One of the simplest expressions of the theory of guisa—the foundational Filipino sauté—is also a breakfast classic: sinangag, or garlic fried rice. Back in the day, we’d smash whole cloves of native garlic and fry them in pork lard until crisp and golden, then toss in bahaw—leftover rice. Seasoned only with sea salt, it was humble yet unforgettable. A dish simple enough to start the day, and savory enough to stay with you.
Like many of us, I found my way into the kitchen early. Besides picking malunggay leaves for tinola, I was occasionally allowed to stir the guisa—tossing aromatics with the sandok until their scent filled the house. Over time, I learned that even the smallest tasks in the kitchen could carry great meaning. On special days, like when we cooked kalderetang kambing, guisa became more ceremonial. We’d slowly coax ripe tomatoes into a deep red sauce—patient, precise, and deeply satisfying.
The Theory of Guisa Begins with Scent and Memory
To begin with, it all starts with the aroma. The scent of guisa is unmistakable. That first sizzle of garlic and onion signals something delicious on its way. It stirs the appetite before the dish even takes shape. From rainy-day misua broths to the slow build of a decadent mechado, that sound can lead anywhere.
As Felice Prudente Sta. Maria once wrote, “To sauté the Filipino way is to begin with memory and aroma, not technique. Guisa is not just an action—it is an invitation to reminisce.”
In fact, more than sound or scent, guisa begins with memory. It doesn’t start with a recipe—it starts with rhythm. In that sizzle lies something quiet, adaptable, and deeply Filipino.
Two Culinary Traditions Behind the Filipino Guisa
Historically, during Holy Week—when meat was off the table—our feast turned to bacalao. Salted cod, soaked for days, then simmered in a rich sauce of garlic, onions, tomatoes, and paprika. Even in restraint, guisa brought indulgence—proof that flavor doesn’t need meat to flourish.
On the other hand, in some homes, guisa took a more European turn. It began with acete de oliva—olive oil. A nod to our Spanish colonial past, this lent a softness to the sauté, letting garlic and onions melt slowly into the stew.
Eventually, come fiesta time, the Spanish influence deepened. Sauces grew richer, more layered—so good no one left a drop behind. Every plate was wiped clean with rice—or, like the Castilians, with crusty bread.
This brings us to the first face of guisa, Spanish in origin—guisar, to braise or stew. It’s how we build afritada, kaldereta, pochero—dishes that start with bawang, sibuyas, and kamatis, sautéed until soft, then simmered low and slow until everything surrenders to the sauce. This is guisa for rice eaters. The kind that calls for pandesal to mop up every last bit.
As I wrote in Philippine Cookery: From Heart to Platter, we didn’t just copy Spanish recipes—we made them our own. Specifically, we added patis, suka, and a hint of bagoong. We simmered long and slow, until the oil surfaced—nagmamantika—a sure sign the sauce had turned silky, rich, and deeply flavored.
Guisa in Motion: From Wok Fire to French Precision
Meanwhile, the second face of guisa came through trade and migration. As Chinese communities thrived in Binondo, their kitchens blazed with high heat. Our Chinese neighbors tossed noodles and chopped meats in searing woks. This style of guisa—fast, clean, deliberate—was all about precision. Vegetables stayed tender but structured, perfect for chopsticks.
As food writer Clinton Palanca observed in his reflections on Fujianese cuisine, Chinese-Filipino dishes often balance clarity with control. In his essay My Angkong’s Noodles, he wrote, “I came to appreciate the honesty of its flavors, and how each dish seemed to have one precise intention—it didn’t try to impress, it just wanted to be understood.”
In contrast to the heavier stir-fries found abroad, this approach echoes the nuanced, memory-rich flavors passed down in Filipino-Chinese homes. You see it in pancit canton, chop suey, beef broccoli—quick stir-fries with deep roots in Chinese tradition.
At the same time, there’s the French whisper: sauter, to jump. A state of controlled, high-heat cooking where ingredients leap in hot fat, sealing in flavor. In culinary schools, it’s called mise en place. But to your tiya in the province, it’s simply handa. Garlic peeled, onions sliced, tomatoes chopped—before the stove even turns on. What seems like instinct is often quiet preparation. And that, ultimately, is the discipline behind guisa.
Why the Theory of Guisa Is a Mindset, Not a Recipe
In many Filipino kitchens, elders often say, “Ang sikreto ay nasa guisa.” The secret is in the sauté. It’s our flavor foundation—without it, dishes fall flat. Simply put, any cook worth their salt knows this is where the magic starts.
While garlic, onions, and tomatoes form the holy trinity, the rekado flexes. Depending on the dish, we add lemongrass for native stews, ginger for fish recipes. Star anise deepens humba; bell peppers and chorizo enrich celebratory kaldereta. Yet always, it begins with guisa.
In essence, like adobo, guisa is both method and mindset. An adaptable act of transformation—turning simple aromatics into something soulful.
As food writer Doreen Fernandez put it best: Filipino cooking isn’t codified—it’s lived. So guisa, our foundational sauté method, adapts. We don’t measure. We taste.
Sangkutsa: The Science Behind Simmer and Sear
Equally important is sangkutsa—our uniquely Filipino way of layering flavor. It comes from the Spanish sancuchar, meaning to parboil or pre-cook. Before refrigeration, this step was essential. Meats were gently simmered in vinegar, garlic, and spices—just enough to preserve them for later.
Interestingly, some say it comes from isang kutsara—a tablespoon—hinting at our intuitive cooking. No measuring cups, just memory. This method lives on in mechado, menudo, hamonado—first preserved, then perfected.
Today, sangkutsa might mean a gentle sear or a quick simmer. The method evolves, but the intent remains: to lay the groundwork for something delicious.
Class and the Guisa Table: From Humble to Haute
Across regions and class lines, guisa tells a different story. In Kapampangan kitchens, even the simplest guisa dishes reflect centuries of culinary refinement. For example, their bagoong for kare-kare isn’t just a condiment—it’s a dish in itself. Sautéed with pork, garlic, and onions, sometimes sweetened with sugar or brightened with vinegar, it’s so good it can be eaten with plain rice. And as always, it starts with guisa.
Writer Gilda Cordero-Fernando once said, “Food is a measure of one’s social position.” She wrote of landlords dining on fat-rich meals and peasants surviving on brown rice and coconut milk. This too, is guisa—as necessity, as luxury.
Years ago, I had the privilege of recreating Gilda’s recipes. She was radiant as she showed me her scribbles and sketches—a flavor map of her memory. A place where artistry, nostalgia, and appetite intertwined.
By contrast, in humbler kitchens, guisa is simpol: garlic, onion, a splash of oil, maybe bagoong or hibe to flavor vegetables or start a broth. The rekado seasons the oil; the sahog brings the heart of the dish. It’s practical, resourceful, and delicious.
Yet in more affluent homes—like those in Malabon—guisa becomes culinary spectacle. The rekado competes with the main ingredient. Take Pancit Malabon, for example. It starts with a base of shrimp broth, annatto oil, crab fat, and a lavish guisa. Then it’s topped with mussels, squid, tinapa flakes—made not just to feed, but to dazzle.
Cooking in Translation: How Guisa Bridges Languages
While writing Simpol Dishkarte sa Kusina, I wanted to translate culinary know-how into working Filipino—especially for cooks in the provinces. To my surprise, our national language holds more culinary terms than many regional tongues.
Growing up in my Cebuano childhood kitchen, instructions were broad: kilawon, sugbahan, adobohon, kalderetason. That was it. The rest came from dishkarte—instinct, experience, intuition.
Clearly, this lack of rigid vocabulary isn’t a flaw—it’s our strength. Ours is a cuisine rooted not in textbooks, but in memory.
Ultimately, teaching Filipino food means translating gut feel into method, turning rhythm into steps. It’s a challenge—but also, a joy.
Improvisation and the Theory of Guisa in Everyday Life
Even our idioms carry this wisdom. Lutong Macau—now shorthand for something staged—once referred to the fast efficiency of Chinese kitchens. It wasn’t magic. It was mise en place. Everything prepped, ready for the wok.
In contrast, Filipino home cooking is improvisational. We prep as we go. We cook with what’s at hand.
As food writer Ige Ramos puts it, “In the kitchen, everything is planned. What seems effortless is always engineered.”
Nevertheless, many still cling to rigid definitions, as if cuisine were dogma. But Filipino food moves like a dance—fluid, responsive. It follows the rhythm of the market, the season, the moment.
As food systems formalize, we risk losing that spontaneity. We box in a cuisine meant to roam free. Even guisa, once an instinct, now seeks a label.
But then again, maybe that’s the beauty of it.
The Final Simmer: Why Guisa Is the Heart of Filipino Cooking
In the end, Filipino cooking isn’t just a series of steps—it’s a conversation. Between ingredients, between generations, between cook and memory.
And guisa connects it all. It doesn’t require precision—it invites presence. It’s the quiet act that holds centuries of wisdom in a single stir.
So the next time you hear that familiar sizzle in the pan, pause. You’re not just starting a dish. You’re continuing a story—passed from kawali to bandehado, from mother to child, from hand to mouth, and into memory.
Chef Tatung Sarthou is a cook who talks too much, writes a bit, and occasionally wins awards for both. He’s the man who started Simpol, where he tries to make sense of Filipino cooking—and life—one guisa at a time.
