There was a time, not very long ago, when the streets of Pampanga were almost empty.
Restaurants had closed their doors. Schos were silent. Checkpoints stood at city and municipal boundaries. Hospitals were places we approached with fear. COVID-19 had locked us inside our homes while doctors, nurses, policemen, soldiers, barangay workers and other frontliners remained outside. And in the middle of that frightening silence, kitchens began to come alive.
They called it LUGUD BALEN.
Not an organization in the traditional sense. No elaborate bureaucracy. No offices. No plantilla. It was a gathering of Kapampangan chefs, restaurant owners, culinary people, home cooks, donors and volunteers who realized that while the rest of the country was being told to stay home, thousands of frontliners still had to report for duty. And they had to eat. So the cooks cooked.
Tollhouse was there. Everybody’s Café. International Skills Training Academy. Rainforest Kichene. Lola Nors. Cioccolo. Village Chef. Ottie’s. Taldawa. Lailen’s.
Then more kitchens, restaurants, cafés and volunteers came.
Systems Plus. Dainty. Teaspoon Café. Café Munding. K Café. Kabsarap. Yami Bulgogi. Don Don Tei. Denlim’s Kitchen. HD Catering. Perfect Loaf Bakery. Tibby’s Farm.
And many more whose names perhaps never appeared in newspapers at all. Some gave money. Others sent rice, meat, vegetables, cooking oil, soy sauce—even salt. Others gave what they knew best: their kitchens and their hands. That was the beauty of LUGUD BALEN. Nobody needed to be rich to participate. If you owned a restaurant, you could open your kitchen. If you knew how to cook, you could cook. If you had vegetables, you could donate vegetables. If you had a vehicle, you could drive. Everybody brought something to the table. Literally.
But LUGUD BALEN eventually became more than a collection of charitable kitchens.
There was a problem with generosity during those first days of the lockdown. Some hospitals would suddenly receive more donated food than they could consume. On another day, the same hospital—or another checkpoint somewhere—might receive almost nothing. Good intentions were plentiful. Coordination was not. And this was where LUGUD BALEN became particularly interesting. Chef and food writer Claude Tayag later described it as a “control tower.” It helped match kitchens, donations and available meals with frontliners who actually needed them. That may have been its greatest achievement.
It organized compassion.
By March 27, 2020, barely days into the operation, 1,225 meals had already been delivered. By April 9, that number had grown to 17,852. Eventually, accounts placed the number at more than 40,000 meals served to frontliners and struggling families. But statistics do not quite tell the story. Behind every meal was a kitchen waking up early.
Somebody washing vegetables. Somebody chopping onions. Somebody stirring a huge pot. Somebody packing rice into containers. Somebody counting meals. Somebody calling a hospital or checkpoint.
And after the cooking came another small army—the transport volunteers. Meals had to leave those kitchens while they were still warm. They were brought to hospitals, police stations, checkpoints and other frontline posts. Some deliveries went into places most people avoided during those uncertain days.
I know that small part of the story because I was one of those volunteer drivers. There were days when the destination was a hospital, another day a police precinct or checkpoint. I even remember bringing meals to the public cemetery. But ours was probably the easiest job. We merely carried what others had prepared.
The real story was what was inside those food containers—and the hundreds of hands that made them possible.
Six years later, I find myself remembering LUGUD BALEN for another reason.
Pampanga is again hurting. This time the enemy is not a virus. It is water.
Weeks of rain and flooding have forced thousands from their homes. On August 24, government reported more than one million Pampanga residents affected, with over 11,000 people staying in evacuation centers.
Even as the waters began to recede in some places, the misery did not immediately disappear. As of August 31, San Fernando alone still had 4,283 people staying in evacuation centers, staging areas and temporary camps. The city government specifically appealed for hot meals, drinking water, blankets, sleeping mats and other necessities.
Government is responding. DSWD has distributed family food packs, financial assistance and, in places such as Bacolor, hot meals through its Mobile Kitchen.
But government relief and community compassion need not compete. They should complement each other.
Family food packs are indispensable during disasters. Rice, canned goods, noodles and other shelf-stable food can be stored and distributed quickly. But ask anyone who has spent days inside an evacuation center. There comes a point when a warm meal means something different. A bowl of steaming lugaw. Monggo and vegetables. Tinola. Pancit.
Rice with whatever simple ulam a community kitchen can afford that day. Nothing fancy.
Just food that came out of someone’s kitchen a few hours earlier.
Because after several days of sleeping on a classroom floor, wondering whether your house is still underwater, a hot meal does more than satisfy hunger.
A relief pack says: here is something to eat.
A home-cooked meal says: somebody thought about you today.
And perhaps no province understands that language better than Pampanga.
We take pride in calling ourselves the Culinary Capital of the Philippines. We celebrate our sisig, bringhe, buro, tocino, tibok-tibok and heirloom recipes. We organize food festivals and tell visitors that cooking is part of the Kapampangan soul.
Maybe this is one of those moments when that reputation must mean something more than good food. Maybe culinary excellence also carries a responsibility.
There are chefs among us. Restaurants. Cafés. Bakeries. Culinary schools. Caterers.
Home cooks. Farmers. Food suppliers. Businessmen willing to sponsor a day’s meals.
And somewhere, there are still people with cars, vans and pickups willing to carry them.
The old machinery is already familiar to us because Pampanga built it once before.
A kitchen need not feed an entire province. Perhaps one restaurant can prepare 100 meals. One culinary school can take 200. Several home cooks can combine another hundred. A bakery can provide bread. A farmer can send vegetables.
A company can sponsor rice. Then somebody coordinates the numbers so that one evacuation center does not receive 500 meals while another receives none.
That was precisely the wisdom behind LUGUD BALEN.
Not simply generosity. Organized generosity.Not another relief organization competing for donations. A network connecting those who can help with those who need help.
Perhaps LUGUD BALEN need not even be resurrected exactly as it was. Maybe it merely needs to awaken. The names may have changed. Some restaurants may have closed. People have moved on. Six years is a long time. But surely the basic ingredients remain. A kitchen. A cook. A donor. A driver. And lugud queng balen—love for community.
During COVID, Pampanga’s kitchens fed the people who stood on the frontlines for us.
Today there are thousands of Kapampangans displaced by floods who could use that same warmth.
Maybe somewhere an old LUGUD BALEN group chat still exists.
Perhaps somebody should send one message. “Maglutu tamu pasibayu?” (“Let’s cook again.”” Shall we feed them again? Because the stoves are still there. The cooks are still here. And unfortunately, so is the need. Maglutu ta na.
LUGUD BALEN ver. 2026