The halo-halo (mix-mix) is one of the Philippine's fine dessert. With laced shaved ice, succulent sweets intercourse for a truly satiating gourmet.
The originating recipe seems Japanese: mongo-ya. There are competing traditions like the Singaporean "ais kachang," the Malaysian "air batu campur," and the Vietnamese "cha ba mau." No Filipino fiesta is quite complete sans its finale.
My issue with this delight involves the optics. My eyes bulge while impatiently seeking to get down to the good stuff. So I spill a lot while slurping.
A Franciscan brother once shared a French version of this delicacy. He demonstrated how the Parisian engaged the tall glass.
I normally thrust my long spoon directly to the mix, often frustrated by the stubbornness of compacted ice. It takes effort to punch through the slush before one gets the goodies.
Not for the frenchman.
The spoon is gently slid towards the side, all the way down. Then ... the magic of a few soft lifts from the bottom up: the ice surprisingly melts ... ushering the glory of taste.
But that's halo-halo.
Why do I catch myself in such similar predicament each time I find attraction?
I went through life cascading through the brutalities of life's winding roads. The path's are well beaten and iced. All sorts of travelers seeking the best of luck. One day ... I got introduced to a tour guide, not from France, but from another world.
He showed me the dig for true delight.