Chef Francis Lacson, The Pusô That Challenges the Story of Filipino Food

By Noel Galon de Leon

It began with a single photograph. Rice, wrapped neatly in palm leaves, a humble image that in any other context might have scrolled past unnoticed. But in the Philippines, nothing is ever simple when it comes to food. The internet saw the picture, and the comments came fast and furious. Cebuanos, with their quick instinct to defend tradition, erupted. “That is not our puso,” they wrote, as if one island alone had the authority to decide the meaning of authenticity. Overnight, a photo of rice became a war over identity.

What most people did not see in that chaotic storm of comments was the deeper problem it revealed. The way we talk about Filipino food is not only incomplete but profoundly skewed. Cebu has long marketed its version of puso, pairing it with lechon and selling it as an essential symbol of regional pride. Manila, as usual, plays kingmaker, deciding which dishes earn the label of “Filipino food” and which flavors are left behind in the shadows. The rest of the islands, with their equally rich traditions, are forced to watch as their culinary stories are either ignored or rewritten by those with louder microphones. This is where Chef Francis Lacson stepped in and refused to stay silent.

His short film The Pusô You’ve Never Heard Of did not just showcase rice in woven leaves. It pulled back the curtain on a truth most Filipinos do not want to face. The puso of Cebu may be celebrated, commodified, and exported, but it is not the only one that exists. In Panay, particularly in Capiz where Francis comes from, pusô is something else entirely. It is not a sidekick to lechon but a ritual food. It is eaten with reverence, tied to ceremony, and woven with meanings that go beyond convenience. And yet, outside Panay, this pusô might as well be invisible.

This is the injustice Francis wanted to expose. For him, context is not a luxury but the soul of food. To present a dish stripped of its history and meaning is not only careless but disrespectful. A dish without its people is just something to chew on. A dish with memory is culture itself. And he knew that by choosing to tell this story, he would inevitably step on some very loud, very proud toes. That was precisely the point.

Francis himself is no stranger to struggle. He did not grow up dreaming of kitchens or chasing Michelin stars. He was once a seafarer, and his life was derailed by a violent hostage-taking at sea. When he returned home, shaken and scarred, he cooked not to build a career but to heal. Stirring pots, slicing vegetables, and creating meals became therapy, a way to occupy trembling hands and a restless mind. From that survival came something unexpected. His cooking turned into a restaurant in Roxas City, and soon after, into new ventures in Iloilo. What began as an act of survival grew into a profession, and eventually, into a calling.

He had always been surrounded by food. Growing up in Mambusao, Capiz, he belonged to a family of community cooks, the kind of people summoned when entire barangays needed to be fed during weddings and fiestas. He learned early that food was not about applause or aesthetics but about feeding communities and keeping traditions alive. Later, as he read Thomas Keller’s French Laundry Cookbook, he discovered the discipline of professional kitchens. Amy Besa and Romy Dorotan’s Memories of Philippine Kitchens gave him the validation he needed that his roots mattered, that the food he grew up with had worth beyond provincial boundaries. Doreen Gamboa Fernandez’s essays finally taught him that food was not only something you ate, it was something you wrote about, something you archived, something you defended.

His professional growth was shaped by mentors like Myrna Segismundo, Rafael “Tibong” Jardeleza, and Kalel Chan. From them he learned refinement, creativity, and precision. But he never allowed himself to forget where he came from. He carried with him the communal spirit of his family, the discipline of global technique, and the hunger to tell stories that Manila-centric and Cebu-centric narratives preferred to ignore.

Awards and medals came, but they were never the point. He won at the Philippine Culinary Cup, became a certified sushi chef, and gained national recognition. Yet what mattered most to him were the awards that gave voice to the silenced. His essay about sinalay-makers of Capiz, his meditation on linagpang, and now his film about pusô were not trophies. They were battle cries. They were ways of saying, “We exist. Our food exists. And you will not erase us.”

This is where Francis courts controversy. He knows that by championing Panay’s pusô, he unsettles Cebu’s pride and Manila’s authority. And that is exactly what excites him. Because Filipino cuisine is not one neat, uniform story. It is a collection of thousands of voices, and to pretend otherwise is intellectual laziness. He does not believe that authenticity belongs to whoever shouts the loudest. He believes authenticity lives in multiplicity, in conversation, in the willingness to admit that what you know is not all there is.

He is blunt about it. Every dish has a birthplace. If you strip it of that birthplace, you erase the people who gave it meaning. Food without context is just fuel. Food with context is culture. That is the hill he is willing to die on.

He also understands the tools of this age. Video has reach. It can create instant buzz. It can make thousands of people stop scrolling for thirty seconds. But he warns against confusing virality with permanence. A video can spark curiosity, but writing preserves memory. Without the written word, without books and essays and archives, everything we have can disappear with the next algorithm. And so for him, food writing and food film must work together or risk being swallowed by silence.

The timing could not be more critical. Filipino food is finally trending worldwide. From Michelin-starred reinterpretations of adobo to viral TikTok recipes, the world is curious. But beneath the glitter of global attention lies a dangerous fragility. Farmers remain unsupported, supply chains are broken, and imports threaten to replace indigenous ingredients. The paradox is cruel. The world praises our cuisine while our own system starves the very people who sustain it.

This is why Francis insists that the work of chefs, writers, and creators cannot just be about performance. It must also be about protection. We must teach the younger generation that tradition is not a relic but a living force. We must cook it, write it, film it, and defend it with pride. If we do not, then we will lose not only recipes but entire histories.

His next step is clear. He is opening his own restaurant, not as a vanity project but as a statement. It will be a place where his advocacy and his artistry converge, a space that insists on authenticity without apology. He wants a restaurant that does not just feed the stomach but feeds memory, a restaurant where every dish is both an inheritance and an innovation.

This is the power of The Pusô You’ve Never Heard Of. It dares to ask who gets to decide what is Filipino. It dares to question why Manila and Cebu get to dominate the conversation while provinces like Capiz are ignored. It dares to show that there is no single Filipino cuisine but many, and that this diversity is not a weakness but our greatest strength.

Francis Lacson is not interested in pleasing everyone. He is interested in telling the truth. Even if that truth stings, even if it disrupts the easy narratives sold by tourism campaigns and glossy food shows. Because sometimes the most radical act is simply to remind people that what they thought they knew was never the whole story.

In his hands, even something as small as a bundle of rice becomes a challenge to power. And the real question for us, after watching his film and hearing his voice, is simple. Are we ready to listen to the stories we have ignored? Or will we continue to eat in silence, content with the versions that are loudest, while the rest of our culinary heritage fades away?

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Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.