🍳 Why I Ordered the Caldereta: A Lunch in San Pablo that Took Me Home

By Marie. Saturday, January 30, 2026

They say San Pablo is the city of seven lakes, but last Wednesday, we found a different kind of magic tucked away in its greenery. Beni took us to Diwata Nature Resort—a lush, quiet escape from our usual grind. It was a treat, a moment to breathe, and exactly what we needed.

But something happens to me when I open a menu filled with classic Filipino dishes. I don’t just see food; I travel back in time.

I scanned the options at Diwata, past the Filipino favorites and the soups, until my eyes landed on one item: Beef Caldereta. My brain didn't just register "stew"; it registered "Mom." And just like that, I wasn't in Laguna anymore. I was back in the kitchens of my childhood.

The Yellow Porridge of Iloilo

My life has been measured in kitchens. It started when I was seven in Iloilo City. My parents had just separated, and my mother, a fighter by nature, opened a small eatery to keep us afloat.

Her weapon of choice? Arroz Caldo.

To an outsider, it was just porridge-lugaw. But to the workers of the Iloilo Dock and Engineering Co.(gone now) who crowded her stall every morning, it was fuel. My mother’s version was distinctively yellow—colored with saffron (kasubha)—and made with the native chickens we raised in our own backyard. I remember my grandfather, Tatay Meno, and uncle, Tito Odong, dressing those chickens, always setting aside the liver for me (my VIP portion) and the blood for my Aunt Mamang Desping. That yellow porridge built barges, and it rebuilt our lives.

The Shelter in Parañaque

In the 80s, we moved to Manila. My mom took a job as a cook in a small restaurant in Parañaque, but bad luck followed—road reconstruction closed off the street, killing the business. The owner gave up, but my mom didn't. She took over the lease, not to make money (she didn't), but to keep a roof over our heads.

My cousins and I had come to the city to find jobs, and that struggling restaurant became our headquarters. She held the fort until we found our footing. Once we were stable, she let it go. She had done her job.

There was something beautiful about that. A dish that once lived only in our family kitchen was now stepping into the light.

The "Classy" Carinderia of Pasay

By the 90s, the tide had turned. I was doing well in the corporate world, and with my savings, we opened a new spot in Pasay City.

This was our golden era. We painted the whole place stark white—bright, clean, and inviting. We tore down the walls to make an open kitchen because my mom had nothing to hide.

We became a haven for cyclists fresh from their rides at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. They parked their bikes in our wide lot and ordered our bestsellers: Tapa with Rice and Egg and Fresh Corned Beef with Rice and Egg. Classic silog dishes! And the secret? Every plate came with a bowl of Batchoy Caldo—the rich, slow-simmered bone broth reserved for La Paz Batchoy. It was the Ilonggo touch that kept them coming back.

It was there, on Sundays, that she tried to teach me to cook. She assigned me the "Sunday Special." To be honest, I’ve forgotten the recipes, but I never forgot the principles: Taste everything. Respect the fire.

The Retirement Caldereta

When the lease in Pasay ended, my mom retired from cooking for the public. But she never stopped cooking for us.

In her retirement, the kitchen became a place of indulgence. We would request our favorites—Japanese Sukiyaki (a recipe she learned during a brief stint cooking for a family in Forbes Park) or her rich Pochero.

But the heavy hitter was always the Beef Caldereta and Calderetang Kambing.

Her version was a labor of love—tender beef (or kambing) simmered until it surrendered, in a sauce thickened with liver spread for that gritty, savory depth. It was comfort in a bowl.

Back to Diwata

And so, sitting in the open air of Diwata Nature Resort last Wednesday, I ordered the Caldereta. (There was some hesitation at first, because I was worried I won't like their version (with cheese?) The other option was Salpicao. Serendipitously,it wasn't available anymore. So, finally it was their Cheesy Caldereta.

Alright! It was delicious—rich, hearty, and satisfying, though not like my mom's (not dry and without cheese.) But as I ate, I realized that every Caldereta I will ever eat is unconsciously measured against hers. That is the burden and the blessing of being the child of a great cook: you are always chasing that original taste.

Thank you, Beni, for the treat. You fed my stomach, but the memory of my mother’s kitchen fed my soul.

For Mom, who cooked us through the hard times and the good times.❤️

Read:
The Flavors That Call Me Home
A Taste of Home at Calle Arco Restaurant, Pagsanjan
The Taste of Memory: Culinary Journeys That Stay With You
The 2026 ASEAN Forecast: Why We’re Trading Capital Cities for Local Markets