To cook is to elicit emotion. That first bite of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (extra strawberry jam, toasted cinnamon bread, no crust), transports you back to a time when your grandmother would lovingly prepare it for you. Or that aroma of barbecue that snaked its way around your backyard as you ran around with your cousins and elbowed each other for the first burger. Food is more than just something that you consume. It is something that connects you with your old memories.
Keeping this in mind, to have respect for those memories is necessary, particularly when reimagining them in some capacity. However, Bon Appétit Magazine blatantly ignored the sentimental value behind halo halo, a Filipino dessert, when they completely changed its ingredients in the magazine’s “Ode to Halo Halo.” The first abomination of the “ode” comes from referring to halo halo as a sundae. It is certainly not a sundae. Author Chris Morocco’s resulting dessert is most definitely a sundae, so please refer to it as that and not halo halo.
The primary backlash following the discovery of the “ode” comes from three components: the wording of the recipe itself, its ingredients and the utter disrespect for the cultural roots behind certain dishes.
Firstly, an “ode” usually refers to a poem “in which a person expresses a strong feeling of love or respect for someone or something.” That term has a connotation of reverence for an original, then perhaps an expansion or slightly different interpretation. To use one of Morocco’s terms in the recipe, this was a “macerated” attempt at an “ode.”
The ingredients of halo halo are purposefully and specifically chosen because of their Filipino origin. Ube halaya is a traditional ingredient made from mashed purple yam, yet replaced with banana and brown sugar in Bon Appétit’s recipe. It also replaces sweet red beans, macapuno and other traditional ingredients with Americanized interpretations.
Culinary interpretation is a creative art, and utilizing different flavors in a traditional dish is necessary for evolvement. However, when referencing or using the idea of an original in any way, a connection to the first iteration of that dish is necessary. Halo halo is a dessert often associated with childhood memories and preparing it with family or friends. To banish those traditional ingredients is not only disgracing the dish but also the memories associated with it. It’s like suddenly making grandma’s cookies into pancakes. They’re just not the same.
Fusion, however, is a different story. Driven by creativity and bright chefs, like Roy Choi and David Chang, unique culinary interpretations make us think while maintaining strong connections to original flavors. Choi’s flavors are distinctly Korean and Mexican. He melds his Korean upbringing, surrounded with flavors like kimchi, with his Los Angeles childhood and eating street tacos.
“First of all, food was a part of our culture growing up as Koreans. In America we separate things,” Choi said in a NPR article. “Things have very rigid borders but in Korean life it’s food everywhere all the time.”
What separates Choi’s interpretation of a traditionally Mexican dish from Bon Appétit’s interpretation is his love and appreciation for the memories behind such a dish. It’s not just a matter of throwing random ingredients in a bowl and calling it halo halo, with some shaved ice tucked away in there somewhere.
Similarly, Choi does not brand himself as traditional Mexican cuisine. It is a new life of Korean barbecue more than anything, and you can feel Choi’s emotion as he describes the lifestyle and interpretation. He is not stealing a Mexican dish, completely changing it and saying nothing has changed. It has changed, and it has changed for a reason, but Choi knows the difference and can explain why.
“An Ode to Halo Halo” strips this culturally significant dish of any emotion it once had. Gone are the memories, and gone is the authenticity. But it does have gummy bears.
