Kuhol fit for royalty
If city folk saw where “kuhol” (rice paddy snails) come from, they would probably not eat the stuff. The snail is a voracious feeder that’s like a tube or a funnel; when it eats, an equivalent volume of waste goes out the back. And its flesh absorbs the scents and flavors of its environment and food.
Kuhol occurs and multiplies in fresh water lakes and rice fields, where they float, creep and crawl with ducks, carabaos and other farm animals. In the course of their short lives, snails slither over everything around them: plants, animals, plant waste and animal excreta. That’s the reason diners are often advised to eat only the lump of solid flesh at the front end of the kuhol; the tail end contains the gritty, dark and sometimes smelly waste. And that is why I do not eat snails outside my home.
I grew up in Barrio Pulanglupa, bounded in the west by the Zapote River and Manila Bay, and in the west by salt beds, fishponds and rice fields. These were our vast summer playgrounds; we fished in the ponds, gathered shellfish from the river, flew kites in the fields after the rice harvest.
When it rained, there was nothing to do but swim and come home soaking wet with baskets of “kuhol” and wild kangkong from the rice fields. Lola had a big bucket covered with a basket where she “farmed” the snails in shallow water for a couple of days before they went into the cooking pot.
We fed the snails kangkong and changed the shallow water at the bottom of the pail twice a day. On the third day, after a last meal of old bread crumbs or grated coconut (after squeezing the cream out), the snails were washed several times until their shells were smooth and shiny, and we had “Kuhol sa Gata” (Snails in Coconut Milk) for dinner. The snails were fat, with meat of even color from end to end.
After I left home, I did not have snails again until I fell in love with escargot in a setting straight out of a James Bond movie. Dolled up in a sequined cocktail dress, I was part of an advance raiding party covertly mixing with casino patrons at the Millionaires’ Club, one of a dozen elegant but illegal gambling joints whose neon lights made Dewey Boulevard look like a postcard. The club’s owner Lito Rivero (who most probably knew the police asset we were with) sent our table a bottle of champagne and a plate of escargot baked in garlic butter sauce.
The sizzling metal escargot plate, with indentations to keep the snails upright, came straight from the oven; there were special clamps to firmly hold the snails while we pried out the hot meat with wood-handled tiny silver forks. With champagne to cleanse the palate, the experience was sensual. And free, as were all casino food and drinks at the time.
When Pasay Police Chief Francisco Villa and his team began breaking down the casino’s front door, the club’s interior magically transformed. Roulette tables sank into the floor, replaced by a stage dropped down from the ceiling. Balloons of all colors appeared out of nowhere. The four-piece jazz group played “Happy Birthday” as six waiters lit the way bearing flaming shish kebab swords and a birthday cake. A faux celebrant blew the candles out and everyone feigned surprise when the cops finally got in through the ceiling. Happy days, those.
Martial Law closed the casinos and turned off all the neon lights on Dewey, now Roxas, Boulevard. Lito Rivero opened a very successful beer garden with excellent Pinoy food along Vito Cruz extension. Chief Villa left the police force and became a government lawyer. I got married and moved to Hong Kong.
As fate would have it, my husband loved escargot and wanted to serve it at our first anniversary dinner at home. Dying to impress our Hong Kong FCC buddies, I aimed to serve snails with all the trimmings, even paying a fortune for a dozen stainless steel escargot pans, clamps and forks from Lane Crawford. The escargot accessories upset our budget quite a bit and Vic was worried that there was not enough money left for canned French snails which he spotted at the deli. But I had no intentions of purchasing those vineyard-raised snails.
It was early February 1978, and ABC News, like most international news outfits, were sending crews to cover the elections for the Interim Batasang Pambansa, the first held under Martial Law. Ninoy Aquino was heading the opposition ticket and was campaigning behind bars through his cute and loveable youngest daughter, 7-year-old Kris. I flew to Manila with a camera crew and ABC News HK Bureau Chief Ken Kashiwahara. After a 3-day initial coverage, I flew back home to HK, my suitcase stuffed with boxes of kuhol.
In the early 1970s, luggage inspection meant an entirely different, and lenient, process. Manila’s airport inspectors were mainly concerned about dollars being smuggled out at the time when movement of foreign currency was strictly controlled. At the Freeport of Hong Kong, arriving baggage was opened only to check for firearms and other contraband, under which classification food items of any kind were apparently not included. Amused HK airport people readily accepted my explanation that the snails were for a giant aquarium.
Upon reaching our flat, I housed the snails in an improvised pen: a deep covered basin with tiny holes at the top. Two inches of water and a sprinkling of bread crumbs purged the snails on the first day. Day 2: water change and more bread crumbs, this time soaked in milk. Day 3: water change and bread crumbs soaked in wine or beer.
On the evening of Day 3, the snails were so fat and tipsy they were literally falling out of their shells. It was time to mercifully end their suffering.
A few shakes in tap water and their shells were clean and gleaming; no trace was left of rice paddy grime or smell. In the Roman tradition, they were slid, in batches, into a simmering pot of water, herbs, vinegar and wine (or beer). When the liquid turned to a boil, they were scooped out and drained; they’re ready to be baked with a garlic-butter- crumbs topping.
The snails’ meat was tender, with no dark or sandy waste at the tail end. It was redolent of grape leaves, its natural diet which was approximated by a meal of breadcrumbs soaked in wine. All the guests were raving.
My husband was a happy and proud man that night, convincing proof that “the shortest (or best) way to a man’s heart…”. - Article courtesy of Manila Bulletin.
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