Defiling everything from my credo against chain restaurants to my heritage

Despite my general SF snob refusal to eat at chain restaurants when independent and superior establishments are readily available, there is one chain restaurant in South City(that's South San Francisco to you Yay Area neophytes) where I am not ashamed to go.

Yeah, Max's of the Philippines. Their motto is "The House That Fried Chicken Built." To get you in the mood, check out this commercial:



After watching a bunch of these commercials, I kinda have a crush on their spokesperson, Piolo Pascual. Too bad he turns out to be totally cheesy and weirdly into his bible group. But judging from those commercials, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised.

Anyway, back to the food reportage. I went with my childhood buddy Curtis. We are both ABC (American Born Chinese), and while I am only a half breed, supposedly boasting some cred with my other 50% being Filipino, I couldn't even claim to know as much about our eats as Curtis who does have some family/friends that have initiated him into the Flip food club.

Sadly they were out of the lumpiang and the kare kare (oxtail stew in peanut sauce) which were our first choices, but the replacements were hardly a disappointment. Okay, the fried wontons that we got instead were not so great--a bit skimpy on the meat. However, the entree that replaced the kare kare, pinakbet, was a delicious melange of flavors.

It had squash, green beans, bitter melon, okra, pork and bay shrimp in a light sauce. I especially love the treat of all those lovely sharply distinct vegetal tastes contrasting with the saltiness of the meat.

In a major faux pas, I later realized when reciting the meal to my dad that I was pronouncing the dish incorrectly the whole time when I ordered it. I kept saying PINK-a-bet, when it should be Pi-nak-bet. This is what happens when your father teaches you absolutely nothing about the country he was born in and the cultural heritage of our family. Until its too late and you've already embarrassed yourself. Maybe he just likes watching my self-humiliation. I can credit him with teaching me much about music but Asian American stuff...mmmm not so much.

The other dish we ordered was a superstar. I've mentioned lechon in this blog before. Well, lechon kawali is fried pork belly, all crispy skin, fatty ripples, and sinewy meat creating a carnivorous trifecta too good for words. Yet this was not what we ordered.

Nope, we got the Bicol express. Essentially it's lechon kawali, but its bathed in a milky coconut sauce with a hint of chili. I think Curtis and I were gunning for a little more spice as we had requested, but still, this was some mouthwatering ish. Yeah, lechon taken to the next power.

The perfect accompaniment to all this was the garlic rice, laced with shavings of fried garlic.

The menu is so deep and varying that we had a grand slam meal without even ordering their famous fried chicken. Thankfully, there's always a next time.

Not to mention, Rene, a simultaneously feisty and endearing waiter who attentively refilled my coffee when I had a longanisa and egg breakfast with my dad there some many years ago, still works there.

If this is what it means to eat at a chain in a suburb, then I'm all for breaking my own rules.