Asa na ang tabon-tabon?: Kinilaw of Northern Mindanao

It was around May 2020, when I was depressingly stuck in Davao City during the pandemic. To liven up our gloomy atmosphere, my uncle planned “cooking parties” every night. We fried tempura, baked lasagna, made cheese sandwiches, cooked fish soup, and a lot more. However, the dinner that stuck with my picky tongue was what he called the “Davao version of kinilaw.” 

I helped prepare the dish, yet the ingredients he bought were incomplete as if something important had mysteriously fled from the kitchen. Still, I followed through with the recipe—chopped the white marlin or “malasugue” meat into smaller cubes, washed it, marinated it in vinegar, Sprite, chilis, ginger, onion rings, citrus, and lastly, topped it with cucumber slices. Right after, I was given the honor to be the first to pick up the spoon and steal the first bite. “Lahi man og lasa.” I said politely with feigned laughter, my dismay suppressed. It didn’t taste like the first time I tasted kinilaw in high school. It didn’t taste like the one we’d make back in Bukidnon.  My stomach weirdly ached, making me feel sick that I couldn’t finish my plate. It bugged me that there was no tabon-tabon in it. 

Tabon-tabon is a tropical fruit—yes, a fruit—native to Northern Mindanao, that is commonly used by our people in dishes like kinilaw. It’s an unconventional fruit with a bitter tuscan-colored flesh encased inside a hard brown outer shell, often mistaken for a chico fruit. We even have one large shrub, about 30 meters tall and its branches stretched out like a canopy umbrella, planted in our backyard which blooms and bears fruits all year round. It’s an uncommon culinary ingredient, although its usage dates back to a thousands years ago, having been discovered by archaeologists in Butuan wherein halved tabon-tabon fruits alongside fishbones were unearthed in an excavation site. 

By itself, the fruit barely passes as one since its eerie “brain-looking” pulp is filled with bitter sap that no sane child would dare lick. Yet, let it work its wonders on your kinilaw and you’ll find it more appetizing than ever! Not only does it take off the raw fish’s seashore odor and deep marine taste, it has the ability to prevent food poisoning and indigestion.

“Asa na ang tabon-tabon?” Experienced family chefs know well that one should never forget the tabon-tabon in their kinilaw. Eating fresh fish comes with risks, and tabon-tabon singlehandedly flicks all that off my favorite raw dish. All that needs to be done is to squeeze or grate the sap off its pulp directly above the kinilaw, then mix it carefully before adding a few toppings. There’s even an unspoken belief among my fellow townspeople that adding tabon-tabon in kinilaw is a way of protecting your loved ones from the impurities of “uncooked dishes.” This is true! 

Kinilaw is a dish enjoyed by many due to its tempting flavors, yet not many want seconds after the first plate. But fret not, think no longer of your worries if you find the dish in a Northern Mindanao household. The hosts know better than to forget the important ingredient so the guests may indulge themselves. Adding tabon-tabon to kinilaw is akin to saying “I want to pamper you in ways I could carefully do.”

My first taste of kinilaw was a riskless experience thanks to tabon-tabon. 

“Hala!” was the very first word that came out of my mouth the moment my tongue wrapped around the raw fish cooked in vinegar and citrus. Its tender sweetness streamed along the cold and mildly sour yet pleasant acetic stings. Its spices fizzled around my palate like a freshly opened can of soda. The cool malasugue meat that I buried my fangs in, the ambrosial acids blanketing my taste buds, the tabon-tabon carefully shielding my tongue from the cruelty of astringence—it urged my heart to race faster and my brain started screaming.“Lami lagi ni!” I didn’t expect it’d taste good! I went back for seconds like a starved animal, I wiped my food clean off the plate. When it ran out, I sunk in my realization of having almost missed out on this glorious dish had I kept turning away from its sight. 

Five years have passed and the pandemic has long ended. I am now back in Davao, willingly as a university student who’s still carrying my Bukidnon tastebuds. Recently, my seniors invited me to a fairly popular local carinderia, and as expected, the moment I read “Davaoeño kinilaw” on the menu, I dashed towards the counter to order one serving—a sudden urge to reclaim my argument. As soon as the dish was served, I picked up my spoon and bit into the fish meat the way I did back then. My muscle memory remembered each bite and each cringe—the relentless vinegar, the bizarre combination of the spices—I felt like an unfamiliar foreigner and it’s all because it didn’t have tabon-tabon in it. However, unlike the past, I didn’t feel sick. 

I laughed it off. 

I told my classmates and my seniors about how weirdly empty I felt while eating, despite having a good laugh as I recounted my days during the pandemic. Truth be told, I didn’t hate Davao’s kinilaw at all, yet—I love my hometown far too much to find myself loving another. Tabon-tabon is only found where it grows, only present where it is nurtured, only appearing where it is sought. Davao has its own culture and taste, but I seek tabon-tabon, I seek the way I am cared for by the predilections of my people.

The kinilaw in my hometown—in Northern Mindanao—bests all other kinilaws in Mindanao. The tabon-tabon strips off its hidden adversities and challenges your appetite. It welcomes you, it cares for your tongue, it tells you that you are allowed to indulge heartily. It holds you in the most careful way it could.