Yesterday on the last day of work for 2007 I found a chance to try the steaks at Mamou's Kitchen. Barbara G. had mentioned that we should try this restaurant at Serendra because of their steaks. I was supposed to fetch Jaime (1/2 of brother #2) and his family from the airport. They had gone to visit Marcos country with my two sisters (Mitay #1 sister and Didi #2 sister, there is a #3 sister Camille) and were arriving at 9pm.
Not wanting to think about eating alone at home I called Cholo (son #2) who was at work in Makati if he could join me for dinner at Serendra and try Mamou's Kitchen.
Since we had no reservations we went early and was met by a friendly waiter who told me that they normally have two sittings one at 630pm and the other at 830pm and had a table for two but we had to get out by 830pm. This suited us because we had to be at the airport before 9pm.
The menu was simple and we quickly zeroed in on two entrees, a soup called Oriental Supreme that was available for sharing and the Angus steak that was available either as a Single (400 gms or 14 ounces) and Twin (800 gms or 28 ounces).We decided to have the soup and the Single steak because 14 oz of steak seemed to be too much for a person.
The steak also came with a choice of two sidings. Cholo and I chose the mashed potato and the creamed spinach. There was a notice in the menu that for the steak would take 20 minutes to be served. And we asked that our steak be medium rare.
The bread basket came in first with a butter dish that had a butter knife with it. I was taught in my younger days that a restaurant that served butter with its own butter knife was usually a notch higher than your average.
The soup came in first and I have never seen Cholo wolf down soup that fast saying it was really good. I agreed with him but I could not determine why it was good. The soup had crab sticks, scallops and shrimps(?) and flat noodles and a thickish consistency that was in between a consomme and a cream. It was so good but I could not say why it was good.
The steak came in earlier than the 20 minutes and was partially sliced in one inch cuts and was bathed in its own jus that had some olive oil on it. It had good marbling which at the end of the meal split our opinion about the meal. I grew up liking fat but Cholo under his mother's training was not too happy with the amount of fat the steak had.
We demolished the steak in no time and I felt the protein rushing to my head necessitating a spot often after dinner to wash of some of the umay.
Verdict about the meal, for Cholo the soup was the outstanding part for the meal the steak being just a tad above average while I thought the whole meal was outstanding.
The place was crowded with what you may call Ayala Alabang citizens and there was a white haierd lady who oversaw the whole of Mamou's Kitchen (she could have been mamou). We did not have a chance to dilly dally to find out who Mamou was because we had to leave for the airport but it was a good meal to celebrate the last day of work of 2007. (thanks Barbara)
Friday, December 28, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
a guest at our table
from his column in SunStar Weekend:
Dog-ears in the Wrong Notebook
Lawrence L. Ypil (with his permission)
On the table is set
While we all know how the way we drive (slow and sure, or overly cautious), the way we talk (faster than money, and quick into trouble), and the way we dress (outrageously different, sometimes downright obscene), are probably good indicators of the way we live, perhaps nothing’s as telling about the way we spend our day better than the way we eat.
Slow to chew, or quick to gobble up. Eternally guilty, or perpetually reckless. In hiding, or on show, how we eat may perhaps be as distinctive as our thumbprints, as telling of our inner persuasions as our astrological charts, and as indicative of personal quirks as our handwriting. Funny, how nobody’s bothered to proffer a method of reading our palates (and cleaning our plates).
Easy enough (and almost cliché) to read how a personal love for spicy food, could automatically be read as an attraction to adventure. Or how an addiction to cake could be hiding a hunger for happiness. Or a love for meat, could very well be, well, a love for meat.
But what to make of an obsession with appetizers, and pica-pica, wine in hand, while eternally delaying the slide into the inevitable main course? Or the inability to see the meal as a beautiful sequence of courses, so one dives straight through all parts, all in one go (lest this be the last meal of one’s life)?
What to make of the guy who goes straight for dessert and stays there? What to make of the girl who doesn’t even make it to dessert, because she can’t get enough of the main course?
A few days ago, a friend of mine confessed to always finding himself eternally on cocktails, pre-dinner chitchat galore, while the buffet table was slowly going the wayside of the empty. I myself admitted to going straight for the main course (always loving the meat of the matter), but rarely enjoying it, because my mind was still stuck on the appetizers I knew I missed.
What to make of ourselves when we find ourselves too picky we can’t decide what to eat? Or when we find ourselves too lazy we’d eat anything that was offered?
On the tables of the tongue are set the seats of our hearts: our insecurities and our pleasures, our fears and our joys. We live, whether we know it, by the way we eat.
Pity the man who like the biblical hears-but-doesn’t-listen eats without tasting. What flavors, escape his dire need
Glory be to the secret of it all: that one not wait (or weight!) for the lean months, or the fattened calf, that one eat often, and taste always. That one perpetually remind oneself (lest he forget, and every three-hours, says so the newest diet plan) not the pain of hunger, or the need for food, but the immense pleasure of appetite.
Dog-ears in the Wrong Notebook
Lawrence L. Ypil (with his permission)
On the table is set
While we all know how the way we drive (slow and sure, or overly cautious), the way we talk (faster than money, and quick into trouble), and the way we dress (outrageously different, sometimes downright obscene), are probably good indicators of the way we live, perhaps nothing’s as telling about the way we spend our day better than the way we eat.
Slow to chew, or quick to gobble up. Eternally guilty, or perpetually reckless. In hiding, or on show, how we eat may perhaps be as distinctive as our thumbprints, as telling of our inner persuasions as our astrological charts, and as indicative of personal quirks as our handwriting. Funny, how nobody’s bothered to proffer a method of reading our palates (and cleaning our plates).
Easy enough (and almost cliché) to read how a personal love for spicy food, could automatically be read as an attraction to adventure. Or how an addiction to cake could be hiding a hunger for happiness. Or a love for meat, could very well be, well, a love for meat.
But what to make of an obsession with appetizers, and pica-pica, wine in hand, while eternally delaying the slide into the inevitable main course? Or the inability to see the meal as a beautiful sequence of courses, so one dives straight through all parts, all in one go (lest this be the last meal of one’s life)?
What to make of the guy who goes straight for dessert and stays there? What to make of the girl who doesn’t even make it to dessert, because she can’t get enough of the main course?
A few days ago, a friend of mine confessed to always finding himself eternally on cocktails, pre-dinner chitchat galore, while the buffet table was slowly going the wayside of the empty. I myself admitted to going straight for the main course (always loving the meat of the matter), but rarely enjoying it, because my mind was still stuck on the appetizers I knew I missed.
What to make of ourselves when we find ourselves too picky we can’t decide what to eat? Or when we find ourselves too lazy we’d eat anything that was offered?
On the tables of the tongue are set the seats of our hearts: our insecurities and our pleasures, our fears and our joys. We live, whether we know it, by the way we eat.
Pity the man who like the biblical hears-but-doesn’t-listen eats without tasting. What flavors, escape his dire need
Glory be to the secret of it all: that one not wait (or weight!) for the lean months, or the fattened calf, that one eat often, and taste always. That one perpetually remind oneself (lest he forget, and every three-hours, says so the newest diet plan) not the pain of hunger, or the need for food, but the immense pleasure of appetite.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)