How a Restaurant Made Me Question How Much I Can Call a Place Home

There is a Filipino restaurant in Philadelphia that has been getting a lot of attention lately and for good reason: Tabachoy. Once a food cart, now a 28-seat family style BYOB.

"We cook the food that got us made fun of in elementary school, when we opened our country crock “Tupperware” - the food that reminds us of home. We don't strive to make a better adobo than your mothers, but we do want to share ours with you." Tabachoy Philly

Last month I explored the benefits of food and nostalgia in cultivating self-continuity, meaning, and social-connectedness. Food is a gateway to sharing these echoes of home. I made a reservation for my husband and I for the following week and waited in anticipation.

I lived in the Philippines for high school and it is a country I hold close to my heart. My step-mom was also born and raised in Manila, with most of her family still living in the surrounding area. It was the first time I had lived somewhere with extended family close by.

I remember family gathering with tables filled with lumpia, pork adobo, and pancit palabok (my favorite) served family style. I learned basic Tagalog but never got beyond pleasantries. I felt like an outsider at the dinner table of big family gatherings, unable to follow the conversation that had my family screaming with laughter. It made me want to hide away in my room, but when I hear Tagalog now, it makes me so excited. "They're from the Philippines," I whisper to whoever is with me, a wide smile on my face. Hearing the familiar music and lilt of the accent, I feel at home. Even though I don't understand the meaning behind most words, I feel comfort in hearing them.

When dining at Tabachoy--absolutely losing my mind over Chance's Fried Chicken Wings-- there was a family of six or so sitting to the left of me, speaking quickly in Tagalog. A wave of comfort washed over me, but quickly receded. I found myself at odds: how could I feel at home and like an outsider at the same time?

I wanted to go up to them, to talk about what, I'm not sure, but I felt a connection to them. At the same time, I felt like I don't have the same ownership of the Philippines as they do.

Is the ability to call a place home a sliding scale? Do my loyalties shift as I continue to move and live in more places? I am not from the Philippines but I feel a love so deeply for it, I don't know how else to express it. It is not home, it is not mine, and I haven't been back since I left, so what is it?

When we were returning the check, I wanted to say Maraming Salamat Po (thank you) but got too nervous. My husband joked that I was showing off my Tagalog, but I think I was just trying to connect. I wanted to feel like I belonged, to cling to those in that restaurant and say, "I miss it, too." I still long for the heat, the monsoon rains, the sound of Jeepneys and mopeds squeezing through the dense traffic, the sunrises casting the sky a blazing orange, the dense, green jungle...

This is something I'm still struggling with. I don't have a happy metaphor to wrap this post up into a pretty, bite-sized anecdote. I think I will always struggle with where I belong. How much of Manila is mine to call home? When I go back, it will not be the same. Markets have closed and new ones have opened, buildings have planted into the skyline, the people I once knew may no longer be there. I am longing for a place perhaps, that no longer exists.

My time in Manila sits in a tropical snow globe, forever rooted and unmoving, only visible from the outside.

Featured image credit: NICOLE GUGLIELMO