Celebrating 'lechon'

(or how our son survived his birthday in Germany without it)

 

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“I want a lechon for my birthday”, our son Martin told me and my wife one day. He was turning six in December that year and we asked him what he wished for his birthday. We arrived in Germany some months back from the Philippines and life was then a painstaking period of adjustment:  establishing a home, building a new support system, and above all, looking for work.

For me and Martin there was this added burden of learning new ways of doing things. And what better way there is, to start acquainting ourselves with the new Kultur, than to know how we could celebrate his first birthday in our adopted country.

It had become some kind of a tradition for Martin to have lechon on his birthday back in Davao where we lived for six years. He particularly relished that tender yet crispy part of skin found on the pig’s belly or the one at the lower neck. Typical Pinoy, we used to tease him as he struggled to bite a mouthful of the pork’s shiny hide. 

Although I didn’t get any lechon for my birthday when I was a child, my family always had a big one during our annual town fiesta. Come August 28—the feast day of Saint Augustine—we children would wake up to the vociferous squealing of pigs being slaughtered, cleaned and spiced up, getting prepared to be roasted.

In the yard some of the men helping to cook would prepare the place to roast the pig and build a big wood fire where I and my brothers would then gather around. As soon as the thirty-five to forty-kilo pig was mounted on the long bamboo pole ready for turning above the fire, a fight would ensue among us children over who would be first allowed to turn the handle attached to one of the pole ends carrying the weight of the pig.

As long as we regularly turned the beast round and round, the men would gladly let us do the work as they sat nearby enjoying a gallon of bahal (a three-day-old coconut wine) telling jokes or stories to one another. Now and then they would control the heat of the fire or give us instructions to turn it this or that way making sure that the lechon was evenly brown.

From early on I found doing this task enjoyable, even meditative: the slow and rhythmic turning of the pole, the steady heat emanating from the fire, punctuated by the laughter and sometimes singing of the increasingly drunken men as background.

I still remember drawing deep satisfaction every time I saw the first glint of oil shining on the brownish surface of the pig’s skin or smelled the sweet aroma of lemon grass escaping from its belly.  It meant the task was about to end and the men seeing or smelling the same would scatter the fire on the fringes, allowing just enough heat to turn the skin crispy and its flesh tender and properly cooked.

At lunchtime I saw the fruit of our labor lying grandly like a king at the center of the table, surrounded by his entourage of rice and other minor dishes. Without fail our guests would heartily devour the lechon first before the other dishes and would later compliment my father on how good and delicious it was.

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Many years later as I started a family of my own, I discovered another aspect of lechon that made it a regular feature in our own celebrations:  it can easily feed a whole neighborhood.

Planning for Martin’s first birthday one day, I remember how my German wife panicked when I told her that she should expect more people who would show up for the party than were found on her guest list. (Being mestizo for one, Martin was rather popular in the neighborhood and his proud yaya had earlier warned me how the neighbors had been anticipating his birthday.)

 “How could people just come when they’re not invited?”, my wife innocently asked me as we hurried through her original menu: kinilaw (raw fish soaked in vinegar and spices), sinugba (grilled fish or pork), pancit, spaghetti, potato salad, etc. It wasn’t enough, I was afraid, and we decided to order still one big lechon, to be on the safe side. And happily, we did, because that saved the day when the whole neighborhood—not to mention countless cousins and relatives from the province—indeed showed up.

For Martin, eating his first lechon was an experience in itself. I still remember how he clambered up to me full of fear as he saw the men deliver his lechon. I assured him that it was something delicious and took a bit of skin to let him try it. How his eyes lit up with excitement as he tasted it and from then on became a solid fan.

Now in the new country we have a problem: how do we explain to our little son that not only won’t he have his favorite birthday dish this year, but that he also has to be content with a smaller number of guests?

Since Martin’s birthday falls on the 6th of December which in Germany is St. Nicholas Day, the day when children receive small gifts, my wife sort of transplanted this Teutonic tradition when we lived in Davao and invited children of friends, colleagues, relatives and, of course from the neighborhood for a big double celebration.

We would start the party by singing songs about Santa Claus (since there were really no appropriate English or Tagalog songs for it, we had to settle for the “Santa Claus is coming to town” stuff) followed by the opening of little gifts for the children like they do in Germany.

And then we would sing happy birthday for him followed by his blowing of the candles on the cake. Then the scramble for the food on the table would begin: children crying because they wanted this or that food; yayas balancing two platefuls on their hands—one for themselves, the other for their wards; and adults lining up, critically eyeing which dish to partake of.  With the drinks finally secured, they would sit down or stand at a corner together with friends or acquaintances and start enjoying the food.

In the beginning my wife was always amazed how we Pinoys managed to put all kinds of food—including even the dessert—all at once on the plate. But later on she was resigned to the idea that this potpourri of dishes on a plate is part and parcel of our fantastic and chaotic way of celebrating. 

In comparison, birthday celebrations in Germany tend to be a private and rather staid affair, carefully taking into consideration limitations of space and time.

I couldn’t hide my irritation once when a friend, thinking that it would be too much to have seven children as guests in our little house, volunteered to take care of Martin’s little sister in her apartment. It’s unthinkable in the Philippines! How could Anna not be allowed to be part of her big brother’s birthday celebration?

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In Davao once, we invited his entire kindergarten class—more than a dozen of them, not counting the accompanying yayas—plus relatives and friends, plus the ever-present neighbors. And crowded as our house became that day, space was never a problem: guests were all over the house, including even our bedroom, eating and having fun.

Aside from the small number of guests, Martin and I realized that unlike in the Philippines where we could celebrate his birthday and St. Nicolas Day together, in Germany we couldn’t invite any of his friends that day. Children here celebrate the opening of gifts from Santa Claus together with their families.

Back home such a feast would tend to stretch on and on—from lunch until supper, or as long as there are still bits and pieces of lechon left to finish off—here he’s got only three hours maximum to celebrate with friends.

Another realization was that, children’s birthday parties here are, well, for children. No yayas roaming around nor the countless adult relatives nor neighbors casually dropping by and, in the process, partaking of whatever is on the table.

Seeing the disappointment of our soon-to-be six years old son that it’s difficult to grant his wish, my wife and I went back again to the drawing board. The problem was where on earth could we find lechon in the land known for sausages and sauerkraut (a kind of cabbage salad which is not really to everyone’s taste)?

Luckily for us, the answer, we discovered a day or two before his birthday, was just lying a few blocks away from our new house.

While walking around one Sunday afternoon, we noticed a queue in front of a small shop (normally businesses are closed on Sundays in Germany) and saw people coming out carrying small packages wrapped in aluminium foil. Coming closer, we saw the billboard: Ferkelbraten. 

 “Of course, that’s our lechon!” my wife suddenly cried in a kind of aha fashion.  Our problem was apparently solved.

Martin’s birthday finally came that year. And like we always did in the Philippines, we celebrated first St. Nicholas Day. Little gifts like crayons and colored papers and chocolates and oranges were surreptitiously packed in stockings and boots placed on top of a sled, in front of the door.

To celebrate the day, we invited a few close friends and family members of my wife.  

We all gathered around the candle light singing songs for St. Nicholas and then on cue somebody (a neighbor whom we earlier asked) banged on the door—the signal that Santa Claus’s gift had arrived.

Martin, followed by little Anna, excitedly rushed to open the door and, lo, the gifts were there alright. But where was Santa? Of course the neighbor had hurriedly disappeared, leaving Martin and Anna searching vainly for the bearded man’s footprints. It is a scene—or the variation in which a big-bellied relative complete with white beard and all would play Santa’s role—that is many times repeated in countless German homes with little children on this day.

But since it was also his birthday, unlike other children, Martin was entitled to open another set of gifts. As we sang birthday songs for him, my wife prepared the table for dinner. And as she called us for dinner, Martin’s saw something unusual on the table.

 “What’s that, Mama?” he asked, pointing to the dish served on a 20 x 40 x 8 cm tin casserole. “Well, that’s your lechon”, my wife answered as she apportioned a hefty portion of Ferkelbraten on his plate. “Come taste it”.

Although served in smaller portions (we ordered four kilograms for eight to ten people), it really tasted like our very own lechon: its skin was crispy yet tender and you can taste pepper as the dominant spice.  But I missed the aromatic smell of lemon grass I was so fond of in lechon, its sweet, sour, and spicy sauce.

Asked if he was satisfied with his German lechon, “well, it is not like the one I used to have”, he answered.

I think I knew what he meant. Back home lechon is not just a dish, but also a way of celebrating—inclusive, informal, and with lots of fun involving lots of people. Not having been home for six years now, Martin is waiting every year for his real lechon and the kind of birthday celebration he used to have with relatives and friends back in Davao.