Gayumas Don't Work No More

My sister and I have an arrangement that we would discover a new restaurant every weekend. That day, we were having too much fun with Google Map (Turn right to Meh-teh-teg [Matatag] Street) and ended up at Gayuma ni Maria. Gayuma is located at 123 V. Luna Extension, Sikatuna Village, Quezon City.

Loving that Witch's Brew sign at the base of the steps.

I visited Gayuma once, on my 30th birthday (yearssss ago). The food was great and reasonably priced. It was dinnertime then and the ambience was kinda perfect, with low lights, soft cloths flowing from the ceiling and yes, rose petals everywhere. But seeing it in harsh daylight is making me re-think the warm and happy feelings it once brought me. That little front foyer for instance, has the dirtiest couch you will ever see. *Cringe.*

I became more disappointed when we got inside. The place has the smell of an old cafeteria that has not been cleaned in a while. We picked a table, and the first thing I noticed were the stains on the table cloth. I shot my sister a look to see if she's still willing to eat there. She shrugged and reminded me that I've taking tons of pictures of the place already, it's nakakahiya to bail out now.   

Pop poring over the menu.

I know Gayuma is going for that laid-back, rustic look, but without the cover of night and those warm reddish/yellowish lights, it just could not pull-off the desired look in daylight. There are places which just look better at night. That day, at 10am, Gayuma just looks dirty and cheap.

There was only one waiter, who does not seem to know what he's doing. He was just scurrying about like a headless chicken, but we waited patiently, because it was just him versus three filled-up tables. We placed our order and we were told it would take 15 minutes. I was already ravenous at that time, and saw this torta-like thing:

The torta is quite good, or maybe it's my hunger talking. My hometown has its own version of torta, and that was the bomb.  Gayuma's torta pales in comparison to our torta. I think it has too much butter and vanilla flavoring. Hmm. This must be the first time I complained that something has too much butter.  

My sister's order was worth the long wait. This must be one of the best pasta I've tasted. I'm not sure why it's called No Boyfriend Since Birth, but I suppose if you could eat this everyday, you would not mind not having a boyfriend. Gayuma is slowly redeeming itself with its meals. My only complaint (of course I have to have a complaint, I am born hard-to-please) is that the serving is too small. I could eat three of this:

No-boyfriend-since-birth pasta.

I'm not sure what got to me, but I ordered this vegetarian burger. It wasn't bad. But being a carnivore, I really cannot call it great.

Anyway, I thought I could still recommend this place to friends (just go at night time, maybe?), until I asked for the washroom and was shown upstairs. No, I'm not gonna post the pic of that filthy washroom (what, next to my sexy burger and no-boyfriend-since-birth??). But here's the dining area at the 2nd floor. Hookah, anyone?

Raincoats at the side are for sale.

Heart-peppered walls.

The Interesting World of Slimmers

My sister dragged me to Slimmers World one rainy day because they are having very irresistible promos. I used to slave over at Fitness First, in the same mall, before I accepted the fact that the Php2750 monthly fees are not just worth it, especially when you cannot make the commitment to show up weekly. Well, what do you know, Slimmers World's promo pegs my monthly fees only at Php850. That's about my usual bill on my pig-out Saturdays, so without thinking twice, I signed up. Big mistake. 

The Facilities. The most obvious mistake of course is not checking out the facilities and the workout area first before signing up. On my first day, I was almost prevented from working out because I did not bring my own lock for the locker. When I had that sorted out, I made a beeline for the treadmill only to be told that I need to make a reservation to use it. And when I finally found a vacant, unreserved treadmill and ran for 30 minutes, I was tapped on the shoulder by another person who said, "ako next ha. 30 minutes ka na eh." WTF. Apparently, the unwritten rule is, you're allowed to use each machine for 30 minutes only because there obviously isn't enough treadmill for everyone. And the exercise machines and the dance classes are cramped into this one rancid-smelling, claustrophic space, with [outdated] music of the dance classes blaring at intolerable noise levels, so loud you can no longer hear the music coming from your own earphones. So bid goodbye to your Gimme Gimme, and learn how to run again to the beat of Eddy Grant's Electric Avenue. One day, I showed up and found they actually hold yoga classes, on that same dance floor, with practically the same noise levels going on, and the yoga teacher shouting instructions at the top of her lungs in order to be heard. Hmmmm. I suppose no one really expects you to find your inner peace at the gym. And anyway, what did I expect my Php850 monthly fee to buy me? Obviously not the spacious locker rooms of Fitness First, its clean, hair-free and soap-and-shampoo-abundant shower rooms, hair dryer, sauna and steam rooms, or the four dozen tv's in the treadmill area. Oh yes, Fitness First used to have unlimited sodas too (there, you have an inkling now where my downfall started).   

The Trainer. Like all first-timers, I was assigned a trainer whose first move was to take my weight (Ma'am obese po kayo), and measure my neck, my arms, my waist and my thighs. He had an assistant who writes down the measurements as he say them out loud (thighs, 28 inches, legs...blah blah). Wtf, right? Is he saying each of my thigh is the waistline of a chubby person?? I know it's not his fault, and this right here is just my pride talking, but how come I can hardly hear my ipod above the din and yet his voice seems to carry out very clearly into the entire room as he reads from that cursed tape measure? There's something sinister going on in this gym, I swear. 

He made me do 300 sit-ups, which did not kill me as I expected, but paralyzed me for the next three days. After that, he lead me in front of the mirrors, gave me dumbbells and instructed me to lift it for 25 reps. Then he left me and did not come back until after a whole 5 minutes during which I stood dumbly there (dumbbells, dumbly, gets?), while sweaty, muscular guys go around me, undoubtedly checking out my 28in-circumference thighs. I was so hopelessly self-conscious I started pumping those dumbbells again, and then, just when I felt like crying already, the trainer showed up. I made sure he heard my counting "73...74...and 75. Whew." He apologized profusely for leaving me so long (omg I could have been raped, you SOB!). I said I understand (because those training sessions were for free, and my mom always taught me that if a thing comes for free, you have no right to complain). But he repeated it again for the next three sessions, leaving me alone for really long periods of time to attend to someone else, and coming back and apologizing. At that point, I no longer cared if it's free or not; had he been my boyfriend, he would never even get past strike two. So when he finally offered his training packages of Php7,000 for fifteen sessions, I was resolute with my "no." You've had your chance, boy toy. 

The Mean Girls. I've noticed a group of girls performing on the floor with these sets of very complicated (for me) footwork. I've always loved dancing classes and thought I could join the class, but I could not help but notice that the instructor does not slow down to show how each move is executed. They just turn the music on and launch into it full speed, in a way that does not leave any room for a beginner. Then inside the girl's locker room, I would overhear these same girls talking about what shirt color they would wear for their next session. That's when I noticed all of them were wearing pink. The next time I saw them, they were all in black, and the other time, green. What a sorority. 

Then one night, I was changing into dry clothes and I heard them trash talking the new girl who apparently just joined their exclusive dance group: "Eh ano ngayon kung dance instructor sya? Kaya ba niya yung mga left-right, left-right natin? Dance instructor lang sya, hindi sya aerobics instructor! Baka di niya kayanin yung mga ginagawa natin!" Everyone chimed in agreement. 

Then I got distracted because two toddlers suddenly barged inside the locker room. I just finished reading the rules and regulations posted in the work out area, and the gym strictly prohibits kids in the premises unless they are also enrolled. Anyway, their mom (I think) ushered them in and said, "O bless ka kay Tita, blah blah." And the titas/mean girls all cooed together "uyy ito na ba si [name]? ang laki laki mo na! blah blah."

In addition to the Rules and Regulations posted in the workout area, the locker room is peppered with signs like this. Topmost is: Children and Non-Clients Are not Allowed Within the Center Premises. 

But never mind that, the kids probably just dropped by to pick up their mom. The mean girls saga however does not seem to be over. That same moment, as I was preparing to leave, another girl plopped down her gym bag beside me, while talking non-stop to her gym buddy:

Girl 1: Tingin mo may anak na si [name]?
Girl 2: Oo naman no. Kita naman sa balakang niya. Ang lapad lapad. Katawan pa lang nya, halatang may anak na sya!

These girls are fucking scary. I'm sure those girls they denigrated thought they are her friends. Hmmm. *Must not make friends here. Must not cross their paths. Must not trust their smiles.*

The Peddlers. I was tying up my shoes while sitting on the gym's narrow benches when I found a Chinese girl standing uncomfortably close in front of me, with totally no regard for personal space. She said, "Mooncake."

Just that. One word, in a very flat tone. "Mooncake." Now I just finished watching ten episodes of this tv series on international espionage and the first thing that came into my mind was that she is a member of the Chinese mafia and she identified me as their local asset, and "mooncake" was the code word. So I went "....ah...ahh...umm..." because for one insane moment there, I actually debated between denying I was their contact spy, or playing along and hoping I could chance upon the reply code word (champoy? hopia baboy? tikoy?). 

Then she repeated it, with a heavy Chinese accent, and said, "Ikaw mooncake." The same way you heard "ako legal wife" in the movies. It then dawned on me that she is calling me Mooncake! Oh you sick fuck. My eyes widened and I bristled in indignation. I was trying to come up with something equally mean to say when another girl approached her and said that she would be canceling her order of mooncake because it's not payday yet. 

Oh. Well. That clears it up then. I politely declined her mooncake offer. She made a face, and then walked away. 

The following week, her face suddenly came up as I slammed my locker door shut. I stifled a scream of surprise, and she nonchalantly said, "oatmeal cookies," in that same monotone that's becoming familiar now. "Oatmeal cookies. Very healthy." 

I told her I don't really like oatmeal cookies and mightily resisted the urge to point out to the posters behind us:

She scowled and looked straight at my thighs, and I don't understand chinese, but I swear I heard her brain saying, "well no wonder you're so fat."

Last night, again at the locker room, I saw a woman holding a tupperware-full of lumpiang toge (beansprouts eggroll daw according to Google). She was hurriedly selling it to another girl, who was trying to dip the lumpia in a separate tub of flavored vinegar. 

And then my sister, who was working out with me, came in giggling and pointed to the top of the locker rows, where two boxes of J. Co. donuts are discreetly stashed. I guess that completes the checklist of ironic prohibitions:

• Children and Non-Clients are Not Allowed Within the Center Premises.
• Peddling of Goods is Strictly Prohibited.
• Food and Drinks are Not Allowed Inside.

#Personal

Balay Indang, July 2012.

Memories can be a bitch. 

The College PE Shirt

My favorite night shirt is my college PE shirt because it's loose and soft and comfortable. One exceptionally warm night, I was looking forward to wearing it when I remembered that I already passed it on to Brody:

 
As a freshman in 1998, I thought it was the coolest PE shirt ever created, and thought that only something as cool as Ateneo could create one. Until you actually read what's written at the back.

What's a Lose One = Lose All? 

My initial reaction was, huh?!? Anyways, in PE apparently, the worst thing you could do is incur a cut. Later, I learned that it was the teachers of the P.E. department who came up with this shirt. So go figure. 

A Post-Election Post

I was reading through one of my favorite blogs and came across a promotion of the movie Badil, by  Chito S. Rono. I first heard of the word "badil" as a child while manning our store near Pier I. Fishermen would bring in their catch of the day, and "badil" would somehow find its way to their conversation. I did not bother to find out what it meant.

The second time I heard it was during this year's local election. Post-election, I would stay with my mom on the phone while she incessantly complains how there are no pedicabs after elections so she had to walk to the bank, in the noontime heat, to make the required daily deposit for her lotto outlet. The town is awash with money, she said. No one likes to report for work (hence, no pedicab drivers), the Taiwanese store selling electronics has sold out every single cellphone, and my dad has to sleep late counting the practically limitless number of Php20 bills coming in (my parents are in the retail business, hence the small bills). Actually, it's not the counting of the bills that irritates him but the need to peel off every politician's campaign stickers stuck to the money. Sticky bills, we call them. If you leave the stickers behind, some of the goo would stick to the next bill, and chances are, your counting would be off. 

I am no stranger to how election is held in my quaint little town (I have been repeatedly corrected that it is a city now, but the sentimental side of me wanted it to remain a town). The day before election, I went home from volunteering in the NAMFREL office (this was pre-automation years, when NAMFREL still mattered), and found that I have an envelope waiting for me. Inside is a sample ballot and about Php1,250.00, in various bills, each with a campaign sticker of a local candidate. Come election day, we would gather information from our watchers and be puzzled why the voter's turn-out is  still low when it's already past noon. Turns out most voters would be in the waiting sheds outside the school, all refusing to go in and vote because apparently, they have not yet received their "envelopes."  I must count myself lucky, yes? 

This year's election is no different, except that the stiff competition between the parties has certainly upped the ante in vote-buying. Out maid, for instance, insisted on going home to our town and voting because she said she is guaranteed to receive at least Php4,000.00 from candidates. She earns that amount in a month, so who am I to argue with her? My mom confirmed this, saying some of our employees received up to Php8,000.00, because while their votes have already been bought, some of them are "nagpapa-badil." I thought then it meant that they are bidding out their votes to the highest "bidder" but get to keep all the bid money. Well, my favorite writer explained "Badil" better:

Written by Rody Vera, Badil follows a small-town political operator and his son as they do their rounds on the day before the election. The father, a recent stroke victim (played by Dick Israel, himself a stroke victim), distributes cash to the mayor’s supporters and reminds them of personal favors they had received from the man. Everything is personal in Filipino politics. They get word of “dinamita”—a plot to manipulate the vote by paying the mayor’s supporters to stay home on election day. (According to Rody, “badil” is Waray for “dynamite fishing”, and in this context, “killing the vote”.)

Ahh the things you learn everyday. I have not been able to go home to our town for the past elections, so I asked her if an envelope came for me. You see, you don't even have to approach any of these candidates; their representatives would go to your house, give you the envelopes, cross you out on the list, then move to the next house. My mom explained that there are no envelopes for me because I am no longer on the list of registered voters, my growing political apathy having deactivated my registration 2 elections ago. She then showed me the proceeds of the crime money, fondly saying it's her "souvenir." Take a look:

Envelopes with your printed name, precinct number, etc. One from each political party. So organized!

Stickers all over.

This one is my favorite. Mommy said the candidate is a known tailor in our town. Points for Creativity!

And this one is probably's Dad's favorite, because it sticker-free! Comes in a small, nice envelope, and probably less incriminating.

 I used to think only the local candidates resort to vote-buying.  Here's one from a party-list.

Years ago (and I think every election thereafter), advocates realized it is impossible to do away with vote-buying, so they created the slogan "Ibulsa ang pera, pero iboto ang konsensya" (err...pocket the money, but vote according to your conscience?). Well, the rule in my town is that whoever gives the most gets voted. Because there is no honor in receiving money from one and voting another candidate. I suppose in the midst of these election crimes and dirty politics, some sort of "decency" still creeps in. Well, yeah, decency is a stretch, but it cannot be denied that some sort of unspoken rule or order is still followed even when there is no compulsion to do so. 

It's been months now and I was kinda hoping that our maid's election money would have run out by now, so she can go back to us (evil, I know), and restore order in our house. But oh, the barangay election is coming up. This is going to be a long wait.

Of Questionable Authenticity

My mom was always making parinig that she wanted a longchamp bag like mine. I always dismissed the idea of getting her one because I know she only wears bags with a gazillion outer and inner pockets/compartments. But her birthday was fast approaching and I'm running out of ideas, so I browsed my instagram feed, aka, online shopping store, and looked for the longchamp bag seller with glowing and positive feedback. And yes, her bags were marketed as authentic. 

I initially wanted to get two le pliage long handle in fuchsia and paper. It was pretty cheap at Php2,900, but I thought the price was ok since I had friends buy me one from Europe for around Php3200++. I thought it's a bargain because years back, I got a bilberry medium le pliage long handle from Rustan's Makati at Php7600 -- I can justify it, but it's a long story. My sister still looks down on it saying she got (a fake) one from Divisoria for Php300, which she says she does not regret. I seriously doubt it. 

I was about to place my order when this instagram seller posted a Celine Mini Luggage "overrun" priced at Php18,500. I've seen those bags from travels abroad and none costs below 80grand. I had to pause there and think. Oh, but I still have to clean the house and do the grocery and change the bedsheets in mommy's room before she arrives, and absolutely no time to shop, so WTH, I placed an order for one (instead of two) large long handle. 

I sent the payment for the bag on Tuesday, but I was only able to inform the seller the following day. I looked up her terms on instagram and found she ships on Saturday only. I needed the bag on Friday, so I asked if she could send it Thursday, the latest. She said she can ask her "supplier" to do that, but  then she won't be able to check the bag first. I was puzzled and asked what she meant. I assumed she has to check if they're sending me the right color and size, but she said she also inspects the bag first if it has "damage or something." Alarm bells were going off again; how can an authentic longchamp bag have defects? 

Then again, what can I still do? I already placed my order and sent the payment. 

Anyways, despite the pleas for an early shipping, I still got the bag the following week, on a Monday. Like it was shipped on a Saturday, not a Thursday. But I no longer made it an issue, because she did say she only ships on Saturday, and hey, if I wanted that bag on time, I should have ordered it say, 2 weeks back. 

I liked the bag the moment I opened the package. It has, after all, all the markings of an authentic longchamp le pliage. The inside color was white, which is the right color for a fuchsia. It has plastic washers on the buttons, the leather has the diamond pattern you read about in blogs, and even the "ykk" mark (and another mark I could not capture on my point-and-shoot camera) on the zipper:

The seller was asking me if I liked it (I know it was only a text, but I could feel the enthusiasm in her voice. I mean, text). I was about to reply yes, but saw something that does not feel quite right. I pulled out my longchamp from Rustan's and started comparing:

Leather handle.

I had to follow up "fake" with a question mark because I'm really no expert in bags. The most I can do is be fair and compare it with what I can guarantee is an authentic longchamp, having bought it  myself at Rustan's. I would not even compare it with the Europe-bought bags because I did not buy them myself (although I do trust my friends got me authentic ones).

Blogs authenticating bags said that the leather handle should be flat instead of tubular. My instagram-bought bag got this right. But as shown above, the original longchamp has a clean finish, whereas the right one has leather trimmings showing. I don't know if it disappears in time.

The back of the leather flip cover should be smooth and not hairy. My "original" pic looks hairy, but it's actually only dirty (sorry), because it's my beater bag, and it has accompanied me to six countries, backpacking and taking public transportation, and getting stuck at state borders. Anyway, the kinda fake bag does have the smooth leather finish, but the indentation marks of the jockey on a horse can hardly be seen. Actually, only the back legs of the horse is visible. The rest of it is a flat, smooth surface.

Well, I'm not too sure about this, but I think the number "1" on the kinda-fake bag is starting to fade. On the other hand, I had the Rustan's bag for more than 3 years now, and all the letters and numbers have no fading parts. And God knows how horribly I've treated this bag. At one point, I had my lunch and my flip-flops in there together. 

Did I say my kinda-fake longchamp has the diamond pattern mark of authenticity? Well, I'm re-thinking that now. When I saw the close-ups pics, the leather on the right kinda screams fake, right? But, wow, the jockey on the horse even looks more detailed than the original bag on the left. 

At first I thought I'd let it go, after all, I did know the risks I was taking with these online transactions, and I paid a pittance for it. But a part of me just could not let it rest, and so here's how I replied to my instagram seller:

And there goes that factory overrun defense again! I was just pissed beyond belief. Her reply made me think about the "overrun" Celine Mini Luggage she posted a while back, aka, my first warning sign. It reminded me too of The North Face backpack I bought in Ho Chi Minh.  Everyone (in the Philippines) was saying that TNF backpacks were cheaper  in Vietnam because it was made there, and if you want it dirt-cheap, go to Ben Thanh Market because they sell authentic TNF, with very negligible factory defects. I haggled back then together with another (unsuspecting) British tourist and got my backpack for around Php2,000 (it was selling in Manila TNF shops for Php6,000). That bag too, has all the markings of an original TNF, complete with the plasticwares that whistles (so you can call for help when you're out backpacking in the wilderness?). But I took a good look around Ben Thanh, and there were probably a hundred shops there saying their TNF backpacks are factory-runs but authentic (authentic, not class A or AAAAAAA). And that's just Ben Thanh, so, come on, can there really be that many factory defects all over Ho Chi Minh? I don't think so. The Vietnamese lady who sales-talked me even gave me her card, saying she exports these bags to the Philippines (where it's probably sold again as overruns). So there, unless you're in an official outlet shop, don't kid yourself and say that bag is authentic. 

I no longer sent the pictures to the instagram seller because, what's the point? She is probably convinced she's selling authentic items (sometimes you have to give them the benefit of a doubt). Plus my mom adored the bag for like, 24 hours, tops, before tossing it out and saying she hates it because it doesn't have pockets and compartments. This whole fake bag thing probably worked out for the best. 

A Very Long Post on Stacy's

The moment we saw pictures of Stacy's from a someone's facebook post, we've been raring to go. Actually what did it for me was the generous serving of (heart-shaped!) rice. So one rainy Sunday morning, after a good run at UP Diliman, my sister and I and the trusty Google map, finally made it to Stacy's.

The place has quite a charm. Most blogs warned us that it is impossible to dine inside Stacy because there is always an event going on. Indeed, there was an ongoing one when we got there (and another one before we left). We were about to head across over to Pancake House when we saw that they lined up some tables outside the restaurant, for the walk-in diners.  

Service was a bit slow, because I think the ongoing event made it inconvenient for the waitress to move the food from the kitchen to the outside dining area. But for the meantime, we were to feast on these delightful assortment of popcorn, marshmallows and pretzels. Why didn't this place exist when I was a kid??

I'm a collage newbie, but I hope to get better in time.

There was an incorrigible child at the next table and he was given sheets of paper and crayons. I guess they'd give me some too had I asked. Oh well.

The pitfalls of dining al fresco in the Philippines is the lack of air condition. But that day was rainy and chilly, so I ordered what I thought would be my comfort food: tuyo flakes and chorizo on fried rice and tomato and mango salsa on the side. 

My sister went for the safer choice of Homemade Chicken Parmesan. 

The food was a bit on the mediocre side, and I suppose it was mostly because the look of the place set expectations too high. But I'm just being picky I guess. Like, I would have wanted my tuyo to be a bit more well-done, and lot less malansa (err...fishy?), and de-boned, please. My sister, on the other hand, is from the school of sweet, Filipino-style spaghetti, and so she found the red sauce on the chicken parmesan too sour. But no matter, the coffee was great. 

And then the order for the next table arrived, and omg, I have to have that croque madamme (a croque monsieur with poached egg on the side)! But I could no longer take another bite (did I mention they don't skimp on the rice?), and so we decided to go back the following week, with more company.

As expected, the place was booked again for another event, a baptism, so we were once more relegated to the sidelines. The kind  and uber-cheerful waitress however allowed me to take some pics of the inside of the restaurant before the event's guests started arriving.

Someone better fix that S.

Cath Kidston aprons. I want, I want.

That adorable pink rotary dial phone still works!

So anyway, I went back for the croque madamme right? Well, guess what, they ran out of french toasts. So the hyper waitress suggested I have the Apple County instead. I took a quick look at the menu and saw it was a chicken salad sandwich. So alright, get me one of that. 

And I was again disappointed! I started a sarcasm-fueled drivel: It's all mayo and apples and not even a bit of chicken! And this salad dressing! Ugh! And then I saw the menu fineprint description. Chicken salad sandwich indulgently (they weren't kidding on that) blended with premium mayo, refreshing green apple bits and purple grapes... So there. Why was I surprised to see apple bits on the sandwich? What exactly did I expect from the name "Apple County?" So I ate it all up with all the dignity I have left. No actually, I gave the other half to Kororo, who said it wasn't so bad. Of course, why would he complain when he got that really good mushroom soup and the Mobster Meal:

That garlic bread is to die for.

Italian sausage with oil and garlic pasta.

This is what my sister got. Some sort of casserole, which tasted "just fine."

I am on this "perfect Sunday morning" marathon, so I refuse to leave Stacy's without salvaging breakfast. I ordered what I thought was a dish that one could never go wrong: spaghetti and meatballs. 

It was okay. Not stellar, but good enough to make me recover from Apple county. Anyways, I'm still going back for the croque madamme. 

A nice touch. Last time I had butterball was when I was reviewing for the bar.