Rethinking sinigang as an act of solidarity and self-pride
Daniel Cancino doesn’t use sampaloc in his sinigang. The Toronto chef believes Filipino cooking is all about adapting. So, on June 9, he rustled up his rendition of the classic sour soup using Cape d'Or Salmon, green strawberries, and rhubarb broth—ingredients that are all local, some even donated. It’s a dish that reflects what it means to be Filipino-Canadian to him.
And it was only fitting, he thought, to serve it at a fundraising dinner for the victims of the Lapu-Lapu festival car-ramming attack in Vancouver.
“It was unfortunate that it took a disaster to bring us all together,” Cancino laments. But in times of grief or joy, Filipinos gather around food, he adds. That evening, as he cooked shoulder to shoulder with fellow Filipino-Canadian chefs, many of whom were now friends, he felt a quiet pride, one he hadn’t always carried.
Vancouver, after all, had been part of Cancino’s own journey. Born in Hong Kong and raised between Parañaque and Dagupan until the age of 10, he moved to Richmond, B.C., when his eldest brother enrolled in university. Being the bunso, he had no say.
Small and shy, Cancino often felt out of place. His parents gave his days some structure with chess competitions and lessons in violin and piano. While he was doing well by every Asian parent’s standards, the cafeteria told a different story.
Cancino remembers classmates turning up their noses at the adobo his mom packed. On TV, he saw balut used as a gag on Fear Factor. It seemed to him the cuisine existed as a curiosity, familiar only to those with Filipino nannies or friends who threw potluck parties.
Then came a dishwasher job in high school. Cancino initially joined to save for college and “pampasyal” but quickly transitioned to prep cooking. He loved the clatter, creativity, and camaraderie. Much to his parents’ concern, he enrolled in George Brown Chef School, the same training ground of Top Chef Canada’s Mark McEwan and cookbook author Bonnie Stern.
There, the unspoken pressure to conform to Eurocentric standards was palpable. For a time, Cancino couldn’t imagine Filipino food on white tablecloths. That changed the moment he met Chef Robbie Hojilla.
Cancino was scraping by on line cook wages. Still, he spent what little he had attending pop-ups just to taste Hojilla’s food. It was the first time he had seen Filipino cuisine presented with conviction and cultural pride.
Hojilla took the young Cancino under his wing at Hudson Kitchen and introduced him to a tight-knit circle of Filipino chefs. His mentorship came with friendship and a piece of advice: “In Canada—or probably in North America—there’s no one that can cook Filipino food like you do in this lifetime.”
By 25, Cancino was head chef at Lamesa, then the only licensed, full-service Filipino restaurant in Toronto, and its spinoff Lasa. The Globe and Mail called him an “uncommonly talented” chef and his food “refined” yet “rooted.” In 2019, alongside Bruce Ly and Greg Toskan-Robbins, he co-founded Mineral, a 40-seat upscale restaurant tucked into the charming Rosedale neighbourhood. Patrons followed.
The restaurant’s true rhythm only arrived later, after the pandemic. Cancino, battling the slow burn of chef fatigue, scrapped morning service and focused on a rotating tasting menu that expresses his Canadian training and a palate shaped by childhood memories and migration. “Every chef has their own path,” he says. “You can learn a lot about me by trying my food.”
I first dined at Mineral on the eve of my 30th birthday, confessing to Cancino I couldn’t afford a flight home. Dining chair travelling would have to do, I joked. His smile suggested he had taken it seriously.
From my seat at the bar, I watched the exacting chef float from the kitchen to the counter to the reception. In a gray shirt, food tattoos peeking out, he tweezered tiny herbs with the precision of a chess player. He spoke softly, cracking jokes in between, with his all-Filipino kitchen staff. There was a lightness to him that night, as if he’d let go of the need, at last, to belong or bow down.
Cancino calls his cooking “new Filipino cuisine.” I couldn’t always name the dishes, but I knew how they made me feel. The black garlic kombu on a bed of thinly sliced pineapple took me back to island days with my college friend in Siargao. The bagoong caramel brushed beside the kare-kare made me think of my Pangasinan-born mother and how my father would’ve asked for seconds. Threaded through the meal was unmistakable Filipino hospitality, from the generous portions to the warm smiles and a birthday card tucked under the dessert plate of ube leche flan.
Every chef has their own path. You can learn a lot about me by trying my food.
When we spoke again, Cancino told me that it’s kababayans who save good meals for special occasions who keep him going. “I just can’t let them down,” he says. Introducing Filipino cuisine to non-Filipinos presents its challenges, too. A misstep in an Italian kitchen might be forgiven by the next trattoria down the block, but one bad experience at Mineral might affirm doubts. Sometimes, he has to explain the pairing of sinigang and rice or the spoon-and-fork act. Always, guests at his table are happy to try.
For a restaurant chasing a Michelin star, Mineral still feels like home. A spot on the Toronto Star’s must-eat list is promising, but Ly, Mineral’s front-of-house manager, says they just have to keep doing modern Filipino fine dining few dare to try. He says people should trust Cancino’s inventive cooking the way he has trusted him for years, since their early pop-up days.
Now 34, Cancino mentors others, just as Hojilla once did for him. He teaches through youth farming programs and cooking demonstrations at his alma mater. “You have to inspire people,” he says. “You have to make them believe that this is something they can do as a career.” His work has earned national press and a spot in the Chris Soriano-directed documentary Authentic or Not: A Filipino Food Revolution. This August, he’ll return to the Philippines to represent Canada at the International Manila Food Festival, a full-circle moment for the cultural custodian who once doubted his cuisine belonged.
"I'm glad I had the journey I did," he says. "It made me who I am today."
