Kindred at Kaya

My family's tongue never ventures out to try unfamiliar foods or cuisines. They keep a small playlist of meals on shuffle and seldom visit a restaurant. Growing up, my parents’ idea of a fancy dinner (which happened once a year at best) was to our local diner. There I would ignore the rules of society and go straight for the breakfast menu, a fluffy Belgian waffle and an apple cinnamon tea. For special events like graduations, we'd visit the nearby Chinese-American buffet, where for about $10 per person during lunch rush, you got to indulge in an all-you-can-eat extravaganza. Fried rice, mangoes, crispy fish, and what I believed to be the fanciest invention on the planet, teriyaki chicken on a stick! I never “knew” what fine dining was; my parents couldn’t afford it. To pay around $125 each for a multi-course meal would estimate to about $500 for our family of four. Folks got a mortgage to pay, Con Edison to answer to! We seldom had the luxury of time or money to go out to eat, therefore—

"Why is Khadjiah taking us this far?" My mother croaks from the front seat. Here I am, bringing my parents to their first fine dining restaurant. Before new experiences with my parents, I must face my arch nemesis, my mother’s never-ending barrel of woes.

In the game of groans, I’m prepared to meet my parents bar for bar. It's 4:40pm on a Tuesday, and my father is driving a can of complaints along a Florida highway. I’m expanding my parents’ horizons by treating them to a delicious Filipino dinner at Kaya, a casual fine-dining restaurant in Orlando. After every complaint, please imagine my eyes rolling so deep inside my skull you would mistake them for mini mounds of coconut sherbert. You need to hear my teeth being sucked clean as if it were an oxtail bone. Every time you read phrases that begin with "Why did Khadjiah..." "Khadjiah is..." or "Khadjiah always..." picture my neck, a snapped back mentos cap. See my mouth, splayed open, evicting a Vitamix vibrato from my throat.

My parents' introduction to new experiences must be unerring. Arms stretched out to catch the fine china in case it tilts off the pedestal. We pulled into Kaya's driveway, and I shuffled my deck of scenarios. I checked the à la carte menu online for the ninth time. I've researched their mocktails, restaurant collaborations, and variations on their seasonal menu; I knew the food had to be so good that if anything else happened before, during, or after the dinner, this delight wouldn't be eclipsed by a miscalculation. I stepped out of the car, fluffed my blonde and cotton candy pink tresses, smoothed out my blue dress, and then my mother sailed her suspicions over the restaurant stoop. "Is Khadjiah bringing us into somebody's house?"

Kaya looks like your well-off homies' mama's house. The front has a blanket of greenery that creates a border around their tent. Sleek wood-patterned steps led to their porch; and a wide window lets the light sail in. Normally, my parents visit big chain restaurants with repetitious menus. Olive Garden, Applebee's, and Bahama Breeze granted them a form of comfortability they don't have to stray away from but lack the expansiveness in cuisine they desire. We opened the door, and the scent of Kaya's kitchen infuses my expectations. Savory peanut glided through a hit of citrus. Chiles collided with coconut. The cocktail shaker mixed to the beat of the low music. I guided my family into the lightly colorful dining area. We're greeted by the front of the house, who led us to our seats, and then I made my first sacrifice.

The Can of Complaints

If you like Piña Colada

"Why did Khadjiah seat us at a bar?" The complaint was laced with Christian disdain. My mother understandably wanted a table, but everything was reserved for the evening. I think the meal is worth the trade. "Look, you can take the chair with a backseat on it so you're not too sore later." She shuffled her blouse with her back against the seat, looked at my dad, and opened her mouth to make an unreasonable request.

"I'm just going to order a virgin piña colada!"

An off-menu item?! She didn't even look at the menu! I did a double take and saw my father searching profusely through the list to see if that’s even an option. I was the most embarrassed woman in America. You couldn't tell, with my lips clenched so tight the perimeter of my mouth combed through the flesh in my—mouth. This is a response of habit. Our sweet high of going to restaurants would fall sour when we flipped to their drinks menu. Wines we couldn't pronounce, hailing from provinces we didn't know about. At the bottom, in a little rectangle seemingly designated to us specifically, was a short list of non-alcoholic drinks, which was nothing more than a soda rolodex. Coke, Sprite, or ginger beer if you're lucky. One drink that captured my mother's heart if they had it, a virgin piña colada.

I know how much she loves it; it's really the only thing she orders. In the past, when she tried to ask for virgin versions of a restaurant's alcoholic drink, she'd be offered an interesting concoction where, after three sips, the sugar would feel as if it shot up to electrocute your brain. "Agh, diabetes runs in my family!" She would shout as she scrounged her face. I understand the pain; I wasn't a fan of those drinks either, but I promised not this time. In the past, more than two mocktail options would be unprecedented for them. Restaurants are now more inclusive of sober/sober-curious people. The WHO reported a five percent decline on alcohol consumers since the early 2000s.

I look over to my mom and flip the menu. "Look, they have creative mocktails. I know you will enjoy their incorporation of herbs," I say with a seemingly unctuous smile. She huffed and looked at the menu.

"I’d like to order 'let that mango'."

A mocktail with tropical reminiscence of her favorite, pina colada. Herbaceous hits of mango shrub swept up surges of kalamansi and pineapple, then splashed it against my tongue. The Thai basil follows up, slow and soothing across my taste buds; a desire swells in my mouth. “Oh, wow! That’s wonderful.” I see my mother’s confidence in my choice swirl with the glass. If there was an in-studio audience looking at my face, they would’ve seen the tenseness shimmer off my neck and caught the moment I got really smug.

The Quiet Side of the Table

My mother perused the menu.
I stretched forward to look over and see my dad crunched up in a corner.
“Hey!”
“Huh?!”
“Why are you so quiet?”

My father’s glasses slid further down his nose. “What?” He said it with a titillating voice. Is this man, okay? It’s a menu, not algebraic notation. I notice my father sometimes reflects anxiousness in his silence. Desperately trying to dissect, deduce, and deliberate. When we visited restaurants, our food options were so limited it only took about two minutes to decide. I grew up following their example with kosher laws when it came to meat and fish; and by the time I was born, they cut out eating red meat all together. Therefore, in most restaurants we visited, that only left us with about two or three dishes and maybe a lackluster salad. Due to this limitation, whenever I went out to eat, my father had a habit of gravitating towards what I call the pescatarian’s chicken nugget, salmon.

Almost every single place if they had salmon, he ordered it. It didn’t matter if there were other options. “Oh! Look, dad, they have this sea bass.” “Salmon.” “Don’t you think this curry looks really interesting?” “Salmon.” “You know, normally I’m not a soup person, but I think this—” “Salmon.” Broiled, grilled, pan seared, anything but poached; if it was salmon, he’d have it. If he enjoyed it, he’d run it into the ground and then complain about eating the same thing over and over. It’s an interesting cycle I’ve been trying to break for decades now.

Delicious Unfamiliarity

"Here, at Kaya, I locked him in a checkmate. The menu has no salmon. “What are you going to order? Are you looking at the Fish Bistek?" I wiggle my all-knowing eyebrows. The Fish Bistek sealed the deal in my menu analysis. If everything else felt inaccessible, they would always return to the familiar. The decadent bluefish in this dish is fried and served with tomato, strawberry onion, and a soy vinegar sawsawan. It’s a pleasant balance between the tart and savory. My father is one track minded and latches his eyes onto the familiar. This dish connected with my dad’s love for bright and familiar flavors. It’s a fish he knows and it’s paired with alluring ingredients. Yet when the bartender swung over to our side of the ledge to take our order, my father proclaimed, “I would like to order the ‘Pancit Sotanghon.’”

My face shrunk. Heaven’s gate swung open. The Pancit Sotanghon? Angels granted me mercy in the form of glass noodles, tossed with seasonal vegetables, and enriched with mushroom jus. What surprised me most of all was the fact that this dish was topped with an oozing poached egg. This man, only eats overcooked eggs and he decided to have it poached?! He mixed its contents around in a bed of noodles he had never heard of. Scraped up each morsel bit by bit. Slid the vegetables against the corner of the plate to get swoops of yolk. He cleaned the plate to its original form, and I am struck with joy.

I looked over to my mother, who was humming to herself. She finished clearing her plate too, the vegetarian variation of the “Pork Belly Humba.” Crispy kale replaced the pork belly. Aesthetically pleasing crunches escaped from her side of the table. She begged the bartender to explain how they made the kale. Mother hummed into the peaks of sweet potato puree and pressed the beets into the peanut crumbles. Textures, scents, and elation have been redeemed after trading in skepticism and side eyes. The musicality of their utensils melded with the satisfied diners’ orchestra. Spoons, forks, knives, and “mmm.” I knew it. My tongue salivated when I turned to face the delicate plate of Kare-Kare placed in front of me.

Episode Oxtail

I’ve always enjoyed eating out when I was a kid. My parents’ limitations helped me find a deep appreciation for cuisines I never got to try. Dishes I gravitated to had similarities to Caribbean cuisine either by ingredients or preparation. "Jamaican oxtail is the best oxtail. Jamaican oxtail is the best oxtail." I must repeat under my breath. My bias scrounged in my molars. When Kaya brought out the Kare-Kare, I nearly lost it. Oxtail lavished under their mahogany tinted peanut butter stew; I hear the angels now. The morsels were deftly cut and shaped into a polygon in the center of the plate. The meat, topped with cuts of eggplant, thinly sliced scallions, and a crown of green beans, I picked up to sweep in the sauce. I lifted each element to my mouth and danced. Oh! Whenever I have oxtail from a non-Caribbean source, I must affirm my biases. "Jamaican oxtail is the best oxtail! Jamaican oxtail is the best oxtail!" I know where home is, but my tongue couldn’t ignore its elation. Eating Kare-Kare at Kaya felt like a spiritual transaction. Each bite reminded me of my favorite scenes in an anime where the characters are transported into a field of serenity; fluffy white clouds, an effervescent blue sky, and a soft breeze that manipulates your follicles. I pause my dream to scoop up my side garlic fried rice onto my spoon. I waltz it into the Kare-Kare, and—my God, there it goes again. Sweet heaven. If my parents were talking to me, I couldn't hear them.

My family and I sat at Kaya’s bar counter; three separate histories converged into a melodic "mmm." Kare-kare returned the joy of my childhood. They reinvigorated the girl at the buffet with the teriyaki chicken scepter raised to a hexagon tiled ceiling. My mother, whose tongue presides on an island of skepticism, wandered into a new non-alcoholic cocktail wonderland. My father, whose last name might as well have been “salmon,” offers grace to an unfamiliar cuisine only to be met with overwhelming joy on his palate. I’m filled knowing that I could provide a place for our taste buds to cede without fear. Before we depart, we split a delicious Silvana cookie amongst the three of us. The cashew merengue fluffed the cookies and, when split open, revealed a perfectly measured buttercream. The sweet treat calmed the lights in my brain and detached my shoulders from my ears. As every crumb found its way to my tongue, I reflected on the day’s mission. While trying to open my parents to try something new, I unexpectedly found healing in their expansion. I spent my adult years digging into dishes I would have never had the opportunity to try. Whether it was due to religious restriction or breaking out of an indoctrinated tongue, I loved being able to sit next to my family and offer food that intrigues their mouths. I wish to continue showing them kindness through unfamiliar sauces, and dishes that would have never made it to our tables without exploration.

When my mother enters the car, my aunt calls to inquire about family dinner night. The impact was evident upon the prideful question, “Have you heard about Kaya?”