MANILA, Philippines – Pursed lips, a soft wince, and that familiar asim (sourness) that wakes up the palate. We all know the experience of suka (vinegar).

As Filipinos, we love our vinegar: it’s that sour kick that contrasts our richer, meatier dishes, and the brightness to our kinilaws and ensaladas. Not only is it the best partner to dried fish, but it is the savory-sour foundation of our adobo, and more.

And this love isn’t new. “Vinegar has been around since pre-colonial times,” culinary consultant and chef Bettina Arguelles told audiences at November’s Terra Madre Asia Pacific Festival, the Asia Pacific region’s biggest sustainable gastronomy event, held in Bacolod for the first time.

Because of our tropical climate, she said, our ancestors relied heavily on vinegar, salt, and other souring agents to season and preserve food while traveling or working the land. What was once a simple preservation technique has helped shape the flavor profile of Filipino food today.

However, while vinegar remains one of the most commonly used ingredients in Filipino kitchens, most of it is commercially manufactured. The art of making our oldest forms of vinegar — traditionally made, laboriously fermented, and naturally sourced — is quietly fading away.

From the ‘palm’ of Marcelino’s hand

Making Bulacan’s sukang sasa (nipa palm) is tedious and time-consuming. Chef Angelo Comsti, founder of Offbeat Bistro, recounts his award-winning story of Eddie Marcelino, a 75-year-old artisan who’s been making the traditional vinegar for almost half a century.

Marcelino’s daily routine begins at five in the morning in Pabongbong, Bulacan, long considered the capital of sukang sasa.

Before sunrise, he rides a wobbly bangka (boat) through the 1,500-square-meter marshland swamp his grandfather once owned, with his trusty wooden sinisikaran, a tool wrapped in rubber, looking for nipa trees.

Instead of kicking the trunks, as old practice dictated, he taps the stalks of the nipa palm fruit for weeks to extract the sap; this method is less physically taxing and doesn’t “hurt” the tree as much.

When the fruits are ready, he cuts the bunch, ties a bottle beneath the stalk, and lets the juice seep slowly into the container. He religiously does this for three consecutive weeks.

“Dapat huwag isasagad,” Marcelino told Comsti. “Dapat itigil na kung paubos na ang katas. Huwag iyong simot na simot.” (Don’t max it out; you should stop just before the sap totally runs out.)

If you drain it too much, the tree weakens. Give it six months to recover, and the tree can produce sap again.

He pours the murky white liquid into a tapayan, a large earthenware jar used to store liquids, and covers it up with rubber tires. He reserves some to drink as tuba, the traditional nipa wine, which his loyal customers usually order.

Marcelino lets the liquid ferment until foamy (“like beer,” Comsti shared) and pungent for two weeks, then transfers the vinegar into reused five-gallon containers. On a good day, he produces about five buckets. But when it rains, his output is less.

He sells the sukang sasa for around P100 each — “a measly amount for the load of work it requires,” Comsti said.

A middleman transports the vinegar to the public market in Calumpit or nearby towns, where it is sold at a higher price.

The job requires a lot from Marcelino, whose body is aging, but he doesn’t complain. He said that he prefers this work to the sweltering plastic corporation job he once had in Manila. He does not need to answer to anyone, and his earnings have put his five children through school.

“Ironically, sending his children to school has made him aware of professions beyond the farm and has consequently curbed their interest in taking on their father’s job,” Comsti shared.

The youngest of the brood, the only one who lives with Marcelino and his wife Angelina, is not “at least one bit curious about what his father does.” But the septuagenarian artisan continues the legacy his grandfather and father left him.

However, the generational gap isn’t the only problem. Pollution is worsening, and nipa groves are disappearing. Plantations are becoming fishponds, and hectares of palm trees are being cleared to become pools of breeding fish; these provide higher incomes.

“The odds are against Marcelino,” Comsti said, but he is not ready to give up his family’s long-standing tradition that easily. “He promises that as long as there are patches of nipa in his backyard and God allows him to take to the streets, there will be sukang sasa.”

The vinegar he produces is unlike any commercial bottle: it’s clean, smooth, almost cider-like in aroma and taste, slightly creamy in consistency, and can be sipped on its own. Its fruity acidity is stringent but not sharp; it sings on the tongue but does not sting.

“To save it, we need to consume more of it, to appreciate it, and to acknowledge it,” Comsti said.

Versatile and vibrant

“It’s important that we are able, as chefs, to keep this heritage in an inspired way,” Arguelles added. Aside from cooking with native ingredients, telling these stories keeps the cultural legacy alive.

Understanding the history of an ingredient reminds us of its importance. Before the kitchen, vinegar was used for daily life: as folk medicine, disinfectant, herbicide, and even a cleansing agent.

Vinegar proves that our regions are adaptable. Across the archipelago, communities developed unique kinds based on what was abundant around them — coconut (sukang tuba), cane, nipa, kaong palm (sukang irok), and more. In Ilocos, households cooked down their vinegar into lamayo for preserving fish.

“We are #TeamAsim!” chefs Arguelles, Comsti, and Tina Legarda of Bamba Bistro cheered on stage.

Legarda gushes over vinegar; it is as important to her as salt. Growing up, her family kept an entire closet dedicated to different vinegars in old jars, and her “sour journey” has helped mold how she conceptualizes her dishes.

“What I love about our cuisine is we’re thoughtful enough to think of ways to balance the whole meal out,” Legarda said. Vinegar is used for pickling or buro; fruits and vegetables like papaya, mango, radish, and mustard greens are used for atchara, a refreshingly tart side dish best eaten with our fried dishes.

Many enjoy vinegar as a condiment, and that’s Legarda’s favorite way, too. “It’s very personal,” she said — like how a whole table goes quiet when everyone starts mixing their own sawsawan (dipping sauce) for chicken inasal.

Some households like their suka with onions and chili; others add cucumbers. It’s a customizable ritual according to one’s own preference. There’s no right or wrong way.

Saving ‘suka’

Heirloom vinegars require a lot. Time, skill, resources, and patience for fermentation — things that this new generation may not be able to offer as much. “It’s a very laborious endeavor to be able to produce it,” Arguelles said, but that is exactly why we need to keep the tradition alive.

Supermarkets carry the fast, commercial varieties labeled as “imitation vinegar.” It has a shorter processing time and uses cheaper chemicals to allow mass production.

But what these chefs want Filipinos to experience is the distinct quality homegrown vinegar has to offer — it tastes different, adds a unique depth to dishes, and supports hardworking Filipinos who respect nature just to produce the cherished and versatile product.

“We thought that it was important for the younger generation to rediscover our indigenous and local ingredients and how those tastes,” Arguelles said.

“They are normally getting taken for granted because it’s such a humble or simple ingredient that we see in our pantries every day.”

And as Eddie Marcelino continues to till the land and provide for his family, for the chefs at Terra Madre, the call is simple: Use more local vinegars. Talk about them. Create with them. Celebrate them. Share these stories online. Bring them outside of their regions and into more homes, markets, food festivals, and restaurant kitchens. Tradition doesn’t have to die, as long as we don’t let it. – Rappler.com