FEEDING WITH PHIL

It was midnight and raining in Bakal 2 when Phil fetched me with a Firebolt to get fed, arriving in Israel by noon through Tel Aviv and from there hugged the Mediterranean coast for the last 113 kilometers to Akkon where Landry waited at Uri Buri, the poached eggs in the shakshuka softly breaking into the spiced tomato and pepper sauce as shadows swallow ancient walls that would reemerged for fleeting moments but enough for us escape to Venice, at Cantina Schiavi where an array of cichetti, both sandwiched and plated, are being garnished with Parmigiano-Reggiano leftovers and drizzles of balsamic vinegar from Modena, the Michelin stars of Lisbon eclipsed by Ponto Final's rendition of the bacalhau a bras and pastel de nata paired with tawny port, a celebration that whisked us to London for fish and chips at Ken's Fish Bar and take aways of bubble and squeak plus a toastie from the Borough Market to soak James Bond's signature martini at DUKES Bar, shaken not stirred, not as bubbly as a Guiness but neat as an Irish whiskey that complimented the baked potato pancakes from Dublin's Boxty House, like what a shot of snap did with the smorrebrod from Aamann's Deli in Copenhagen after which we flew to New York through a much slower Nimbus 2000 that tooks us straight to the Peter Luger Steakhouse for lamb chops, to Totonno's for pizza before crossing over to Montreal where Schwartz's Deli whipped up a smoked meat sandwich, poutine and Agrikol's Haiti-style rum sour which got us teleported to the end of the world in Buenos Aires, right into a huge plate of ruvuelto gramajo at El Obrero's where we swam in a sea of potatos, eggs, cheese and vegetable hash like those who worked in the bodegons and the portenos who smelled like the asado from Don Julio Parilla that was our ticket to Seoul and a hot pot of tteokbokki at Mabongnim, a classic chimaek, and a lethal somaek for a night cap. 

Phil fed me well and out of gratitude, I confessed to him of using Harry Potter's invincibility cloak to slip through the immigration at Chicago's O'Hare Airport for a quick lunch of Jim's Original Polish sausage sandwich and Pequod's deep dish pizza, that I once vied for a world record of sorts in New Orleans by devouring a huge cochon de lait Po'Boy from Cochon Butcher and a platter of Willy Mae's Scotch House fried chicken in under a minute, that I was kidnapped by El Chapo while attending COP 16 in Cancun and was ransomed in Mexico City with a basket of El Hueqito's taco al pastor and a pot of Tepito Market's migas la guera, that it was actually my hologram that was seen at COP 17 in Durban because I was in Cape Town all the time, at the Gugulethu Township where I indulged in a daily feast of Gatsby sandwich and Mzoli's braaied meat, then reincarnated 5 years later in Marrakech for COP 22 where I shared with the head chef at Chez Lamine the secrets of an excellent pinapaitan from the offal of sheeps roasted whole.

Back in Bakal 2, the wife sent me to buy pots for her plants.

Petur's body was never recovered from Reykjavik's icy Faxafloi Bay.

And the culprits behind the Valhalla murders will never get caught because these were committed by Hitler's circle of evil who roamed the earth 60 years ago, give and take a few years, and partly due to Kata's failure to seduce Arnar who fell for the man at the bar. 

The murder plot was hatched by the ideology of Dietrich Eckart who nursed the devil from episodes of the failed Munich Beer Hall Putsch that led to an incarceration at the Landsberg Prison where Mein Kampf was written, the tragedy of Ernst Rohm and Rudolf Hess, Hermann Goering's pompousness, Heinrich Himmler and Joseph Gooebbel's hatred of the Jews, the sinister minds of Reinhard Heydrich and Martin Bormann, and the denseness of Albert Speer.  

But it was the "victory of light over darkness, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance" that prevailed which the Phantom Bikers celebrated with a Deepavali feast of roti canai, mutton curry with thosai, an assortment of Indian sweets, and biryani which I offered to Phil in the spirit of reciprocity.

A JAPANESE FOOD STORY

Manji died eventually, his immortal blade dulled by too many ayu (sweetfish) caught, gutted and grilled by the riverside.

Exacty 218 years later, the samurai reincarnated as Akira Shimazaki, personal bodyguard and connoisseur of beer and meat buns, and the desire of Minister Tachihara's repressed sexuality.

His superb arm-locking prowess eventually landed him a contract with Director Muranishi to ensure that none of Kaoru Kuroki's underarm hair gets into the Japanese-style potato salad and boiled pig trotters.

And that is how he was memorialized by Yuma who in 37 seconds created a manga version of the BG's huge hard-on spewing bone marrow for the tonkotsu, chilli oil for the tantanmen and soy sauce for the shoyu that sold as ramen packs to those who are quarantined and working-at-home in Bakal 2.

Manji/Shimazaki was a warrior monk who could have been a celibate Poor Fellow-Soldier of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon.

They lived by vegetables and bread alone and yet, Master Landry impregnated the French queen which is why his knights fell in the forest of Versailles and lost the Holy Grail to the Louvre, in the same way that Diarmuid's pilgrimage offering of turnips and dark bread failed to bring back St. Matthias's rock that was lost to the sea forever.

The Manila-Bangkok Stage will be most likely delayed but the feeding stations are already arranged with I, the Phantom Biker, vowing to start with a crab omelette at Jay Fai's no matter how long the waiting line will be.

Dessert is tentatively at the Issaya Siamese Club to be followed by an afternoon tea at the Author's Lounge before prepping with shaken and muddled cocktails at Err!'s for a 25-course finale at Gaggan's.

I will take and feed Phil with me all the way to Saigon to honor the five color beef salad of Cao Ba Quan, revisit Pho Bo Phu Gia's heavenly rice noodles and a betel nut leaf-wrapped beef grilled on the street, indulge in a chocolate dessert at Maison Marou, and perhaps stay longer for a breakfast of Com tam (broken rice) at Hoang Minh.

TO EAT IS TO LIVE

Food is a matter of perspective and I'll always prefer Kazutoyo Koyabu's stoic silence and crisp one liners over Jayson Yeoh's monologues.

For a former child soldier and prostitute, a dark meal of potato leaf curry with rice in Liberia is almost as good as a fancy bacon and egg spaghetti, and I can confidently say that the feuding gangs of LA South Central would prefer Granny's fried chicken and pilaf for their last meal over a chef's kapitan curry chicken, crispy fried fish and risotto with squid. 

Even the Nine Emperor Gods will stick to their usual vegetarian turtle buns and longevity peaches if offered an exotic torch ginger flower, crab and star fruit salad bowl.

That is why Saturday morning nourishment for the Phantom Bikers will always be goto with burnt tokwa bits and slices of pale biko. 

But in Vladivostok, an ex-convict would gladly trade macaroni and ofal for a once-in-a-lifetime dinner of cured meat claypot rice, just as the stranded refugees in Croatia would be happy with a side dish of baby goat meat with petai-so to go with their usual fare of curry flavored tomato sauce pasta.

Back in LA, a gourmet mushroom soup can elevate a prison-inspired wet burrito but the cremators and pandhandlers of Nepal will have to do with bean and grass curry.  

E kasi nga, Sunod lang ang multo ni Olivia kay Eman nang isagawa niya Ang Pangarap Kong Holdap dahil love ni Ben si Jen Through Night and Day samantalang Jane is surviving On Vodka, Beers and Regrets.

HUNGRY GHOSTS

On the 14th day of the 7th month, offerings of teng bang tuk, mian gui and moho kui were left untouched as Deng Xiao Peng opted for a midday beer and George Bernard Reynolds went for an instant shoyu ramen to fuel their argument on whether the Anglo-Persian Oil Company can be considered as socialism with Chinese characteristics.

Isaac Asimov showed no interest, preferring to coach Unimate in the culinary art of grilling mackerel and preparing yakiniku over a pile of burning hell banknotes.  

Takeshi the Samurai Gourmet has descended in Bukit Mertajam, his bento box of Vienna coffee and Neapolitan spaghetti reinforcing Jason's spaghetti marinara and Liberica specialty coffee because he can't cook for the virtual masked men in Baloc who asked for dinakdakan and sisig for their whiskey, brandy and beer.  

What History 101 did not tell about Yuri Gagarin and Neil Armstrong is that they brought mooncakes from space as offering to the Ghost King in exchange for kasane and manthis shrimp sushi, and that perhaps Betty Friedan subisisted on a pasta course, croquettes and brioche while writing The Feminist Mystique.

It might be also possible for Lisa Meitner and Otto Frisch to have accidentally enabled molecular bat kut teh while working on nuclear fission, or for a wayward hashed beef rice gravy to expose Photo 51 to Rosalind Franklin.

In the delicate balance between Giri and Haji, five skewers of yakitori might complement the mild flavors of oden and therefore meld the sharp contrast between Detective Mori and Constable Weitzmann because Taki is gay, Yuto is a gangster, and Rodney Yamaguchi is a rent boy who looks like someone from Romblon whom the Phantom Bikers would want to ride with someday.