Stir Fried: Sinta brings Filipino food full circle
How Michelle Latoza's supper club is introducing indigenous ingredients to visitors of Siargao Island in the Philippines
A look at the food served at Sinta, a dinner club hosted by Michelle Latoza.
Photos by Dré Ferrer; photo illustration by Ryan Quan
Words by Clara Wang
Stir Fried: The story of any immigrant diaspora is the story of how outsiders became insiders, and nothing tells this story better than food. Names may get scrambled, languages forgotten, neighborhoods gentrified—but no matter how muddled histories become, the truth is served on a plate. Stir Fried breaks down the weird, messy, bastardized fusion cuisines that tell the story of Asian diaspora communities around the world.
It’s a Tuesday morning in Burgos, a little village perched on the northernmost tip of Siargao Island, Philippines, and Michelle Latoza is cutting up squares of banana leaves to feed her guests. In the leaves she’ll steam a mound of wild mushrooms, freshly picked, with onions and tomatoes. Behind the kubo (open-air hut), a table is set for six lucky diners who have heard of Sinta, her supper club that runs every Thursday and Sunday through word of mouth—though more friends and family may show up as the night wears on. On the menu: Kinilaw (also known as Filipino ceviche) made with local tuna, but poke-style with fresh coco cream chili and local calamansi lime, whole milkfish steamed in banana and turmeric leaves, topped up with lemongrass and ginger, and moringa pesto pasta.
Michelle Latoza started Sinta in 2023 as a way of introducing indigenous ingredients to visitors of Siargao Island, and connecting locals and tourists.
Dré Ferrer
Latoza, known as “Ate Michelle” to those who sit at her table, started her supper club in 2024 as a way of introducing indigenous ingredients to visitors of the island, and connecting locals and tourists. Prospective guests send messages through their social media to confirm availability, and Latoza also caters events and hosts open-house meriendas on Sundays for whoever drops by. “Sinta,” which means love in Tagalog, highlights the ways Filipino food both reflects its multitude of colonial influences and the re-absorption of the Filipino diaspora who decide to come back home.
Latoza grew up on Panay Island with her grandparents, who taught her how to forage in the mountains, and she spent 35 years working in Sydney in event management. She fell in love with Siargao after visiting in 2016 and continued to visit every six months before making it her permanent home in 2019. When the COVID-19 pandemic trapped people on the island and slowed food shipments, Latoza dove into learning about edible plants on the island and indigenous food sources from Siargao natives. Her neighbors are mostly fishermen who sell her octopus to make salad or adobo, and surf instructors. Siargao has long been home to the Lumads and Surigaonon people, who still catch tuna, dolphinfish, and milkfish with handlines in traditional wooden outrigger boats called bancas.
“They bring me different things like wild mushrooms and banana blossoms and jackfruit and banana heart, coconut heart,” Latoza says about the locals.
In 2022, as the island was still picking up the pieces from Typhoon Odette’s devastation, she built a kubo along the forested road by Burgos to receive friends from all over the island, which over time formalized into Sinta. “I realized that it’s an experience everyone should have. It feels raw, the idea you’re eating all the food that comes from the island,” says Latoza.
Trade, colonialism, and tourism
The three major forces that have mixed and melted Filipino cuisine are trade, colonialism, and more recently, tourism. The Philippines was a Spanish colony for 333 years, from 1565-1898—30 years longer than Mexico—leaving a deep imprint on its language and cuisine. Adobo, a classic Filipino braised stew, most commonly prepared with chicken or pork, marinated in a mixture of soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, and spices, is named after the Spanish word “adobar,” which means “to marinate.” In Latin countries like Puerto Rico, “adobo” refers to a blend of spices for a dry rub. Filipino adobo varies widely across regions; in Siargao, islanders make squid adobo stewed in its own ink, sometimes with coconut milk and vinegar. Filipino pandesal, a slightly sweet round little breakfast roll, evolved from pan de suelo, a crusty Spanish baguette, after the introduction of soft American wheat. Tortang talong, a ubiquitous Filipino eggplant fritter, blends Spanish omelette techniques with local eggplant, the Phillipines’ most popular crop.
A typical dinner spread at Sinta.
Dré Ferrer
Chinese traders introduced ingredients like soy sauce, mung bean sprouts, and techniques like stir-frying. Favorite Filipino street foods lumpia, pancit, and siumai are respectively spinoffs of egg rolls, noodles, and steamed dumplings. Lugaw, also known as Chinese rice porridge, topped with chicharon kiwali (fried pork cracklings), best served with plenty of calamansi lime and hot chili oil, harkens back to the old joke that Chinese plus Mexican equals Filipino.
In the past few decades, millions of Western tourists have flocked to Filipino beaches searching for their own “Eat, Pray, Surf” adventure. Foreign tourism has shaped Siargao since golden-haired youths discovered Siargao’s perfect surf breaks in the 1980s. The island’s capital of General Luna boasts a high-end culinary scene resembling an international food court, and even in the quieter northern part of the island, you’re never too far from brunch menus and smoothie bowls. Since tourism is the predominant industry, it makes sense to sell to foreigners—but locals often assume foreigners only want hamburgers and pizza, or other brunch-type items requiring ingredients that need to be shipped in. Native produce such as mustard leaves, cassava greens, and sweet potatoes are often difficult to find in the market and only traded among locals. “These are the things they only eat if they don’t have anything to eat, like during the typhoon season or the drought time when there’s not much rice. They call foraging ‘scraping,’ so (this is) the produce they are ashamed of showing,” says Latoza.
In a recent open-house merienda, Latoza featured octopus salad made with cassava leaves, steamed banana blossom, and mustard. “They get so shocked to see that people who are visiting really enjoy it,” she says about the locals.
Whole milkfish stir-fried with turmeric and vegetable.
Dré Ferrer
Brunch and burgers may remain the big money-makers, but showcasing local produce to foreigners could be a path forward toward more sustainable tourism. Latoza’s time spent abroad familiarized her with what westerners like—aesthetic place settings, natural ambience, and promises of what they can’t get at home—which at Sinta serves as a bridge between communities. On Sundays, local children float in and out of the kubo, enjoying free snacks and art supplies. “For us, it’s about giving back to the locals,” Latoza says. “We respect the Lumad people and the focus of Sinta is to celebrate their produce.”
Published on December 10, 2025
Words by Clara Wang
Clara Wang is a freelance writer based in Austin, TX but often found wandering abroad exploring culture through the lens of food and drink. Her work has been featured in publications such as Conde Nast Traveler, Food & Wine, Eater Austin, BuzzFeed, Refinery29, the Austin American Statesman, and the Daily Dot. Her monthly column Stir Fried explores Asian diasporic cuisines around the world.