a city in the Austrian Alps where she lives with her husband and son – to have a massive bite of those Filipino food specialties. Seriously? Oh, yes, she was serious! And no, she was not pregnant either to crave biko and other kakanins (Filipino delicacies usually from rice or root crops). So she could not be unless some Archangel paid her a surprise visit.
If I would go with her, she asked. I said I was still nursing a gouty foot, but I might; otherwise, I would ask my other friends who regularly go to the annual festivity if she could tag along. The heatwave was another excuse to save me from the agony – in my case — that was the Bo. Fiesta. A big noisy crowd repels me, something I never had an issue with when I was young or younger. Who would have thought I would be the image of that person complaining about noise and crowded places? I’d been listening to music or watching television at home, amplified to the lowest volume I could hardly hear the sound. We all know that Filipinos generally cannot hold silent conversations. “Why do you have to shout? “This was a question my Austrian friends frequently ask me when they hear Filipinos talking to each other, especially in a group. Many of us are hard of hearing, would be my defensive reply. Bakit nga ba? We are excitable people, plain and simple.
There was intermittent rain that day of the Barrio Fiesta, but we had umbrellas, so the rain did not stop us from going. It would not be a hot day, so I decided to go with Cynthia. The festival was on the outskirts of town we took the train to get there. We could hear different Filipino languages (I could not understand, hence) during the whole ride – reminding me of the confusion of tongues in a biblical story. If only my Austrian friends could only hear them now. I was a wreck when we got off. A considerable crowd of Pinoys was getting off the train – all headed to one destination. I noticed the perplexed look on people’s faces, who were unaware of what was happening.
“This was supposed to be fun!” I said to my friend with a hint of sarcasm. “I’ll have my biko and ginatan and palitaw, and we’re good, I promise,” was her quick mischievous response. It never happened. We stayed until it was almost time for the participating Pinoy Associations in Austria to fold down tents.
We can hear loud music from a distance and smell grilled meat and grilled fish – mackerels. That Pinoys have a penchant for grilled mackerels is a puzzle to me. I could not and cannot develop a taste for this fish. Give me galungong at any time! That was wishful thinking, not with my frequent bouts of gout.
Sisters Heide and Olive are two of the Ilocano friends I’ve known since way back when in the Sampaloc district of Metro Manila. Suddenly, it was yesterday once more.
Olive and the Ilocandia Family in Vienna
The fiesta was in full swing when we arrived. Cynthia, I could tell, was awed by all the frenzy going on and did not waste time searching for the goodies she hoped to get. We stopped practically at every food stall (and there were hundreds of them) to check out what they’ve got to offer More barbecue and grilled mackerels. There was fried daing na bangus in halves that sold for, guess what? Yes, Virginia, €5 apiece! Go broke; I don’t care and ordered a set with rice and a drink as written on a piece of paper hanging on the table cloth, right below where the bangus was on display.
“No, Sir, “said the girl serving the food when I pointed at the fish head. “The whole bangus fish head does not come with rice and drinks.” She showed me another food warmer containing grilled mackerels. Underneath were fried bangus cut in quarters. “That was the set, Sir, for €5. The fish head costs €5, too,” she explained.
“Five euros for a fish head? You must be kidding! ” I told the girl behind the counter. Suddenly I lost my appetite and left.
“You can stick it up yours,” I wanted to tell her. But, instead, I saw the disappointed look on the girl’s face, as if she could read my mind and wanted to say that she could not. “I already have five fish heads up mine.”
Cynthia found her puto and halu halo at the next stall but did not get them. “We’ll come back,” she said, repeating the same line to every booth we stopped by to look at until she was convinced that the biko she was getting measured up to her preference.
Fancy meeting at the Bo. Fiesta, the sisters Monina (extreme left ) and Jeannie (absolute right). My good friend Cynthia was in a yellow floral blouse and traveled 561 km. from Dornbirn to Vienna for the rice cakes she hoped to find at the fiesta.
Moving from one food stall to the next was difficult without bumping into someone you met a hundred years ago, and you go. “You look familiar, but I could not place you!” And then the other person told you the same until it dawned on you that she was the boy you were dating in your late-20s until you decided you had enough of his halitosis. Or was it his athlete’s foot?
“Moren, Moren!” I blurted out when I thought I saw another familiar face. Moren is one of the Pinoy friseurs in Vienna. But, of course, he is bakla! I last saw him a few years ago. He did not react when I called his name. “Moren! It’s me!” my voice a tad higher for him not to hear. It was not Moren. It was someone I recognized when she turned her head.” I am not Moren. I am Shirley, Beth’s former babysitter, don’t you remember?” And I was, “Oh, what happened to you? I thought you were Moren!” Talk of adding insult to injury!
Former colleagues from work and some other acquaintances I haven’t seen for years
After walking around a hectare of an open square for the nth time, checking out every booth that may be selling Pinoy rice cakes, and occasionally stopping for an animated chat or selfie/groupie photos with friends and Bekannte (acquaintances) — I was ready to drop dead. It was almost 3 pm, and we’d been scouring the place from 11 in the morning! Cynthia had yet to decide which sweet stuff she saw for the nth time could pass for pede na (it will do). Finally, she said she would make another round. I should wait for her at the Ilocandia tent, where I had a good time catching up with my good Ilocano friends like Manang Flor and her sisters Olive and Heide. I’ve known them since way back when, in Sampaloc, a district of Metro Manila. They were family to me. It was like yesterday once more.
Grace, Manang Flor’s eldest daughter, was there too. She talked out loud about her disappointment with many Ilocandia members who left the group due to some petty issue and formed their own.
At the Ilocandia tent, I found precious ampalaya (bitter gourd) leaves. Unlike most Pinoys who prefer to add the leaves to their ginisang mongo (sauteed soya beans), I thought of Hokkaido pumpkin pureed with chunks of codfish. At the Barrio Fiesta, ampalaya leaves weighing less than half a kilo were selling for — you bet — €5! Go broke was my motto of the day, and with that in mind, I said to myself, “Go get them!” My friend Olive – erstwhile President of the Ilocandia Group in Vienna – was, as always, generosity incarnate, giving me some ampalaya fruits for a song. Yes, they are fruits, not veggies.
My most coveted treasure from the Bo. Fiesta: bitter gourd, aka ampalaya leaves. They lend a distinct flavor to my pureed Hokkaido pumpkin.
The tent immediately next to the Ilocandia’s was selling patola, another kind of gourd, but not bitter. A plastic bag containing five very young patolas that have yet to grow significantly to qualify as pede na to what I needed them for was yours at €5! What I needed them for was open to interpretation, but truth be told, I needed them for my Miki noodles (fresh noodles). Unfortunately, I cannot get fresh noodles here, but I can settle for fresh Fettucine. Improvise! I improvise and use okra when I run out of lubes. Go organic, Tante Teresita–a big fan of everything organic– tells us all the time. She believes everything a vendor tells her when buying veggies or meat.
I prefer my pureed Hokkaido pumpkin with chunks of cod fish.
Cynthia returned to the Ilocandia tent shortly before the downpour. She was eating halu halo. To those who have yet to have it, halu halo is a concoction of shaved ice, evaporated milk, and root crops. She also had a bagful of rice cakes – puto cuchinta, suman sa lihiya, and puto pandan. She swooned over the biko she had just had before the halu halo. So if you have an Ad Agency and looking for a person who can be a living testimonial for biko, get Cynthia.
That evening at my place, she had them again for desserts. She woke up the next day with tooth pain, which didn’t go away until she was back in Dornbirn, where she had her bugger tooth pulled out by her dentist. “No more rice cakes for you? “I asked. On the contrary, she always has a sweet tooth until the last tooth standing.