The smoke moves fast, caught in the backlight of a ring lamp clipped to the cart’s umbrella. It shines blue, then gone. Another flick of the ladle, more puff. The circle of oil holds a dozen fishballs—puffed, gold-edged, crisping at the borders. The vendor’s hand doesn’t stop. Left hand lifts a phone, right hand stirs. Back and forth. TikTok is four seconds, maybe five. You need motion, she says. No one stops for stillness.
She leans into the steam, smartphone balanced between two knuckles. Younger than the man beside her who calls out prices, but older than she looks under the bright artificial glow. A child giggles behind her, hiding beneath the sauce table. He tries to snatch a fishball while she talks into the phone.
“They want to see it pop. Hear the oil.”
She says this like it’s obvious. She tilts the wok so the oil slides forward, concentrates the heat. The fishballs brown unevenly, some caught in the swirl. She lifts them gently into the slotted pan above. The squeak of aluminum against wood, the flash of wet shine.
Her name’s May. She used to sell by the school gate, beside the carinderia that served instant noodles with fishballs poked into the broth. Too soft that way, she says. Kids in uniforms bought five at a time, ten if it was exam day. That was before.
Now she swings the cart near the mall service road in Pasig. Where delivery riders wait. Where the traffic stalls just enough for someone to lean out and yell, “Dozen! Sweet sauce lang!”
At first, she laughs, customers thought she was joking. Recording herself scooping fishballs, talking to “viewers”, adjusting the ring light every ten minutes. “Kala nila pang-arte. Pero tinignan ko, yung isa kong video, thirty thousand views. Kinabukasan, dinumog ako.”
She doesn’t say it with pride. Not exactly. More like surprise you learn to live with. Like watching fishballs ripple again after you’ve dropped them in cold oil.
The balls themselves are pale before the fry—packed from white fish paste bulked with starch and rolled tight in dusty factories outside Navotas. She buys them frozen, fifty-peso bags in stacks taller than her son. No one makes them by hand here. Not unless you run a stall that’s trying to perform rustic charm.
She dips one bamboo skewer into thickened sauce. Brown-gold, a little gummy. “Tikman,” she says.
It tastes of soy, garlic, sugar. The heat lingers at the back. Not sharp like suka, just layered—sweet first, then heat, then salt. The skewer is warm, softened at the tip. Sauce drips between my fingers. She sees it and grins.
“Gusto ng mga nanonood, madami. Umaapaw. Eh, kung konti lang sauce mo, lalampasan ka.”
She means on the For You page. She means on the actual street, too.
The man beside her, Boyet, she says, has been selling fishballs since before there were malls in this district. “Taho dati,” he says, “pero mas maganda kita dito.“
He doesn’t touch the phone. He watches the money pouch, counts coins with his thumb. His hands are scored with burnt marks, pale lines crossed with charcoal smudge. He doesn’t speak into the videos. “Pang-bata ‘yan,” he says, pointing to May’s screen. She says nothing. Just turns the light a little closer to the wok.
By afternoon, it’s the riders who come first. Gloves half-off, tucked into pockets, faces masked and sunburned. They don’t wait. He hands them cups already loaded, sauce poured thick. Some tap the cart leg with coins and go.
Later come the tricycle drivers. Then the teens with flushed cheeks and phones out.
They record her as she records herself.
She squeezes vinegar hard. It falls across the balls mid-scoop. One jumps, then drops.
The music cuts in and out. Something fast, maybe reggaeton. Frying nearly drowns it.
May mouths the lyrics while stirring. Not singing. Just syncing.
“If quiet ka lang, wala mangayayari. Kailangan may performance.“
She says this while twisting the phone horizontal, catching the golden shot.
No one asks about the fish. Not what kind, not where. She wouldn’t have an answer. The paste could be pollock, could be threadfin bream. Bought in bulk, boxed blue and white, delivered to stalls with flour still clinging. The taste is faint. Mostly it holds sauce, carries heat.
What matters is how it floats.
She says the ring light broke once during a storm. Phone slipped, battery wet. No video for two days. Sales dropped to half. She doesn’t blame the weather. She blames the algorithm.
Her son mimics her in the background—pretends to hold a phone, flips an imaginary fishball. He’s not yet nine but already knows the sound hook: the ssszzzt that earns replay. He cups his hand near the portable speaker, tries to make the fry louder.
Boyet watches them both. He shrugs. Then slowly folds the two fifties and pushes them down, the envelope already soft from handling.
Sometimes at night, she talks about lights. Color-changing ones. Says it might help the fishballs stand out when traffic slows.
I ask her why. She skewers five, holds them up.
“Para may magic,” she says. “Kahit alam mong pare-pareho lang ‘yan.”
The sun has dipped by then. The glowing ring outlines her cheek in pale blue. Across the street, a vendor without a phone stands alone, his wok bubbling quietly, unfilmed.
The street keeps going. The oil keeps hot. The cart light blinks. She presses record. The fishball sizzles again.
It never looks the same twice.
