Cover Joel “Marketman” Binamira’s Thanksgiving table and feast
Joel “Marketman” Binamira’s Thanksgiving table and feast
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A global table curated with intellect and instinct; Joel Binamira’s Thanksgiving is less feast than philosophy
Joel Binamira’s table reads as both domestic ritual and aesthetic inquiry. His approach to dining and its mise en scène feels less about performance than about coherence: the quiet choreography of taste, texture and tone. What emerges is not merely a meal but a small act of cultural examination, rendered in linen, ceramic and light. True to form, as he is best known under the nom de plume, “Marketman,” everything on the table feels sourced from markets all over the world.
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For the Thanksgiving table and feast
Your Thanksgiving spread feels both abundant and composed, a dialogue between generosity and control. Is there an underlying philosophy that guides the way you build coherence across flavour, texture and form?
I start with the occasion, pick an “anchor” for the table, and instinctively go from there. Often, the anchor is the flowers, as the variety and availability are often unpredictable, and you must adjust the table setting based on the blooms you find in the market. But in this case, the anchor was the printed fabric runners acquired on a recent trip to Portugal, specifically for Thanksgiving. Using such a busy print is unusual for me, so the whole table was experimental, and yet, surprisingly easy to pull together. The yellow-orange plates are from the South of France, paired with sterling cutlery, early 19th-century crystal wine glass rinsers used as flower vases, and crystal candlesticks. Then, light green pressed glass goblets for water and pink gingham cotton napkins. The flowers were the biggest challenge with this setting, as the fabric was very colourful to begin with, but “more on more” seemed to work better than using a single type or colour of bloom.
Above Printed fabric runners acquired during a recent trip to Portugal anchor the tablescape
Above Yellow orange plates from the South of France
Printed fabric runners acquired during a recent trip to Portugal anchor the tablescape
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The pumpkins are restrained in hue, yet sculptural in presence, feel closer to still-life objects than to props. How do you select them? Is it a question of palette, proportion or symbolic weight?
We love pumpkins, squashes and gourds for the festive Fall, even in warm Manila. The best come from Dizon Farms, which grows them in Cagayan de Oro. The variety used on this table are called “carnival squash” with a speckled skin that is cream, orange and green in colour. They are the perfect size and shape for reminding guests of the season without overwhelming them. Best of all, after enjoying them for a month or more, they are edible and delicious roasted, so nothing is wasted.
Above The green glass water goblets provide a contrast to the pinks and yellows
Above The table’s colours are echoed in the florals
The green glass water goblets provide a contrast to the pinks and yellows
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There’s an almost phenomenological quality to your tablescape: the surfaces, linens and vessels invite touch as much as sight. Do you see the act of setting a table as an extension of your culinary thinking or as a parallel design practice in its own right?
The only recurring goal is to delight all of the senses. So while guests often look forward to the food (I love to cook), increasingly it is about the whole experience of dining. The setting, food, wine and conversation all contribute to an enjoyable gathering.
The pomegranate and herbs introduce a vivid counterpoint; freshness against the gravitas of autumnal tones. Were these inclusions driven by considerations of taste, chromatic balance or an intellectual desire for visual rhythm?
I always try to have pomegranates around when they are in season. They are so beautiful and are like sprinkled gems on whatever you add them to. The juicy arils provide a bright burst of flavour that wakes the palate, whether in a savoury or sweet dish. Herbs in abundance not only look and smell good, they emphasise what was used in the dish, here fresh thyme and butter stuffed under the skin of the turkey before roasting it.
Above Golden perfectly baked pie surrounded by yellow gourds that create an autumnal feel
Above Pomegranate punctuates this protein like jewellery
Golden perfectly baked pie surrounded by yellow gourds that create an autumnal feel
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The apple pie
The pie’s vent feels like a visual aphorism; wry, almost architectural in its humour. How did that detail emerge, and what does it say about your relationship to wit and form in food?
The ceramic pie vent is both practical and amusing; it vents steam and prevents an empty dome above the pie filling. It also subtly sends the message that the dessert was home-baked specially for your guests. Our home-cooked meals are very informal and enjoyed with good friends; rarely are they formal affairs. A bit of whimsy is always a good thing.
The crust, by contrast, is deeply worked; luminous, textured, almost patinated. Do you think of finish and surface as aesthetic ends, or as by-products of technical rigour?
Most commercial and home-baked pie crusts are pallid and undercooked. We intentionally bake the pie crust until “well-done” and sporting a deep, golden colour. Think of a beautifully baked pate en croute in the classic tradition as the peg. Crust is very durable; it’s hard to burn it.
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Above Reichl Cake masterfully presented
Above Treats served in a maple leaf shaped plate
Reichl Cake masterfully presented
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The orange soufflé coffee cake
Your version of the Reichl cake reads almost as a study in tone and proportion; soft ochres against pale porcelain. When composing desserts, do you consciously draw on visual or art-historical frameworks?
I think at some point, after hosting hundreds of meals, instinct kicks in. The choice of serving platter, an antique pressed glass plate inherited from my grandmother, just paired beautifully with the rather plain cake, then embellished with chocolate, fruit and dried citrus slices and fresh citrus leaves from the garden.
Do you adapt existing recipes and reframe them in your own language? Do you regard reinterpretation as a kind of authorship, a means of articulating a personal culinary argument through inherited forms?
I often make recipes exactly as written, the first time I cook them. Then adjust later, based on personal taste or ingredients that are or are not available.
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