John had a wild, almost preposterous theory: if a girl could love his favorite—albeit dingy and questionably hygienic—noodle shop in Binondo, then she was the one.
"This place smells like used wet socks ah," he warned a few days before our first date—half-joking, half-testing me.
At the time, dating didn’t appeal to me—not even a little. But food? Always. Even now, I still wonder what made me say yes to that date. His persistence, maybe. The promise of a free food tour around Binondo? Highly likely.
I scanned the laminated menu, yellowed from years of greasy fingers, as the scent of broth hung thick in the air. A waiter shuffled by, balancing a tray of steaming bowls—the kind that fogged up my glasses and smelled like the childhood of the boy sitting across from me.
"Want to split one big bowl?" he asked.
"No, thank you," I said. "I’ll get one whole for myself."
He grinned.
Last year, I found a message he had sent to one of his best friends that very night, written in all caps:
“SHE’S THE ONE!!!”
Our relationship was built around food—finding it, sharing it, debating which fried chicken deserved the top spot in our completely arbitrary ranking system (McDo, Tom Sawyer’s, or Jollibee). Which froyo was superior? (Red Mango, Pinkberry, BLK, or good ol’ White Hat) We sent each other links to new restaurants like love letters, always planning our next meal.
Even our fights revolved around food. Once, I wanted to try a shabu-shabu place in BGC, but John, ever the stubborn Taurus, insisted on a fancy Japanese restaurant in Makati instead. I stewed in silence the entire drive, arms crossed, gaze fixed out the window in classic petty protest.
He ordered three platters of sushi, a bowl of gyudon, tempura, and a tantanmen ramen—for two. The scent of grilled eel and soy lingered between us, thick with tension, filling the silence.
"Sarap, noh?" he smirked as I took a bite.
I was still annoyed, but I couldn’t help but nod, chewing.
"So, bati na tayo?" he teased.
I remember tearing up, overwhelmed by frustration and love for this person all at once. “Yes. But can we go to the hotpot place tomorrow?”
He laughed—that full, hearty laugh I loved then and crave now. I still pass by that restaurant and smile, wishing I hadn’t been so petty, but mostly thankful for the little and tender ways that love was always on the table.
It was always like this—food as an argument, a love language, a way to understand each other. We plotted restaurants on Google Maps diligently, recommended newly opened cafes to friends like we were passing down family heirlooms. Even among our circles, we became the go-to couple for food advice—What’s the best ramen in town? Where do we get the best brewed iced tea? Should we trust that hole-in-the-wall noodle place that smells vaguely of old socks? (Yes. Always yes.)
It was mornings I’d wake up to a message from him: “Heading to work! Made you coffee. It’s in the fridge.” Grocery runs at Santi’s. Cooking for friends on weeknights. The precise way he made his authentic carbonara—pasta cooked perfectly al dente, a generous bowl of grated pecorino romano, guanciale crisped just enough to release its rich, golden fat, and egg yolk folded in with practiced ease, creating a silky sauce that clung to each strand like second nature.
And then came the diagnosis. Stage 4. Rhabdomyosarcoma of the prostate—the first recorded case in the Philippines. It caught us all by surprise. One day, he was perfectly healthy. The next, we find ourselves in an airless hospital room, trying to make sense of medical terms too heavy to hold.
In the midst of it all, food became something else entirely.
The sterile trays in the hospital. The lukewarm soup and sliced fruit I forced myself to eat beside my lover’s bed. The way everything tasted the same—like waiting, like fear.
But not for John. Even as his hair fell and his body weakened, his appetite remained steady. Friends and family brought him his favorites—Hainanese chicken from Tiong Bahru, iced latte from Candid Coffee, dumplings from King Chef that he inhaled as if they could save him. The hospital room was always filled with warmth, love, and the familiar comfort that only food could bring.
One day, he ordered molo soup from the hospital menu. One spoonful, and I saw it—the slight furrow of his brow, the obvious disappointment. You have to understand: he had been religiously ordering this particular molo soup from this hospital for months. If anyone would notice even the slightest difference, it was him.
Without telling me, he instinctively pushed the bowl aside, pulled out his phone, and emailed the hospital to express his ‘sentiments’. Classic John. If you knew him, you’d know how this is a very normal John behavior.
Minutes later, the chef himself—still in his white uniform and toque—stood by John’s bedside, apologizing. It was a strange, almost comical scene: John, sick to his core, reclined on his hospital bed, one arm casually bent behind his head, offering a firm but good-natured critique on soup to a professional chef. I had to summon all my self-control to keep from bursting into laughter.
Thirty minutes later, the chef sent up free pizza and pancit topped with crispy liempo.
Towards the end, when we knew—but I still refused to accept—that it was only just a matter of time, he asked for two pieces of McDonald’s fried chicken. With extra gravy and extra rice.
The next day, he told me to order ten drinks from Coco.
"What the hell are we supposed to do with ten kinds of milk tea?" I asked in protest.
“I just want to taste all the flavors before I die.”
How does one respond to that? So I hid in the bathroom, cried, and ordered ten flavors of Coco from Foodpanda.
I didn’t realize it then, but maybe that was John’s way of holding on—of savoring life even as it slipped through his fingers. A last bite, a last sip. Proof that he was still here.
And then, just days before he passed, he did something that still feels surreal to me. We were watching Howl’s Moving Castle in his hospital room when he asked me to pull the couch beside his bed. Weaker than I had ever seen him, he started listing instructions for his wake— what food to serve, which coffee carts supplier to contact, which dishes our friends would love.
"I just want people to remember me through good food," he said, his voice steady, as if he were planning our wedding, not his own passing. “Please don’t forget to serve salt and pepper squid.”
That was simply the type of person John is—was.
Even in death, he wanted to feed the people he loved. Even in his absence, he wanted to leave us all full.
He died on May 22, 2023. He is gone now.
Almost two years on, I have experienced firsthand how his love continues to survive his death—tucked into old cravings, familiar company, and in the unshakable truth that love, like flavor, lingers long after the last bite.
His family and the friends he left me—our friends—still text me restaurant recommendations, still insist we try the places he would have loved. We still sit together, order too much, laugh too loudly.
When I hesitated to return to our favorite Korean fried chicken place in Pampanga, they held me steady. They drove me there, ordered the usual. The crunch was still there, the glaze still perfectly sweet and sticky, the rice warm and comforting. The food tasted just as good, the company just as warm. But nothing was the same.
I suppose that’s how grief works—a constant push and pull between forgetting and remembering. Some things are gone forever, yet they find ways to stay—in rituals, in familiar tastes, in the quiet presence of love that never truly leaves. I used to think love was something solid, something you could hold in your hands. But maybe it’s not in what we keep, but in what lingers—in the flavors that cling to our tongues, in the meals we return to, in the laughter that still hums around the table, even after someone is gone.
Today, I found myself ordering takeout from Masuki, where we had our first date. I still hear his voice, teasing, testing—“Masarap ba?”
I take a seat and open the takeout bag. The scent of warm broth rises, thick with nostalgia and love for my sweet boy— no longer sitting across from me, but for whom I will always save a seat.
One whole bowl, just for myself.
And I eat. And I remember.
Wonderful tribute. Thank you for allowing us to experience your love story vicariously through the flavors that have have defined it.
Great read, Hannah! Exceptional way of sharing a part of John’s life through your eyes. Every paragraph of your every story, I can vividly imagine how he’d be as if I am there with you. How lucky and blessed I am to have tried John’s famous carbonara. Ily hannahh and ily so much John! 💕