The Feast of the Black Nazarene in Quiapo holds a special place in my heart, not because I am a devotee or a resident. Every year since 2006, I join the thousands of barefoot devotees and watch from the sidelines as the image of the Black Nazarene floats in a sea of people from the Quiapo Church to the streets and back.

The sight never fails to leave me in awe—it’s both claustrophobic and mesmerizing to look at the masses pulling at the rope, waving their white towels and scrambling to touch the image in the hopes that they will be healed, granted a wish, or blessed with good health and a good life. Once you’re there, you try to become one with the crowd—not a fish swimming against the current—but like water itself, going where the current will take you.

I experienced being there myself for the first time in 2006. I was just in my sixth month as a lifestyle reporter for a newspaper, which meant I was very curious, and adventurous enough to look for interesting stories even in the unlikeliest places. An old-time Quiapo resident, Chona Trinidad (she’s lived along Vergara Street since the ’50s or ’60s), invited me to join her for the fiesta since her friend owned the Picache building. The building had a direct view of the whole procession because it was located just in front of the church.

I was given clear directions but unfortunately did not make it to the venue before the crowd became thick enough to crush a bewildered and lost writer. I took advantage by taking in the whole scene—the vendors who managed to squeeze their wares into any available space, the Quiapo shoppers and devotees who managed to shuffle their way to their destination, and the general atmosphere, thick with devotion and belief. To this day I carry it in my memory and I am compelled to go back.

I went back the next year and the year after. Each time I learned something new. The hijos de Nazareno are the ones assigned to protect the image of the Nazarene. Devotees travel barefoot (I’ve ridden the LRT and a jeepney with barefoot men in matching maroon shirts) to Quiapo, considered hallowed ground. Smaller processions of the Nazarene’s replicas (owned by devotees from as far as Laguna and Batangas) are routed in the back alleys of Quiapo.

In 2007, Tita Chona invited me to one of the Quiapo houses again. The owners of Picache Building, if I remember right, had sold the structure, hence no more Quiapo feasts there. So we visited the Lobregat Music Store instead where the pianist, Mrs. Sari Tiongco-Canicosa, lived. She served her own, simpler version of a Quiapo feast where two dishes stood out.

One was a leg of ham from Excellente Cooked Ham in Echague. The ham was thinly sliced and eaten uncooked. I hesitated at first because at our house, ham was usually fried. But this particular ham was dry and salty and looked like it didn’t have any cooties in it so I popped a piece into my mouth and was rewarded with an unforgettable ham. The other dish was Pancit Manok, a simple pancit not colored by soy sauce or atchuete. It was adorned with sliced boiled eggs, toasted garlic and minced chicken. Mrs. Canicosa disclosed that her secret is the chicken stock, which gives it more flavor. It’s a Manila dish I am glad to have consumed.

In the olden days, a Quiapo feast would mean a table—a “mesa de convite”—groaning with all sorts of dishes. In her rare, self-published cookbook, Treasured Home Recipes, Julia Iturralde recalls the dishes served: lechon, bopis, dinuguan, lenguamorcon, Arroz a la Valenciana, salad, chicken soup and relleno (from Ambos Mundos), . “Most of the guests would come at suppertime to watch the procession of the Black Nazarene, which passed right in front of our house. The guests wore elegant clothes, the men usually in coat and tie; the women, in colorful ternos with beaded black lace tapis and long skirts with trains,” she writes.

Well, I won’t be in a colorful terno, but on January 9, I’ll probably be travelling back to Quiapo. It will be heavy and feverish with the faithful, just like it has always been year after year.

Photo (Excelente Ham) by Gita Asuncion