JT stands for the owner’s initials: Joel Torre, stellar Filipino actor. While his movie star heyday may have been several years ago, the man has found second stardom in his unassuming roadside eatery. This ain’t no fancy dig, surely: diners sit on monobloc tables and chairs while eating off of banana leaves, and there are withering movie posters of the owner’s past films tacked haphazardly on the walls.
Nonexistent ambience aside, I love it here. JT’s specialty is the grilled chicken inasal (skewered) done the way Ilonggos have been cooking it for generations. Story goes that Joel Torre went to Bacolod and ate at every manukan (grilled chicken place) looking for the best chicken inasal. When he and his culinary cohorts found it, they pirated the chef and brought him back to Manila. Sneaky, eh? The result is JT’s Manukan.
the smoky goodness of the grillEvery part of the chicken is utilized – from the breasts, wings, thighs, gizzards, heart, bottom, and of course the liver (P45-P80), which is paté-smooth and unctuous. Ordering by body part is how it’s done here and the servers won’t bat an eyelash when two to three cups of rice per person is ordered. For those not feeling particularly “chicken” today, there are spareribs (P95), boneless bangus (milkfish P120), and the batchoy (pork soup with offal) which I’m told is hearty-good.
The chicken’s succulence is in the secret marinade. I’m told that at JT’s the chickens are marinated in a large drum before being grilled. Then they’re skewered onto barbeque sticks and put on the heat. As I watch the flames lick the meat, a combination of vinegar, calamansi (native lemon) and smoke tickles my nostrils. Like a faucet being opened, my mouth begins to salivate. While the chicken is being cooked, it’s basted with atchuete (annatto) oil, which lends to it an appetizingly yellow sheen.
calamansi and sili
the art of concocting sauce
This chicken is eaten with a make-your-own special sauce made from sinamak (native Ilonggo vinegar), toyo (soy sauce), calamansi, and sili (red finger chilies.) Once the eating begins, forks and spoons are abandoned in favor of fingers. There’s plenty of dousing, chomping, and tiny groans of pleasure. The chicken is tender, its juices exuding with every bite, the flavor a mixture of sour, a whisper of sweet, and the union of heat and smoke. This is primal, back to basics food.
If you’re brave enough, order some of the chicken oil, a gleamingly evil orange liquid made from the rendered chicken fat colored with atchuete. Whether you dip your chicken in it, spoon it over your rice, or spoon it in by the mouthful (as I do), it’s J-T: Just Titillating. Maybe I’ll put those into Boo’s alphabet when she’s older.
