The Humble Panaderia on the Street I Can’t Remember

I don’t eat a lot of traditional Filipino bread, my village doesn’t exactly have any stores and I lack the driving training needed to go somewhere I can buy them. Because of that, the memories tied to these baked goods are irreversibly tied to the last time I ever smelled or tasted them, during the last few months before I had to move away from everything I knew.

It’s been roughly 5 years since that day. A particularly violent storm had wrecked my first home, a townhouse in Paco, requiring my family to move to a condo we own in Ermita. A subsequent fire also scorched the townhouse, burning away any possibility of moving back there along with it. My parents weren’t exactly thrilled at the idea anyway, they hated what the community had become and were ready for a change in scenery from the big city. This opportunity came in the relocation of my father’s office, giving us the perfect opportunity to move somewhere more peaceful, to Laguna.

I seemed to be the only one opposed to this move, the idea of having to move away from everything I know and everyone I loved, even if that mostly referred to friends at school at that point. Still, I was young, so I had no say in the matter, and so the date my parents set waiting for our house to be built was more bitter a countdown for me than they’d probably hoped.

I informed my friends at school, many of which went home on the same school bus as me, as it was only a handful of months away. I felt like I needed to capitalize on every second, even if I was also struggling through academic work at the same time. My friends felt like my lifeline during those few months, as further difficulties with the entire process strained my relationship with my parents, my mother getting angrier at me the longer I didn’t accept it. The simple, emotional, and admittedly lowbrow fun we’d have in between classes and on the ride to school served as an invaluable comfort, a priceless resource almost, and none of those moments stick out to me more than when we’d go to the bakery.

Bus rides often drew long, especially since I was the second or third to last person to get off, leaving the school at roughly 4 in the afternoon and only reaching home when it was deep into 6 o’ clock. On certain days, maybe when traffic was particularly merciful or dismissal was at an earlier time, the driver would make a stop deep into his route, so deep that only a handful of passengers were left at that point. He’d stop at a panaderia, a humble hole-in-the-wall establishment selling all types of traditional Filipino bread in the middle of a quieter, seemingly residential part of Manila surrounded by houses and near some kind of grass field (probably a park).

The panaderia’s setup had more in common with a sari-sari store than a walk-in bakery, the same ornate metal grate barring the window where you’d interact with the ate at the counter, with gaps just big enough to push money and goods out of. The display made of scuffed plastic near the counter showed the selection they had for today: pan de regla/cheese bread, Spanish bread, monay, pan de coco, some sort of bread containing a bright purple ube filling, and of course pandesal. By the time we got there in the late afternoon, the bread had already lost most of their heat, but they remained as full in shape and fluffy in texture as ever, their display failing to contain the sweet aroma exuding off of them.

Ironically, however, I actually rarely bought anything when I was there. My management of money was absolutely abysmal at that time, so by the time I got there I only had roughly 8 pesos to my name. Instead, I waited for my friends’ purchases and shamelessly asked them for just a piece. Oftentimes they would stalwartly say no, but after a few more tries, they’d tear off a lump from the item they bought and give it to me, to which I eagerly gobbled up before realizing it wasn’t enough to satisfy my palate and being ungraciously cut off.

My closest friend there, Vienlie, always ordered the same thing in the exact same way, “Ate, isa pong Spanish bread!” He seemed to be a diehard fan of the messy, buttery, and sugary treat, even if I never see him eating it in any other time. We’d often sit on the steps of the school bus and chat while waiting for the others to finish their orders, the sun already beginning to set on the horizon, and we had done the very same during the last time I’d ever go there.

It’s a shame then that I can’t remember what we talked about.

In fact, this seems to be a common thing within this memory, I can’t seem to remember the finer details. I no longer remember how far away that field was to the panaderia, I don’t remember the writing on the street sign leading up to it, I don’t remember if the plastic display was on the counter or under the counter, and I can’t remember what Vienlie told me in that moment. All I could remember was the emotion of it; I remember that whatever he said was comforting during a time when I was sad, even if he said it in the same laidback attitude he always did.

Maybe it was because of that attitude that it felt so comforting, so comforting that I used the memory over and over again to calm down, using it as my “happy thought” to the point that it’s become worn and nearly unintelligible with time. I feel like the emotion will always stay with me forever though, as when my father recently brought home a Spanish bread from his trip, that memory suddenly presented itself to me again when I unwrapped it and took a bite.

It looked clear, for that fleeting eternity.