'Toy napigket nga daga
Pitpitenmi nga umuna
Danggayanmi't kankanta
Takkiagmi a napigsa
Kettang ken bannogmi
dikam igingina 

     Mannamili
     Ilokano Folk Song

FULL PAPER

Introduction

This is both a historical narrative and a personal account of the large contribution Ilokanos have made to this nation’s restaurant industry.  Offered unabashedly as homage, this is for the unsung thousands of Ilokanos who have been, to millions of diners, their oft-anonymous busboys, dishwashers or waiters, and their bartenders, bakers, or cooks. 

Since at least the 1840s, substantial numbers of Iloko speakers have been employed in private homes, in the military, and in lofty places like the White House.  However, most of their combined toil in food and beverage creation, presentation, and cleanup has been in commercial eateries.

From Maine to Guam, and from Alaska to Tutuila, Ilokanos have worked in all sorts of restaurants in countless cities and towns, resorts, and national parks.

Hawai`i is unique in its own Ilokano subculture and history.  Ilokano-owned eating businesses blend into Hawai`i’s island landscapes.  Indisputably, the achievements of restaurant Ilokanos in this state and elsewhere outside the mainland must not be ignored.  But because of sheer demographic numbers, by default this article is focused upon the American mainland, where most of the Ilokano Diaspora’s story has been carried out.

16th through 19th Centuries

People of Ilokano heritage are a major component of Filipino American history.  Just how far back in time anyone from northern Luzon Island landed on American soil is a matter of conjecture.

On one hand, Filipino presence in what became the United States can be traced back to the 1500s in California, during the heyday of the Spanish Galleon trade.  Ships’ logs listed the Philippine sailors as Indios; if they were tagged as Indios Luzones, then it is anyone’s guess where on Luzon earth the men may have originated.

Filipino settlement, on the other hand, is historically identifiable to at least the late 1700s in southern Louisiana. Living in Philippine-style houses perched on stilts above the marshes of the Gulf of Mexico – and, perhaps, in the bayous of the Mississippi River delta – “Manilamen” caught and processed a profusion of seafood. Logic and inference would point to the conclusion that they must have cooked and served their catch as well. (Espina)

The peripatetic and Asian-loving author Lafcadio Hearn chronicled the existence of a Filipino restaurant in Louisiana in the late 19th century, although Hearn did not state the owner’s exact Philippine ethnicity:

There is still in the oldest portion of the oldest quarter of New Orleans a certain Manila restaurant hidden away in a court, and supported almost wholly by the patronage of Spanish West Indian sailors.  Few people belonging to the business circles of New Orleans know of its existence.  The menu is printed in Spanish and English; the fare is cheap and good.  (Hearn 199)

That some of these early Filipino settlers in Louisiana were, in fact, Ilokanos is supported by historical research as well as family records and artifacts.

Felipe Madriaga (or Madrigal) was a Filipino married to Bridgett Nogant, an immigrant from Ireland.  The couple was living in Louisiana by the late 1840s.  Rhonda Richoux, a direct descendant of the Madriagas, writes:

Felipe and Bridgett lived in the various fishing villages of St. Bernard and Jefferson Parishes, where Felipe fished and, with his wife, operated a restaurant of sorts to feed the bachelor Filipinos who lived in the villages…. A handwritten note on an old photograph identifies Felipe as…“from Ilocos, North of Philippines.” (Richoux)

1920s and ‘30s

A smattering of scholars and emigrants from the Philippines arrived in America during the earliest years of the twentieth century.  The saga of restaurant Ilokanos, though, was amplified in the 1920s, when the farming industry recruited Filipinos to meet a need for low-cost labor.  The majority of these sojourners and immigrants, whom later generations would call manong, older brother, were Iloko speakers. 

The “little brown brothers” – as Filipinos in general were dubbed by patronizing white Americans – were cheap and easy.  That is to say, they were cheaply paid, receiving pennies per hour; and they were easy to bring into the country.  Filipinos could immigrate to the United States freely, since the Philippines was then considered an American possession.

By 1930, there were over 45,000 Filipinos in the continental U.S. (Kitano and Daniels 80), with males far outnumbering females.  About eighty percent were agricultural laborers. Of the remainder not engaged in farming, approximately 5,000 had restaurant occupations.

The timing could not have been worse for newcomers, for this was during the Great Depression.  Millions of Americans lost their livelihoods.  Ilokanos and other “Pinoys” felt blessed to find even the lowest paying kitchen jobs, the dregs.

For Ilokanos, survival was ensured through the application of their own traditional social norms.  The multi-faceted concept of nakem, loosely defined in this context as conscience, coupled with tagnawa, meaning group self-sufficiency and reciprocity, made living possible.  Ilokanos obtained lifeline jobs via the network of kabagyan or kabagis (kin), kaili (townmates) and gagayyem (friends).  When need be, the network was cast even wider to include other kababayan (compatriots) who were not Ilokano.

Aquilino Tagatac Sapaden emigrated from Batac, Ilocos Norte in 1928, at age 17.  Like most of his boyhood companions, “back home” he attended agricultural school, which emphasized subsistence farming methods.  Although he dreamed of furthering his education here, Aquilino understood that his new life in America would start in the fields.  Soon after his arrival in California, he discovered that he was not cut out to be a farmhand in this country:  the work conditions proved too grueling for him.  He lasted only a couple of months harvesting asparagus on Ryer Island in the Sacramento River Delta.

Not surprisingly, an older relative of Aquilino came to the teenager’s rescue with an invitation to join him at his place of employment, a Southern California restaurant.  From that time on, Aquilino’s fate was sealed.  Loving and taking pride in his work, the former country boy who shunned American farm work spent the next fifty years in restaurants, mostly as a waiter, and always alongside fellow Ilokanos.

Some Ilokanos came to America as students, and others were already trained professionals hoping to use their knowledge and expertise in this country.  Yet, they needed jobs in order to eat.  To their dismay, they would learn that the widespread prejudice against people of color meant that even well-educated Pinoys could only get the most menial occupations.

A very small number of Filipinos who finally acquired a college degree stayed with their restaurant jobs, their spirit and their ambition “beaten the hell out of them” by racial and ethnic discrimination. (C. C. Vallangca 11)

Antonio Catudan Aglipay, my maternal grandmother’s brother, was a teacher in Ilocos Norte (Batac, too).  The oldest son of a land-owning provincial politician, Uncle Tony was not suited for farm work either; but he accepted being a waiter in California.

It so happened that a number of Uncle Tony’s former students also came to seek their fortune in America during the 1920s and `30s.  They helped each other seek and find restaurant jobs.

The touching thing was, the younger men all continued to address Uncle Tony as maestro, ‘teacher.’ They kept their nakem, never abandoning their sense of obligation and respect towards their former instructor, regardless of how far they had all journeyed in time and place.

One of Uncle Tony’s former pupils was “Lee” Sapaden, nee Aquilino, mentioned above.  The two remained close figuratively and literally – workplace and residential neighbors – until the maestro’s death of asthma in the early 1960s. If they were alive today, they would be related through marriage. I knew them well: Uncle Tony was my blood kin; “Uncle” Lee became my father-in-law.    Another conduit for work during the manong era was employment agencies that specialized in recruiting Filipinos for restaurant and other service industries.  These agencies charged exorbitant finders’ fees that Pinoys could ill afford. 

Imagine the scene.  Jobs were already scarce for Americans, yet Filipinos were being recruited.  The reason was simple:  for restaurant owners, Filipinos were a rock-bottom bargain.

In 1929, the California Department of Industrial Relations conducted a survey of average monthly wages.  (Melendy 185)  Arithmetical calculations based on data from that survey reveal that, for example, Filipino cooks and dishwashers in the Golden State were receiving these monthly sums:  cooks, $50-65; dishwashers, $28-43.  Pinoys’ wages were $15-30 a month – far less than what counterpart white workers received. 

Indeed, the State of California’s survey numbers were on the high side.  As the Depression deepened in the 1930s, wages plunged even lower. Throughout the country, it was common for restaurant Filipinos to earn a mere ten cents per hour. At that rate, a worker must spend ten hours over a hot kitchen sink or stove, say, to be paid a precious dollar.

Exploitation was rife.

There were no … strict labor laws controlling working conditions and hours at the time, so the Filipino workers were at the mercy of their employers.  Some worked a standard workday, but others worked from 12 to 18 hours a day.  (R. V. Vallangca 11)

Ilokanos endured by pooling their resources. They shared transportation, food and living quarters – e.g., six men occupying a single rented room, working staggered shifts, and taking turns sleeping in the same beds. Such coping mechanisms came naturally, since they hailed from group traditions in their native land. (Gaeddert 32)

“Because of this custom of helping each other, few…had to join the breadlines,” wrote historian Roberto Vallangca, a native of Ilocos Sur.  (R. V. Vallangca 49) 

Restaurant Ilokanos quickly developed a reputation as ideal employees, for they were nagaget, industrious. Moreover, they were intelligent, reliable, friendly, cooperative, patient, and (of course) cheap.

Yet, their outstanding work performance was not universally praised. Rather, it added fuel to jealous hostility, which sometimes turned violent. 

The American Federation of Labor vilified Filipinos for edging out white workers from the culinary trades.  It passed exclusionary resolutions so that union memberships were at first closed to restaurant Ilokanos and other kababayans.  (Kitano and Daniels 81)

In 1934, Congress passed the Tydings-McDuffie Act, which established the Philippines as a commonwealth, with independence by 1944. One motive was to bar Filipinos. As citizens of an independent country, Filipinos would cease to have unrestricted entry into the States.

Congress followed up with the Repatriation Act in 1935. This time, the government offered free, one-way transportation for Filipinos to return permanently to the Philippines.

The strategy failed. Only slightly more than 2,000 went home for good. Most immigrants could not or would not leave for various reasons, such as fear of losing face.  “Nakababain!  Mabainakto pay!” an Ilokano would lament. “It is shameful! I would be so embarrassed!” as if his predicament were his own fault. Retreating back to the Philippines as a poor man was simply unthinkable.

Consequently, restaurant Ilokanos remained in their jobs. Desiring to fit in, they revamped their Spanish-colonial given names. Badges on restaurant uniforms identified them now as waiter “Johnny,” cook “Val,” or pantryman “Alex,” instead of Juan, Valentín, or Alejándro – Anglicized or Americanized, if only in nicknames.  

Restaurants of Their Own

Paradoxically, while Filipinos were valued as workers, they were generally unwelcome as customers in many restaurants.

Another morning I went to a dinky coffee shop on Geary Street [San Francisco].  I sat at the counter near the door.  There were two waitresses on duty and the place was not busy.  I sat and waited for service for 25 minutes or more.  But the two waitresses simply ignored me, laughing and joking with the other customers – acting like I was not there.  Other customers came and went – some even sat behind me.  The waitresses served them but did not bother to even talk to or look at me.  After about 25 minutes, I left the shop, feeling low, sad, and ashamed…. (R. V. Vallangca 73)

Because of such humiliating experiences, enterprising Filipinos opened their own modest establishments – often with easily recognizable names like Mabuhay, Manila, or Luzon Café. Menus featured Philippine and American standards: boiled white rice and pinakbet (a vegetable stew, the quintessential Ilokano dish); mashed potatoes and steak.

An Ilokano- or other Pinoy-owned restaurant was a haven for homesick fellow countrymen.  It was mutually beneficial.  The restaurant owner offered a place for other Pinoys to eat their native dishes and to fraternize in their native languages.  In exchange, the customers provided a livelihood for the proprietor, who reaped the bonus of social contact with his or her own people.

Often, a Filipino restaurant would have a pool hall and/or a little room at the back, where friendly gambling took place. 

1940s and World War II 

The Second World War brought major changes for restaurant Ilokanos, through a couple of factors.

First, Ilokanos living in America joined the armed forces, wherein droves of them were relegated to mess or galley assignments.  Even if they had no prior culinary experience or inclination, they were relegated to military kitchens.

Second, the war led to increased immigration of Philippine women, facilitated by the War Brides Act of 1945 and the Fiancées Act of 1946. Manongs who were deployed to the Philippines as military personnel married or became affianced to Filipinas, who followed them back to the States.  Such was the case of my godfather-uncle and aunt.

Nicolas Mangabat, yet another native of Batac, Ilocos Norte, was a chauffeur for a wealthy white family near San Francisco. Soon after the war broke out, he enlisted in the Merchant Marine and served in the Pacific, including the Philippines.  Taking the opportunity to visit relatives while on a provisioning mission to Manila after the end of the war, sailor ‘colas-turned-Nick fell in love with his distant cousin, my aunt Rosalia Aglipay Tagudin, also – as readers would easily guess by now – Batac born.  (Nick became my godfather at baptism in the so-Ilokano Philippine Independent or Aglipay Church before his marriage in 1948 to Rosal, my mother’s younger sister.  Obviously, Nick was likewise my mother’s cousin and, thereby, related to me in some degree – all of which perfectly exemplifies the happy tangle of Ilokano criss-crossed relationships.)

          Auntie Rosal immigrated to the United States as a war bride in 1949.  She joined a husband who knew his way around a kitchen.

Uncle Nick had learned how to cook aboard ship in the Merchant Marine and found his calling. He had a natural affinity for cooking.  One of his earliest post-war jobs was as a short-order cook at a Thrifty Drug Store café in San Bernardino, California. When he retired in the 1980s, it was as the executive chef of a high-priced restaurant. Uncle Nick had come a long way, although it took 60 years.

For Uncle Nick and other restaurant Ilokanos, a welcome byproduct of the war was the softening of whites’ attitudes. This was thanks to the manong-era immigrants who courageously served in the U.S. armed forces, as well as the equally brave Filipinos in the Philippines who buttressed the American cause.  

1950s

Greater acceptance in America improved the lives of restaurant Ilokanos. While upward mobility remained limited – few ascended to management – Ilokanos partook in the post-war economic prosperity of the 1950s. As restaurants increased in number, so did job opportunities.

Restaurant occupations helped Ilokanos assimilate more and more into greater American society during the 1950s. It also ensured that they and their families were well fed.

Restaurant work was relatively good money.  Even those with low pay took home food that would have been thrown away anyway.  They helped support themselves and their families that way.  They had crab from crab salads!  (Tibon)

Although gambling was an ever-present temptation, most restaurant families I knew were careful about their finances.  Granted, they who were of my acquaintance were predominantly Ilokanos.  We Ilokanos tend to validate our widespread reputation of being nakirmet, tight-fisted or frugal. 

With steady incomes, restaurant Ilokanos were generally solvent. They could buy homes, cars, and creature comforts, while remitting money to loved ones left behind in the Philippines.  (C.C. Vallangca 150)   

Throughout the Decades

Before continuing in chronological fashion, it is apt to ponder the threads that have been woven through the fabric of restaurant Ilokanos’ lives throughout the decades. 

Families 

Ilokano settlers in the first three-and-a-half decades of the twentieth century were primarily comprised of men and boys of marrying age, i.e., from their late teens to early 30s.  Most were single, although there were married men whose wives and children were left behind in the Philippines.

Due to the scarcity of Philippine women in this country, many restaurant Ilokanos married women of other races, mostly whites.  Ilokanos often met their non-Filipina wives through work.

Whoever they married – Filipinas or otherwise – restaurant Ilokanos had families and established households.  The families gained visibility as participating members of their local communities. 

Sometimes the father’s restaurant job changed according to the seasons, making him a migrant laborer of a sort.  If so, the father would travel to work in another city or state, while his family remained at home.  This was deemed crucial for the children’s domestic stability.

During school breaks, the young Ilokano American family would try to visit the father wherever he might be working.  As an adolescent, I witnessed this phenomenon of seasonal rounds when I accompanied family friends, kaili, in their travels to see their father in distant locations.

          I have been told repeatedly by grown children of restaurant Ilokanos that they admired their parents’ restaurant work and believed that they had had a good life.

One American-born Ilokano with whom I am intimately acquainted followed in his father’s footsteps as a waiter.  While a college student during the early 1970s, he worked summers with his father at a restaurant in the resort town of Newport Beach, California.

The young man had a natural aptitude for being a waiter and enjoyed his job, which manifested in the high quality of his work performance.  As a result, he caught the appreciative eye of an industry executive, who advised him to change his college major from political science to hotel-and-restaurant management.

Upon hearing this, the father responded indignantly.  “Absolutely not!” he said.  He was extremely opposed to the idea of his son remaining in restaurant work permanently. 

Obedient to his father’s wishes, the young man went on to complete his course in political science.  Now more than 30 years later, he is a senior homeland security analyst for an international firm.  Still, he fantasizes about “what might have been” and remembers the Newport Beach episode of his life with special fondness.

Places

Newport Beach is only one of countless resort towns where Ilokanos have donned aprons and other garments of the culinary trades.  They have been in Miami Beach, Florida; Niagara Falls, New York; and just about every watering hole in California and Hawaii.  They have toiled in every major American metropolis, without omitting mid-sized cities and small towns and villages (like Whitefish, Montana). 

Ilokanos’ seasonal go-‘rounds have taken them in winter to Sun Valley, Idaho (at the ski resorts) and in summer to Los Angeles; or summer to Chicago, winter to Orlando.

They have clocked in at Yellowstone in Wyoming, the Grand Canyon in Arizona, and perhaps all other national parks and monuments north, south, east and west. 

No matter where they have landed, Ilokanos provided service in all manner of eateries: from humble cafeterias to the posh dining room of the Waldorf Astoria. 

          The Middle Class

Restaurant Ilokanos have faced their share of hardships, to be sure.  But they have also reaped a major benefit:  placement in the middle class, a significant accomplishment in itself.

In the past, Ilokanos may have been excluded from certain segments of American life, but through the years their children have played in Little League, joined the Boy and Girl Scouts, taken piano lessons (greatly desired by Filipinos), and/or went to parochial schools.

Another relative of mine, pseudonymed “Benny” here, embodied the Ilokano middle class.  Benny was a waiter in elite Palm Springs desert hotels and restaurants for forty years.  As such, he received generous tips, because Palm Springs was and is an oasis for the well-to-do.

Uncle Benny was a happy-go-lucky character in his early fifties during the early 1970s.  He drove a late-model Cadillac convertible and, with his Caucasian wife—a waitress—owned a lovely house in a decent Palm Springs neighborhood.

Benny was also a master at under-reporting his tips on his income taxes.   He boasted in Iloko about his cleverness and encouraged fellow Ilokano waiters to follow his lead until, one day, the Internal Revenue Service caught up with him. 

Uncle Benny was incensed, because: (1) the I.R.S. was demanding the immediate payment of $3,000 in unpaid taxes plus penalties; and (2) he, Benny, had become the butt of all jokes among his cronies. 

News of Benny’s legal undoing quickly traveled up and down California and beyond.  Rumors flew that a fellow Pinoy reported Benny as a trickster to the tax authorities. 

I was a teenager at the time and cringed with mortification from being related to Benny.  I did not anticipate that, by his shenanigans, this uncle would unwittingly bestow upon me the gift of this anecdote, which I have spent limitless currency in lectures and writings.  Truly, I cannot think of a more vivid evocation of being middle class than someone cheating on income taxes.

1960s

In the mid 1950s through the early 1960s, restaurant Ilokanos were accidental pioneers in both the development of exotic-theme restaurants and in the formation of restaurant branches and chains, the latter, “going corporate,” in today’s parlance.

A good example was Don the Beachcomber, a group of fine restaurants established in 1934 in Hollywood, California, by one Ernest Beaumont Gantt, who legally altered his name to Donn Beach.  By being the first to embellish his restaurants in a Pacific island theme, Beach became the “founding father of Polynesian pop,” although his ex-wife, Sunny, had control of the business by 1940.  (Kirsten 69)

The majority of Beachcomber employees were Filipino—mostly Ilokano—waiters, busboys, and bartenders, who called themselves “the boys.” There were a few “girls,” such as my aunt, Rosal Mangabat, who was a hatcheck girl in the Palm Springs branch.

Besides being superb workers, the islanders seemingly matched the decor.  Pinays and Pinoys helped stimulate tropical fantasies as well as taste buds.  With fresh tropical flowers in her hair, Rosal the Ilocana was radiant in her make-believe role as a Hawaiian wahine.  She pocketed hundred-dollar tips from singer Frank Sinatra, just for guarding his fedora.

While the Beachcomber created a special company position, Director of Authenticity – held by Philippine émigré Ignacio “Nash” Aranas – the chain and others like it actually served Cantonese food prepared by Chinese cooks recruited from Hong Kong.   

The Beachcomber served punch-like beverages that would become known as “tropical” drinks. There is ample evidence for the claim that Filipino “mixologists” employed by the Beachcomber in Los Angeles invented, but were not given credit for, the Zombie, the Mai Tai, and other cocktails that remain popular.  (Kirsten 164-165)

In the 1960s, the Hilton company acquired the Beachcomber and opened several new branches and franchises in various cities.  At the same time, a multitude of competing restaurants in the ersatz Polynesian genre was surfacing throughout the United States.  Trader Vic’s, Kon Tiki, Outrigger, Tropicana, Aku-Aku all employed Ilokanos and other Pinoys. 

The rapid expansion produced more jobs.  The kababayan network was at its all-time busiest.  Friendly competition arose over the best assignments; among the Ilokanos, everybody wanted Las Vegas. 

Alas, times and tastes changed, and the original concept disintegrated.  After being sold and re-sold, eventually to the Getty Corporation, the Beachcomber was mostly wiped out by the 1970s, along with the jobs held by Ilokanos.  Their kababayans in other Polynesian-theme restaurants suffered likewise. 

1970s

By the 1970s, most old-timer manongs were either retired or deceased. Meanwhile, new, well-educated Philippine immigrants were arriving, as the political situation in the islands deteriorated.

New kababayans included former Navy personnel. It is said that in the 1970s, more Filipinos were in the U.S. Navy than in the Philippine Navy. A great number of them served in galleys. Upon discharge, many Ilokano sailors took their skills to restaurants, as their World War II predecessors had done.

1980s and ‘90s

By the latter part of the twentieth century, the fast-growing Ilokano population in America was no longer narrowly dependent on the hospitality industries for employment.  Ilokanos could pursue any line of work they wanted or stay in the restaurant business.  Their options were far and wide.

Unfortunately, what emerged in some quarters was the demeaning notion of kusinero laeng, “just a kitchen worker” in Ilokano, or kusinero lamang in Tagalog. Some newcomers looked unfavorably upon restaurant jobs, because in the Philippines such positions were deemed low on the social ladder:

You know, some of the Filipinos coming here now … are ashamed to wash dishes because they already have a doctor’s degree and they think they are too good to do menial labor.  But I don’t think doing any kind of work to get ahead is a disgrace.  Sometimes, I think they despise us older Pinoys because we took whatever work we could get, but maybe they should remember that we broke the ground for them – we made it easier for them to come over here and get into the professions. (José Sarmiento of Ilocos Sur, in R. V. Vallangca 97)

Nevertheless, sometimes the newcomers’ dreams surpassed reality, and they ended up in restaurants, too – aided in their quest for work by the surviving manongs. 

Today:  New Decade, Century and Millenium

Working in restaurants involves interaction with mainstream American culture. Over the long years, restaurant Ilokanos have mastered the diverse taste preferences of the so-called “melting pot.”  As well, they have learned about running a safe, efficient, well-stocked, American-style kitchen.

The number of Filipino restaurants in the United States has increased, although not at the same speed of other Asian-cuisine restaurants – e.g., Thai, Vietnamese, or Japanese (for sushi).  For some reason, most Americans have yet to appreciate Filipino cuisine as much as they have those of other Asian cultures.  Philippine-based companies, such as Goldilocks’ and Max’s, have crossed the ocean to set up shop in the States; they have encountered mixed success commercially and have yet to be embraced by the American masses.

Being part of the mainstream is a sweet challenge, as entrepreneurs Salvador and Angelita Marcellana have found. They own and operate a Loard’s Ice Cream franchise in Elk Grove, a rapidly growing city in northern California.  The Marcellanas do a brisk business in halo-halo, that most popular of Philippine iced treats, from Filipino and non-Filipino customers alike.  Sal Marcellana is an Iloko speaker who emigrated from Zambales in the early 1970s; Lita is Visayan.

Conclusion

Among the 2.5 million people of Philippine roots living in the United States, thousands of successful Ilokano restaurant cooks, chefs, managers, proprietors, and industry executives now abound.   They are the upper crust.  Thousands more bus tables and continue to do the unglamorous tasks.  May they all continue to thrive for the next one hundred fifty years and beyond, for, as a kababayan once said, “here in the United States we are fortunate because labor has dignity, no matter what kind of labor it is.”  (Velasco, in R. V. Vallangca 123)

The kitchen, dining room, and, yes, the ice cream parlor, are still open.

Editor’s note:  An earlier version of this article by Ana Marcelo appeared in the March 2006 issue Filipinas magazine as “Catering to America:  Pinoys in the Food Industry.”  The author is based in Sacramento, California. 

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