At an uncle’s house party in the province, a teenage Cailan was melting in the summer heat and, choosing not to hang out with the older guests, decided to stay in the car, turn the air-condition on, and play hip hop, a genre of music he had a growing affinity for at that time. He was in his own world, rapping to Jay-Z, when his uncle, after witnessing what he was up to, suddenly ran to the car, pulled they key out, and asked a surprised and apparently, thug-looking Alvin to go inside the house. From a distance, he audibly heard his uncle tell relatives in Tagalog that he didn’t want him anywhere near the car because he might steal it.

“And that was when it clicked to me. I was like, oh, now I'm different here. That was a big struggle mentally because for my whole childhood, I was like Filipino and they accepted me. They loved me. And then when I got older, because I decided to wear baggy shorts, because I was wearing this and that in such a conservative society, they thought, oh, he's different. He's American. But I wasn’t. I was still the same guy who just happened to like that kind of music.”

That wasn’t a solitary case. Another time, while playing basketball in his NBA jersey and Nikes, someone from the crowd threw a slipper directly at him. The reason? He simply stood out like a sore thumb, looking very privileged and well-off next to the other players, and so he was mocked for his appearance. His tall stature didn’t help either. “It felt like I was no longer a part of them. And that was a big turning point for me. I was very hurt when that happened so I stopped coming to the Philippines after that.”

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For a long while, Alvin didn’t know where to place himself. That was until he found his safe space in the kitchen. “The kitchen is the only place where I know what I’m doing at all times. I feel most comfortable in it.”

At an early age, he was able to develop muscle memory for making good rice. It’s the one thing his father asked him at home to prepare so that when his dad arrived from work, he could quickly come up with a viand and serve it with the rice he made.

For a good few years, he also helped his brother's helper with weekend catering jobs. “I was 11 years old and she would make ube haleya (purple yam jam) and other snacks. I would stir the pot until the gata (coconut milk) changed colour and thickened. I also used the kudkuran (scraper) to grate the coconut. That’s when I really started to play with Filipino food because I was helping my Tita Cita with her company. I would roll lumpia (spring roll) and suman (rice cake) for her.”

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All these food memories eventually drove Alvin to go to the Oregon Culinary Institute (after working a corporate job for a construction company) and gave into his interest and curiosity for food. He packed his bags and moved to Portland, without even telling his folks about his plans. He then worked in different restaurants (some for free), including Ten 01, Manhattan Beach Post, Spago and Hatfield’s, among many others.

Seeing the energy and excitement the likes of Walter Manzke and Joseph Centeno have been pumping into the LA scene, he decided to go back and open something remotely related to his professional experiences—a food truck devoted to his love for eggs.

“Filipino culture wasn't as on a high as it was in America at the time. And then there was no breakfast in Los Angeles with an affordable option. So I did that,” he says. They started making good money within three months of operations. Seeing the potential, they soldiered on and kept going. Then when they got reviewed by Gourmet magazine’s editor-in-chief Ruth Reichl, they finally struck gold. That’s when his Eggslut empire was born, eventually expanding to more branches and even to international shores, including the United Kingdom, Singapore, Korea and Japan.

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Once he hit the big time, he decided to begin preaching and promoting Filipino cuisine with vigour and intention, knowing that he had amassed a bigger audience. Apart from the occasional online cooking videos and appearances, he also released Amboy: Recipes from the Filipino-American Dream in 2020, in which he tells his self-discovery stories through words as delicious as the featured food in its pages.

Continuing his effort as an ambassador, he went back to Manila last December, but not anymore as a guy whose quirks and personal expression get construed by pre-conceived notions and typecasts, but as a man beaming with much more confidence, armed with a crystal-clear definition and acceptance of who he is—a Filipino American, in every sense of the classification.

He ate his way around the metro, hung out with chefs, checked out the local food and lifestyle scene, and immortalised all his experiences in film, which he will, later on, publish online and use as bait to bring in tourism to the country.

“My next move is to take the people eating at those Filipino restaurants [in the US] and show them where the food actually comes from. The quality of life in the Philippines is more meaningful than it has ever been, so why don't they come here and celebrate life?”

Unfazed by the past, Alvin Cailan is bound to write more chapters in his part-Filipino, part-American book. And he couldn’t care less what others think.

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