LOUIS MISSOURI — On one of our last visits before he passed away, Tito Ed –businessman, gastronome, and my grandmother’s youngest brother – held my hand, and looked me in the eye, his amber eyes glinting mischievously despite the cancer that raged inside him.
He was the resident joker of the family, the funny, mischievous grand uncle who always had a joke, a punchline handy. Whenever he could, he would make a pilgrimage to my grandmother’s house to pay homage to her cooking. He laughed hard, he ate well, he lived. It was difficult to see him as a mere shadow of his past self.
I leaned closer, anticipating to relay a message to my grandmother, his beloved sister, whose famous nilat-ang baka (beef shanks stew) simmered until kingdom come in a savory broth with potatoes, snake beans, and corn – that he would probably never savor again until the next lifetime.
“Kaon gyud (Eat well),” he said firmly through a cracked voice, as if a fallen general issuing a final command to his troops.
Despite hearing him clearly, I just had to ask, “Unsa, Tito?” (What do you mean?)
He cleared his throat with much effort, visibly annoyed by my seeming inability to grasp what he had said. He was probably growing impatient knowing how time was slipping like grains of salt falling from the gaps between his fingers.
“Ang kinabuhi mubo. Paspas,” he said as he gasped for air. “Kaon gyud, bisan-unsa imong ganahan samtang kaya pa. Kaon ug daghang humba. (Eat well, eat anything you like while you still can. Eat plenty of humba).”
While the Tagalogs have their adobo, we Bisaya take pride in our humba, a sweet and savory dish made from thick cuts of pork belly braised slowly, patiently, and lovingly in a flavorful blend of soy sauce, brown sugar, a splash of tangy vinegar, and aromatics like bay leaves, garlic, and on rare occasions, star anise.
Depending on the mood, we might also add fermented black beans, and banana blossoms, infusing the dish with even more depth and complexity.
Although humba and adobo share a base of soy sauce, sugar, vinegar, and aromatics, the proportions differ, making them more like close culinary cousins than siblings. Humba leans toward the sweeter side, thanks to generous amounts of brown sugar caramelizing beautifully against the tender meat and rich, jiggly tambok (fat), creating a unique yet homey flavor profile.
Although adobo has been popularized as the poster child of Filipino cuisine, humba reigns supreme in Bisaya-speaking households across the Visayas and Mindanao. Just as our Tagalog cousins consider home-cooked adobo to be the best in the world, we Bisaya believe that the most legendary humba is the one prepared by family.
And like adobo, there are as many variations of humba as there are Bisaya households in the Philippines and around the globe. Where two or more Bisdak (short for Bisayang Dako or pure/genuine Bisaya) are gathered, there surely is a plate of humba waiting to be enjoyed, preferably with steaming white rice, and a sweating bottle of Coke.
Ronda, a small town in Cebu Province, may lay claim to humba with an annual festival celebrating its own take on the dish, but I must insist that the best humba I’ve ever had was the first one I ever enjoyed at our family’s ancestral home in Tanjay. I was probably five, it was likely a weekend, and it was most certainly the eve of the Feast Day of St. James the Greater, the City’s patron saint.
I sat at the kitchen dining table, secluded from the flurry of visitors who came for the pre-fiesta kumbira (feast). I could hear the flurry in the kitchen with my aunt giving instructions to the family cooks as they simultaneously prepared a variety of standard fiesta fare.
My yaya (nanny) emerged from the kitchen with a steaming plate of rice, and a bowl of freshly-cooked humba. Its fatty layer glistened as it soaked in its sweet and savory bath. This humba was a classic: thick chunks of pork belly braised with cracked peppercorns, soy sauce, brown sugar, vinegar, and garlic, accompanied by black beans, banana blossoms, and half of a hard-boiled egg.
This humba set the standard for my tastebuds, a craving that would linger for years to come, and one that would only be satisfied when the dish was prepared by family.
When my uncle, my father’s youngest brother, and perhaps the best cook among the siblings, briefly stayed with me in Manila, I would end my workday promptly at 5:00 p.m. to rush back to the condominium in time for dinner. There, my uncle would be preparing, among other tasty things, the family’s signature humba.
In my hometown, humba is considered both a staple at fiestas, and a common dish at carinderias (eateries). It is served during celebrations, but also widely available in almost every corner eatery for anyone seeking everyday comfort food, a delicious diversion from the bitter hardships of the daily grind.
Through humba, we celebrate, as well as commiserate. In Bisayaland, humba is every man’s pork. You can find it in some of the most affluent households but also in the most humble kubo (hut) or carinderia.
The best humba tasted like a cherished memory. When the meat met my mouth, the tender chunks of pork belly nestled on a spoonful of hot rice melted effortlessly in a flood of flavors and nostalgia that brought me back to balmy afternoons in Tanjay, at the patio of the house in Ilaya, surrounded by lush foliage and plump orchids, stems drooping to the ground as they bore the weight of one too many blossoms.
While most “proper” restaurants back in the day deemed humba unworthy of the dignity of being plated, no other pork dish from my childhood—save for lechon, of course—has come close to its thunderous, tambok-trembling embodiment of Bisaya identity.
I once attended an event in London celebrating Filipino culinary history when the speaker boldly declared her vision for adobo to be the call sign of the global Filipino community. If it is, then I also believe humba stands proudly as the culinary call sign of the global Bisdak community.
Opening a sealed container of humba among a mixed group of Filipinos – especially abroad – is perhaps the most effective way to reveal the Bisaya among them.
As soon as the heady aroma of pork braised in caramelized brown sugar, soy sauce, vinegar, and spices escapes the lid, it’s like a secret signal, much like the early Christians drawing the fish symbol in the sand. The distinct, warm, earthy aroma wafts through the air, and those familiar with its rich, savory promise will instinctively perk up, eyes sparkling in recognition and eager anticipation. It’s a powerful, unspoken connection to heritage, instantly uniting the Bisdak through shared love for this comfort dish.
However, perhaps the biggest misconception people have about humba is the belief that it is an indigenous Filipino dish, invented and braised into being in the archipelago. Humba may have been prepared in the Philippines as long as or far longer than the Spanish occupation, being one of the many culinary treasures we adopted from centuries of contact with the Chinese, whether by way of trade or immigration.
While trade between the Philippines and the Chinese reportedly began as early as the 9th century AD, a more lasting imprint of Chinese culture, especially from southern territories of the Middle Kingdom took root during Spanish colonization, between the 16th to 19th centuries, especially during the Manila-Acapulco Galleon Trade, of which the Chinese port of Quanzhou in Fujian was an important stop.
The Galleon Trade’s promise of a brighter and more lucrative future, coupled with the domestic woes and political turmoil in China during this time, contributed to the influx of Chinese immigrants into the Philippines. Just as brown sugar melts into the potent mixture of soy sauce and vinegar, so, too, did the Chinese assimilate into Filipino society, intermarrying with the natives, as well as with Spaniards.
This assimilation, however, was not always smooth and easy. At times, the struggle was akin to mixing oil and water.
Many Chinese immigrants during the colonial period faced significant hardships. In Chinese in the Philippines, a chapter by Teresita Ang See in the Encyclopedia of Diasporas, Ang See mentions how Spanish authorities carried out mass expulsions of the Chinese from the 17th to 19th centuries, driven by the belief that they posed a threat to security.
The anthropologist Dr. Michael Tan, author of From Sangley to Tsinoy: Changing Identities among Ethnic Chinese in the Philippines, highlights that during this period, the Chinese were often forced to live in ghettos, such as the Parian in Cebu.
Tensions occasionally erupted into violent confrontations, and the Chinese were often scapegoated during periods of social unrest. Despite these obstacles, the Chinese community persisted, gradually integrating into the broader fabric of Filipino society. They brought with them their rich cultural heritage, including a rich canon of culinary traditions, many of which became so deeply embedded with local culture that many Filipinos today are surprised these dishes actually trace their roots to Fujian cuisine.
Humba’s basic ingredients and the slow, deliberate process of braising meat in a combination of soy sauce, vinegar, brown sugar, and a variety of aromatics point to its roots in Fujian or Min cuisine, one of the eight key Chinese culinary traditions.
This method of cooking, known as “red-cooking” or hong shao, is a hallmark of Southern Chinese culinary techniques. It involves slow-cooking ingredients in a savory-sweet braising liquid until they reach a tender, melt-in-your-mouth perfection.
In Fujian, a hearty meal of “red-braised pork belly” is more commonly known as hong ba or the Hokkien hong bak. While some believe that humba is a contraction of humot nga baboy (fragrant pork), it is more likely that its Filipino name was derived from its Chinese counterpart.
The similarity in names reflects the deep cultural and culinary connection between Fujian cuisine and Filipino cooking. So, while the poetic notion of humba as “fragrant pork” holds charm, its true origins probably lie in the linguistic and culinary heritage brought over by Chinese immigrants.
The Fujianese influence on humba can be traced back to the historical waves of Chinese migration to the Philippines, particularly from the Fujian province. Chinese immigrants, brought with them their rich culinary heritage, which seamlessly integrated with local Filipino ingredients and tastes.
This fusion resulted in humba, a dish that embodies the depth and complexity of traditional Chinese braising methods while incorporating distinctly Filipino flavors and ingredients.
In Fujian cuisine, the balance of flavors—sweet, salty, and tangy—is meticulously achieved through the careful combination of soy sauce, sugar, and vinegar. The use of aromatics such as garlic, star anise, and bay leaves adds layers of flavor, enhancing the dish’s aromatic profile. This technique is evident in humba, where the pork is slowly braised to absorb the rich, caramelized sauce, creating a dish that is both deeply flavorful and incredibly comforting.
Humba, by any other name, and give or take a few top-up ingredients, is actually universally present across South China and Southeast Asia.
In Shanghai, a similar dish, believed to be humba’s precursor, is known as hong shao rou or ‘red braised pork belly.’ Taiwan also has its own version called lu rou fan. Across many places in Southeast Asia touched by Chinese immigrants from Fujian, one can find a local version of the same dish: Babi kecap in Indonesia–pork braised in sweet soy sauce; tau yu bak in Malaysia and Singapore, pork braised in — you guessed it — soy sauce, sugar, vinegar, and aromatics.
Compared to its kindred dishes, humba’s ingredients are relatively pared down, likely reflecting the availability and access to ingredients in the archipelago. Where dishes like hong shao rou and lu rou fan use Shaoxing wine, a staple in Fujian cuisine that adds acidity and sweetness, humba substitutes this with vinegar.
During and after the American colonial period, clear sodas such as 7Up or Sprite also became popular additions, reflecting the integration of soft drinks into the Filipino diet. These sodas not only provided the necessary acidity and sweetness but also helped tenderize the meat during the braising process, performing the same role as Shaoxing wine.
Despite the different names and occasional variations in ingredients—such as the addition of hard-boiled eggs, black beans, or banana blossoms—the essence of the dish remains the same: succulent, tender meat enveloped in a rich, caramelized sauce that balances sweet, savory, and tangy flavors.
This culinary technique, deeply rooted in the culinary tradition of Fujian, has been embraced and reinterpreted by various cultures, each adding its unique twist while preserving the fundamental technique of braising.
Humba, therefore, is more than just a Bisaya dish or culinary call sign. It is evidence of cultural exchange and adaptation across South China and Southeast Asia you can literally sink your teeth into. Its widespread presence and enduring popularity highlight a shared culinary heritage and inextricable interconnectedness among these regions.
Whether enjoyed in a stuffy carinderia somewhere in Dumaguete or in the busy corners of a Shanghainese kitchen, humba and its kindred dishes offer a taste of the history of trade, migration, adaptation, and shared flavors that render geopolitical tensions irrelevant. Let’s not even argue about authenticity. What is that, anyway?
Those of us who grew up with humba—or whatever it’s called in other parts of the world—hold it close to our hearts, not in the way people obsess over the latest trending local delicacy, but with a deep, enduring affection.
The taste, of course, is a given. Yet, the craving for humba is rooted in its tangible representation of moments, people, and relationships.
Here is a plate of trembling pork fat rising above a pool of sweet soy sauce, black beans, and banana blossoms, a totem of time spent with family and friends in a rural hometown. Familiar faces we see again and again from baptisms to birthdays to funerals.
This is what it truly means to consider a dish ‘authentic.’ It’s less about its origin, and more about the genuine feelings it evokes. Crafting a dish so satisfying and comforting requires more than just the right set of ingredients or equipment.
Of greater importance are the people who make the dish what it is, and what it will be. Humba, and many dishes we deem as ‘comfort food’ are built on these genuine and enduring relationships.
This must be why, at a deeply personal level, the best humba for me will always be the one prepared by family, regardless of whether it includes or misses black beans, banana blossoms, or the coveted hard-boiled egg. It’s the love, care, and shared history embedded in each cholesterol-laden bite that makes it truly incomparable.
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