Absinthe

Chapter 43: The Moves

"Can somebody explain to me why we've been eating the same chicken dish for three days in a row?"

Vivi demanded as we sat in front of the pinikpikan we were about to have for lunch.

"Leave it," Jiwoo said in an authoritative tone.

"I can't," Vivi said. "We're on a farm, for crying out loud—the best ingredients are here! Yet we've been

stuck with pinikpikan for how many meals now... God, I've lost count!"

"Seven," Nico interrupted. "And now is the eighth time. I'm guessing we'll all be sprouting wings come

dinner time."

I glanced at Jiwoo. I wasn't sure whose cheeks were redder: his or mine. I was embarrassed because I

was the reason our group had to keep eating the dish, and we would have to do so probably until the

end of our stay.

"You call yourselves gourmet chefs?" Jiwoo hissed. "This is the region's specialty! You can't get this

kind of flavor anywhere else!"

"I agree there's nothing quite like it," Vivi said before raising her voice. "But that doesn't mean we

should keep eating it. Even water tastes like pinikpikan to me now!"

"Frankly speaking, what you guys did is animal cruelty," Nico declared. "I'm sure it's illegal because of

the Anti-Animal Cruelty Act or something."

"It's not wrong nor is it illegal if it's a centuries-old tradition!" Jiwoo answered back. "And besides, that

distinct flavor won't come out if you don't beat the chicken."

I saw both Nico and Vivi raise their eyebrows, Vivi's dangerously higher than Nico's. No chef ever takes

flavors for granted.

"It's true," Jiwoo said. "Striking the chicken repeatedly allows the blood to coagulate in its muscles,

adding an extra layer of umami. Anyway, the chickens were hit on the head first. They were pretty

much unconscious, and I doubt they felt a thing."

"Fine," Vivi said in defeat while reaching for eating utensils. "But I'm not letting this slide. The two of

you owe us a full week's worth of gourmet food once we get back to Manila." She pointed her fork at

Jiwoo to make her threat clear. "You hear me? A different. Menu. Every. Single. Day."

Jiwoo's face broke into a wide smile. He nodded at Vivi before coaxing me and Nico to start eating.

"Exactly how many poor chickens did you two have to kill? " Nico asked.

Jiwoo only threw him a sharp look and changed the topic with another question. "What's our schedule

this afternoon?"

"Vivi and I are on leafy vegetables while you two are on root crops," Nico replied before taking a

spoonful of rice and chicken.

"Root crops? Isn't that where you guys went on our first day?"

Nico nodded. "Yeah, which you both failed to attend. It's a bit far from here, about a 2-hour drive, I

think."

"What?" Jiwoo asked. If I hadn't been feeling extra shy because of the pinikpikan situation, I would

have said the same thing in disbelief. "Why the long distance?"

"It's still on the farm property," Vivi explained. "It's just that more sensitive plants like fruits and leafy

vegetables are grown closer to the main resort."

"I see," Jiwoo said. "Can we borrow the car?"

"Nope," Nico said. "And before you overreact, I'm saying no not because I'm selfish but because

there's no way my car can handle the terrain."

"So how will we get there?"

"The resort will provide a sturdy pickup truck. That's what we used, too."

We finished our lunch in better spirits as Jiwoo came up with jokes that were not funny yet so stupid we

couldn't help but laugh at them. Before we finished, however, Nico made a startling announcement. Original from NôvelDrama.Org.

"Before I forget, Maxwell called in yesterday. He conveniently forgot to tell us that there's a cooking

challenge this coming Friday."

"Here I was thinking this whole thing was going to be a vacation," I said.

"We're supposed to come up with a four-course meal using only the ingredients found here. The

objective is to cook haute cuisine that will impress the judges."

"They're gonna be local big shots," Vivi interjected. "Or so I heard. Which means our menu should be

something they'll like, traditional Northern Filipino cuisine and whatnot."

"Right," Nico continued. "And we have to decide who cooks what."

"BJ's making dessert, right?" Vivi asked. When I glanced around, everyone seemed comfortable with

that, so I agreed by nodding my head.

"I was thinking that I should do the starters," Vivi said. "I can make lumpiang sariwa."

"I have an idea for the main course," Nico said. "That is if you're okay with cooking the soup."

"Fine by me," Jiwoo answered.

"That's settled then. I trust you guys enough to know that we don't need to coordinate the flavors in

advance."

All three of us nodded in understanding. What Nico meant was that he was going all out with his

French-style cooking, so there was bound to be explosions of flavor. Because of that, Vivi's appetizers

had to be powerful enough to stimulate hunger, Jiwoo's soup should be mild so as to cleanse the

palate, and my dessert needed to stand out so it wouldn't be ignored after Nico's dish.

Talk about pressure. And to think that there are no fancy desserts in Filipino cuisine!

Jiwoo and I bid the other two goodbye as we set off for the hotel lobby and met with the instructor to

get the car keys and receive directions. The way to the root crop farm was simple, so there was no

reason for us to get lost even if it was the first time Jiwoo and I were driving to the place. We were

asked to attend lectures and taste test the root crops once there. After that, we would be free to have a

dinner picnic at a nearby pond, and we could drive back to the villa at around 7 PM.

The blue pickup truck was big and comfortable. The open cargo bed at the back was also longer and

more spacious than we'd expected. I figured they used the vehicle frequently to transport items to and

fro the different areas of the resort farm.

Jiwoo drove slowly. I was sure he was being considerate so I wouldn't be nauseated with all the bumps

and potholes on the dirt road.

He broke the silence about an hour and a half into the ride. "Have any idea what you're cooking?"

"Not really," I answered. "You?"

"I actually wanted to do the main course," Jiwoo said, taking his eyes momentarily off the road to give

me a weak smile. "Soups are pretty boring, you know."

I nodded. "That's the hurdle you have to overcome then."

"Yeah, you could say that. I'm thinking along the lines of potato soup."

"That's French, isn't it? I don't think northerners are used to Western-style creamy soups."

"Right," Jiwoo said, expertly avoiding a big, muddy pothole. "But there's no way I can turn our typical

soup dishes into haute cuisine. The only thing I can do is to incorporate strong Filipino flavors in a

Western-style soup."

Most Filipino soup dishes are main courses in themselves and usually full of flavor that would

contradict Nico's dish. If Jiwoo could add Filipino flavors to a classic French soup... "Sounds like it

might work."

Jiwoo smiled at me again. "We're almost there."

The scenery drastically changed in the last 30 minutes of the short trip. We were soon surrounded by

steep hills and sharp ravines. The whole place looked like a miniature Banaue Rice Terraces, with root

crops planted in patches of land resembling stairs leading to the peaks of the stouter and wider hills.

We passed by an outpost where several men were resting while drinking cold coconut juice. We

stopped in front of a decent-sized house where the caretakers of the area most likely lived. As soon as

we had exited the vehicle, we were greeted by a kindly man in his 50s.

The afternoon went by like a blur as we were introduced to everything that went on within the root crop

plantation—from choosing seedlings, plant care, harvesting, and post-harvest care. We were also

made to have a taste of the crops. Jiwoo and I took notes on how each species differed from each

other and how their characteristics could possibly affect our cooking.

Before we knew it, it was already 5:30. I felt hunger coming on.

"Sir Jiwoo, Sir BJ, we prepared a small dinner for you by the pond. You can follow this young boy.

Everything's already set up. We hope you enjoy your meal."

We thanked the man profusely and went with the boy to the pond. I could not be more surprised at the

level of luxury Maxwell had achieved for the place. It was practically an exclusive dining area that

looked straight out of an advertisement for a Maldives resort.

The dining table was set on a raft of bamboo and rattan peacefully drifting in the middle of an oversized

pond. When the pond was mentioned, I thought it was going to be a small body of water, but it was as

big as three or four Olympic-size pools. The raft was tied to a wooden peg at the side of the pond

where we were, and the boy tugged at it with all his might to lead it back toward us.

The trees planted in the area seemed to have been curated, too. There was an unmistakable

eucalyptus tree, which may have been chosen for its ability to ward off mosquitoes, just like how it was

at the old lady's house. There were vines draping from tree to tree, and birds were chirping high up the

treetops. I peered over the pond and saw some tilapia swimming around.

On the west side of the pond stood an ornate bar and kitchen, which I was certain was fitted with state-

of-the-art equipment. I could see the chef from my position as well as two kitchen assistants and two

servers who were all wearing custom-tailored uniforms.

Jiwoo hopped onto the bamboo raft and offered his hand to help me. I raised my eyebrows at him and

got on the raft by myself.

"I'm not some helpless girl you can make those moves on," I joked.

"Really?" Jiwoo answered back. "For a moment I could swear my moves were working."

I chuckled, which made me pause for a moment. It dawned on me that I had been miserable during the

past few days we were on the farm, but that was no longer the case.

Jiwoo and I sat down and had one of the most beautiful dining experiences I'd ever had. The ambience

was already out of this world, but the freshness of the ingredients and the way the chef prepared them

had me at a loss for words.

After the sumptuous meal, we thanked the staff again before climbing aboard the pickup truck. Jiwoo

was about to turn the air conditioner on, but I stopped him by touching his hand.

"I'd like to feel the breeze and take in the scents of the mountains," I said.

An hour into the drive, Jiwoo became more cautious because the road was dark. I had no complaints

because the slow speed allowed me to bask in the cool mountain air without the dust coming from the

dirt road.

There were fireflies here and there, and the night sky was astounding. It was all thanks to the fact that

the air pollution in Manila hadn't reached that place yet. I was having the time of my life until I heard the

engine chug louder and louder before a tiny explosion erupted somewhere in the vehicle.

"Fuck!" I cried when the pickup came to an abrupt stop, causing me to lurch forward. Fortunately, Jiwoo

had extended his arm in time to prevent me from hitting the dashboard.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concern evident on his face.

"Yeah," I answered. "Just bit my tongue, that's all. What about you?"

"I'm good," Jiwoo assured me. "Looks like we have a busted engine."