There are only so many places to eat on Boracay, and we quickly found a very good one that suited all our palates. For me: crispy tadyang (I was obsessed with this dish throughout our trip; in fact, you should just call me Crispy Tadyang from now on), grilled prawns, etc. For the kids: ribs! For the spousal unit: chicken, calamari, etc. An establishment with a knack for unifying disparate tastes could only be called one thing:
We ended up eating there three times in all, and each time our waiter was this sweet kid named Walter. Risa, Vida, and Lea basically ate him up with a spoon; he was a particular favorite of Lea's. Everything was Walter this, Walter that, thank you Walter, Walter's so nice, let's go eat at Obama Grill so we can say hello to Walter, Walter, Walter!
During our last meal there, Walter happened to catch a glimpse of the SU's driver license. This inspired Walter to show us his official Obama Grill identification card. Much to my horror, it didn't state his name as Walter. The dozens of times we had addressed him as such ran like a slideshow through my head. I squinted at the card, hoping I'd simply read it wrong. No such luck. His name was not Walter; it was Voltaire.
"Voltaire?" I asked. "Voltaire as in the...French writer?"
"No Ma'am," he said. "When my mother was six months pregnant with me, she was—ano—electrocuted. So...volt. Voltaire."
Would you practically have DIED just then? Because I almost just about died.
As a culinary aside, I must ask: is there anything finer than being served dishes of vinegar, soy sauce, red chiles, and calamansi alongside your steamed rice? No, I think there is not.
Just in case you missed them on Facebook, here is a public link to our Boracay pictures.