The Magical Chamoru Food Truck

Martha Leon Guerrero watched her grandmother, Martina, wield a machete in her right hand and then, with a swift chop, crack open a husked coconut held firmly in her left hand. Two perfect halves. “Nåna Mart,” as everyone called her, handed her 15-year-old granddaughter the shell that still contained some coconut juice. 

“Drink,” she said. “It’s mames.” 

As Martha sipped the sweet nectar, Nåna Mart pulled out her cherished kamyo’ and positioned it in the middle of the kitchen. She spread her short legs and squatted her chubby butt on the small wooden bench. She was careful not to fall over or let her blue floral muʻumuʻu catch on the six-inch metal bar and its circular tip of saw-like teeth that protruded from the end of the kamyo’.

“It’s like a penis,” Nåna Mart said, laughing. “Chamoru men think they’re like the kamyo’. They walk around the kitchen like they own it. Hasso’, nen, remember, Chamoru women are the best chefs. Don’t let any man ever push you out of the kitchen.” 

Martha turned as red as achiote whenever her 76-year-old grandmother joked about penises. Her grandfather had died before Martha was born, and Nåna Mart never remarried. Despite gray hair and wrinkled brown skin, she was still sharp-witted, strong-willed, and active.

Martha handed her grandma one half of the coconut and placed a large plastic bowl under the sharp tip of the kamyo’. Nåna Mart cupped the shell in her palms and began grating it against the metal teeth. The coconut meat cascaded into the bowl like snowflakes. Her rhythm was fluid. Perfect posture. Speed and efficiency. If kamyo’ was an Olympic Sport, she would set the world record and bring home Guam’s first-ever gold medal. 

“Atan, nen. Not a single speck of brown husk in the bowl. Don’t kamyo’ like men. They’re careless, clumsy. Just like during sex,” she laughed again. 

Martha shifted the conversation. “Where’d you learn how to kamyo’, Nåna Mart?”

“From my nåna,” she replied. “She was the best chef in our village. When we had fiesta at our lancho, the ranch, she’d kamyo’. I was her helper.” 

Nåna Mart was born in 1944, a few months after World War II, when the occupying Japanese military was defeated, and Guam once again became a United States territory. She was raised in the southern village of Inalåhan, the youngest of nine children, with eight older brothers. When she was 22 years old, she married Antonio Leon Guerrero, a Chamoru man from Merizo, who enlisted in the Navy. They were stationed at Naval Base San Diego, the principal homeport of the Pacific Fleet. They eventually bought a house in a quiet neighborhood not far from the base, where they raised four children, who all still live in various parts of Southern California. Martha’s mom, Flora, is the youngest of Nåna Mart’s children, and Martha is the youngest of her six grandchildren, the only one still in high school. 

Like Nåna Mart, Martha was short and chubby, and instead of joining sports or clubs, she spent her time after school at Nåna Mart’s house, helping her tend the backyard garden and cook dinner. Even though Martha had never been to Guam, she learned about her ancestral homeland through all the photos, paintings, wood carvings, and maps of Guam and the Marianas archipelago hanging on every wall, the replica Latte stones and model canoes on the end tables, the conch shells and coral pieces on the bookshelves, the “I Heart Guam” and other magnets on the fridge door, and other souvenirs and mementos scattered throughout the old house.

“Now, you try,” Nåna Mart said as she stood up from the kamyo’. 

Martha was surprised. Nåna had never let her use the kamyo’ before. “Are you sure?” “Hunggan. You’re old enough. You’re ready.”

Martha took a deep breath, squatted, grasped the other half of the coconut shell, and tried her best to imitate her grandmother’s method. 

“Lean forward, shoulders up, chin down. Use your wrists, rotate, find your rhythm. Maolek, maolek, good,” Nåna Mart coached her.

“I had a nightmare I was drowning in French sauces,” Teresa said. “Do you think that’s a sign?”

After they finished grating the coconut, Nåna Mart put on her favorite album, Flora Baza’s The Queen of Chamorro Music. As the first song, “Hinasso,” echoed in the background, they sat down across from each other at the dining table. Between them: a platter of chicken that they grilled earlier and was now at room temperature. Nåna Mart insisted on using both breasts and thighs, white and dark meat. She marinated the meat in Kikkoman soy sauce, white vinegar, and onions. 

Nåna Mart loved watching cooking shows on television. So when she explained things to Martha, she often sounded like she was a celebrity chef giving culinary tips: “Some Chamorus bake the chicken or just buy the rotisserie from Costco, but grilling is best for kelaguen. And don’t cut it too big or too small. Dice it, like this.” She cut the chicken with swiftness and accuracy, sometimes without even looking. 

“You’re so fast! Aren’t you scared you’ll cut yourself?”

“You can’t be afraid. Treat the knife like it’s part of your body.” 

After deboning and cutting for ten minutes, Martha’s hands and wrists ached. 

“Nåna. I need a break. Aren’t you tired?” 

“This is easy. On Guam, to make kelaguen, I had to catch and kill the chickens first.” She made a twisting motion with her dominant right hand. “Then clean, butcher, and cook them before chopping.”

“You twisted their necks? Gross!”

“It’s not gross, nen. You should know where your food comes from. You appreciate it more.” 

“Did you have to climb the coconut trees too?” Marha asked with playful sarcasm. “Hunggan…and I was barefoot! I even husked the coconuts too! Back then, making kelaguen took all day.” 

Ashamed for being tired, Martha picked up the knife and continued cutting. It was noticeable how her pieces were uneven while Nåna Mart’s pieces were perfectly uniform. 

Nåna Mart reassured her. “It all gets mixed together. Hasso’, food doesn’t have to be technically perfect, but it should always be made with guinaiya, with love. Now go to the backyard and pick the green onions, lemons, and donne’. I’ll get the white onion from the kitchen.”

They diced the onions and red chili peppers, tossed them with the chopped chicken. Then they squeezed the lemons over the mixture. 

“Be careful,” Nåna Mart cautioned. “Nothing worse than biting a lemon seed when eating kelaguen.”

“Why don’t we just use lemon powder like other Chamorus?” 

“Ai adai, nen. It’s artificial. Too many chemicals I can’t pronounce. Hasso’, always use real ingredients. Now, bring me the grated coconut.”

“Where did this coconut come from?”

“I got it from the Asian grocery. Sometimes they have at the Mexican grocery. Not as good as Guam coconuts, though.” 

“Have you ever tried growing coconut trees in your backyard?”

“Many years ago. One of my brothers smuggled a couple coconuts from our lancho in Inalåhan when he visited San Diego. They sprouted, but died after a year. Too cold.” 

Nåna Mart scooped handfuls of the grated coconut and sprinkled it over the chicken, as if she was a fairy godmother sprinkling pixie dust from a wand.

“Make a wish,” she said. 

Martha closed her eyes and said, “I wish, someday, I can cook as good as Nåna Mart.”  

Nåna Mart smiled. She gathered a small sample of kelaguen in her fingers, offered it to Martha to taste. “Should we add salt?” 

Martha chewed the kelaguen, considered its flavor. “Yes.” She measured two pinches of salt. Tasted the kelaguen again. “How do you know when it’s done?”

“The key to kelaguen is balance. A balance of meatiness and smokiness from the grilled chicken, acidity from the onions and lemon juice, spiciness from the donne’, and a little sweetness and texture from the coconut. The salt will bring out the flavor of each ingredient, so they all sing together in perfect harmony, like Flora Baza. Hasso’, remember cooking is about inafa’maolek, about good relationships. Kelaguen is done when there is a good relationship between ingredients and flavors.” 

Nåna Mart knew what she was talking about. You could not find a better kelaguen than hers even if you traveled to any fiesta, gupot, or kusinan sanhiyong in San Diego, Guam, or the Northern Marianas.

Martha tasted the kelaguen again. Added another touch of salt. Nåna Mart tasted it. “Manngge.” Chamoru chef kiss. 

For the next four years, Martha went to her grandmother’s house every day after school. Martha did not have many friends to hang out with. Most of the other kids hung out in their own ethnic cliques, but there were no other Chamoru students in her grade. Her mom encouraged her to join sports, band, or the drama club, but Martha had no athletic, musical, or theatrical talent. The one thing she loved and she was good at was cooking. Her mom relented. Allowed Martha to accompany Nåna Mart to the grocery stores, farmers markets, and butcher shops. She helped her tend the herbs, vegetables, and lemon trees growing in her backyard. She helped her prep and cook dinner. They formed a bond as unbreakable as overcooked guyuria. 

Nåna Mart never wrote her recipes down, and she would not allow Martha to write them down either. She insisted that Martha memorize the recipe for every dish. This was difficult, at times, because Nåna Mart always gossiped, talked-story, or told jokes as they cooked. To Nåna Mart, a recipe was never just a recipe. A recipe was also a story, with plot, characters, settings, and even dramatic tension. 

One day, right before Martha’s graduation from high school, they were making chalakiles for the family. Nåna Mart stood over the stove toasting rice. 

“Nen, what’s your school called again? 

“Le Cordon Bleu, College of the Culinary Arts.” 

“Oui, oui, so fancy! Do they teach kamyo’ there?” 

“Very funny, Nåna! I don’t think they use coconut in French cuisine. Maybe you can visit me in San Francisco?” 

“Ai adai, nen. I’m too old to travel anymore.”

Even though Martha was excited to move to northern California, she felt sad about leaving Nåna Mart. They had spent nearly every day together the past couple years, cooking, eating, and watching the food channel. Nåna Mart inspired her to try and become a professional chef. During the summers, Martha worked as a waitress at a local bistro, Premier Amour, where she began to fall in love with French cuisine. The chef there had studied at Le Cordon Bleu. Even though it was very expensive to attend, she decided to apply for student loans and follow her dream.

“There, you smell that?,” Nåna Mart said. “The rice is toasted enough. Now, let’s grind it.” 

That night, Martha’s mom, aunties, uncles, and cousins all came to Nåna Mart’s house for dinner to celebrate and say goodbye to Martha.

Martha stood over the stove in the classroom kitchen, stirring a béarnaise sauce. Next to her was her friend, Teresa Alvarado, a young Mexican women who was born and raised here in San Francisco. 

“I had a nightmare I was drowning in French sauces,” Teresa said. “Do you think that’s a sign?” 

Martha laughed. They were enrolled in a class entirely devoted to mastering this one aspect of French cuisine. They spent countless hours learning sauce mére, béchamel, hollandaise, sauce blanche, mornay, soubise, verte, rémoulade, bordelaise, beurre blanc, créme anglaise. She fell in love by the finesse, integrity, simplicity, and elegance of French cuisine. The words themselves titillated her palette: chiffonade, coulis, demi-glaze, en papillote, julienne, mirepoix, coq au vin, cassoulet, boeuf bourguignon. 

For the next two years, she dedicated nearly every waking hour to learning the techniques, flavors, and history of French cooking. When she completed the program, one of her teachers recommended her for a job at a French restaurant, Enchanté.  

On the first day of work, the head chef of Enchanté asked Martha, “Where are you from?”

“San Diego, chef”

“Are you Mexican?”

“No, I’m Chamoru, chef”

“What’s a Chamoru?”

“Chamorus are the native people of Guam, chef.”

“What’s a Guam? Or do you mean Guatemala? I’ve been there. Great food.”

“No, Guam is an island in the Pacific. My grandparents were born there.”

“Oh, is Guam like Hawai’i? I’ve been there too. Great food.”

“I’ve never actually been to Guam. It’s very expensive to travel there.”

“Every time a new Chamoru restaurant or food truck opened, Chamorus celebrated and supported the business. But over time, the bitter truth rose to the surface: Chamorus are the most unforgiving food critics of Chamoru cuisine.”

“Okay, well, some of the staff here are Mexican. So you can speak Spanish with them. You’re starting at the mise en place station.” He walked away before she could tell him that she didn’t speak Spanish. 

Martha was accustomed to feeling invisible. Most people that Marha met did not know where Guam was, even though it had been a U.S. territory since 1898. They did not know who Chamorus were, even though Chamorus from Guam have been U.S. citizens since 1950. She swallowed her feelings and focused on chopping onions, celery, and carrots. She knew that if she were to survive as a Chamoru woman in a French restaurant, she would not have time for emotions. She tucked her black hair into a tight bun under her chef hat, and unrolled the sleeves of her white chef coat to cover her brown skin.  

Martha worked seven days a week, split shifts, 7 a.m. to 11 p.m., with only an hour break between lunch and dinner services. She ate every meal at the restaurant, only returned to her month-to-month room rental for sleep. After three months at the mise en place station, she moved up the hierarchy to the salad station. Then, after another three months, to the meat and fish preparation station, where she had been for the last six months. If she kept working hard, she might move up to the pomme purée station in another year and perhaps to the saucier station in three years. This grueling, unglamorous routine rendered away any romantic idea that Martha once had about being a professional chef. Plus, the hourly wage she was making meant that she might never pay off her debt. 

After her first year at the restuarant, Martha finally received a break when the owners of the restaurant decided to renovate. She would have a week off, so she decided to drive down to San Diego and surprise her family. She was looking forward to cooking French food for her grandmother, whom she hadn’t seen since she left three years earlier.

When Martha arrived at Nåna Mart’s house, she smiled to see the worn and familiar “Håfa Adai” welcome mat. She knocked. 

Her mom answered the door. “Oh my god, Martha! What’re you doing here?”  

“I finally have a week off work. I wanted to surprise everyone. What’re you doing here? Is grandma okay?”

“Nåna wandered away from the house yesterday. She got lost. One of the neighbors found her at the park down a few blocks away.”

“What do you mean…lost?”

“She forgot where she lived. These past few months, she’s been…forgetting things. But she’s home now. I’ve been staying with her.”

Nåna Mart was sitting on the couch in a purple floral muʻumuʻu, watching the Food Network on television. Martha noticed how skinny she had become. Her eyes, sunken. Her veins more visible on her hands, arms, and legs. 

Martha kissed her cheek. “Håfa adai, Nåna.”

“Who are you?” 

“It’s me, Martha, your favorite grandchild.”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from here, Nåna. San Diego.”

“Where do you live?”

“I live in San Francisco now. I’m a chef at a French restaurant.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, dear. I wish I knew how to cook, like the chefs on TV.”

“You do know how to cook, Nåna. Remember, you taught me how to make Chamoru food.”

Nåna Mart did not respond, stared at some celebrity chef. Martha stood up, her eyes welling with tears, and hugged her mom.

“The doctor said she has dementia. It came on so fast. I’ve been taking care of her.” 

“I’ll stay here, too, this week,” Martha said. “I can do the cooking. Maybe if we feed her Chamoru food, her memories will come back.”

Martha had been so focused on French cuisine that she had not made any Chamoru dishes since she moved to San Francisco, and she did not have any of Nåna Mart’s recipes written down. But after a few days back in the kitchen, the recipes started to come back to her.

“What’s this?” Nåna Mart asked, when Martha gave her a bowl of food.

“It’s kelaguen, Nåna.”

“What’s this white stuff?” 

“It’s coconut.” 

In that moment, Martha decided she could not return to San Francisco. It was a difficult choice since she had invested so much time and energy at Enchanté. But deep down she knew she had to stay and help take care of Nåna Mart, who had taken care of Martha and their entire family for decades. It was her chenchule’, her gift to Nåna Mart. Not a debt she had to pay, but an indebtedness she embraced. 

For the next six months, she lived with and cooked for Nåna Mart. Just shy of her 80th birthday, she passed away in her sleep. 

The whole entire Chamoru community in San Diego attended Nåna Mart’s funeral and wake. They knew her because she was often hired to cook for saints’ feast days, baptisms, weddings, and fundraisers. Nearly every person who offered condolences mentioned how much they loved, and would miss, Nåna Mart and her cooking, everything from her tamåles gisu to her latiya. In her own way, she was a Chamoru celebrity chef within this enclave of the Chamoru diaspora. 

When Martha returned to her grandma’s house, she looked around at all the mementos, souvenirs, and pictures of Guam. She walked into the kitchen, sat on the kamyo’, and wept.

A week later, Martha mom’s asked her, “Are you going to move back to San Francisco?”

“No,” she replied. “I’m thinking of staying here, at Nåna’s house. Maybe opening a food truck.”

“Really? You’re going to sell French cuisine in a food truck?”

“No, mom. Chamoru cuisine.”

“I don’t mean to be negative, nen, but Americans don’t know what Chamoru cuisine is. That’s why so many Chamoru restaurants struggle.”

“That’s why I’ll cater to Chamoru customers.”

“Oh, nen. Chamorus will support you in the beginning. But you know how Chamorus are. We always criticize other Chamorus’ food because it doesn’t taste like how our family makes it, or because we think we can make it better at home. My cousin’s son started a Chamoru restaurant in Vegas, where many Chamorus live. It closed after two years, and he had so much debt.”

Martha’s mom was not wrong. Every time a new Chamoru restaurant or food truck opened, Chamorus celebrated and supported the business. But over time, the bitter truth rose to the surface: Chamorus are the most unforgiving food critics of Chamoru cuisine.

“Mine will be different,” Martha said. “I’m going to make Chamoru cuisine with a fine-dining French twist. Something you can’t make at home or get at a fiesta.”

“Well, that’s definitely…different. But how are you going to pay for this?”

“That’s where you come in. I need to raise about $10,000 to start. I want to do an ‘investors’ dinner’ next week. Invite the aunties and uncles. Serve a sampling of the menu. Pitch my concept.” 

Over the next several days, Martha brainstormed her menu. She went to the farmers’ market to see what was in season. She turned her grandmother’s kitchen into a test kitchen, experimenting with new recipes, flavor profiles, and presentations. By the time the investors’ dinner came around, she was ready. 

Her mom, Auntie Catherine, Uncle Ricky, and Uncle Greg all arrived at 7 p.m. Martha led them to the dining room table. She filled their water and wine glasses.

She stood nervously at the head of the table. “Håfa adai, Si Yu’us Ma’åse’ for coming tonight to this investors’ dinner. My goal is to open a food truck that serves Chamoru cuisine with a fine-dining French twist. I have prepared a sampling of three signature dishes.” 

She returned to the kitchen to finish plating.

“I’m excited,” Auntie Catherine whispered to her brothers and sisters. “I’ve never tried French food before.” 

Uncle Ricky pulled out a small bottle from his pocket and said, “Just in case, I brought some Tabasco.”  

“Put that away, Ricky,” Uncle Greg said, slapping his hand. “You’re going to offend the chef.” 

He hid the Tabasco under the table right as Martha returned with the first dish.

“This is tinaktak tartare. Ground beef mixed with onions, garlic, and seasoning. Atop are haricot vert, a coconut beurre blanc, and egg yolk. Enjoy.” 

“The Spam food truck idea is a good one. Chamorus will eat there every day.”

“Um, nen,” Martha’s mom said. “Did you forget to put this in the oven?”

“What do you mean?”

“The meat and the yolk are…raw. We might get food poisoning.”  

“It’s supposed to be raw. It allows you to taste the pureness of the meat,” Martha explained before returning to the kitchen. 

“I’ve had tartare before,” Uncle Ricky said. He pumped a few drops of Tabasco onto the meat before breaking the yoke and eating a large forkful. “It’s an acquired taste.” 

The others moved the raw meat around the plate, then stuffed most of it into their napkins before Martha brought the second dish. 

“This is achiote pomme purée with duck confit kelaguen and fina’denne’ foam.” 

Uncle Greg raised his hand. “I think someone spit in my food.”

“That’s the foam, uncle. It’s flavored with fina’denne’ essence.” 

Auntie Catherine also raised her hand. “Did you say this is duck feet?” 

“No, auntie. It’s duck con-fee. Duck cooked slowly in its own fat.” 

They hesitantly ate the dish. Red mashed potatoes, four small pieces of cubed duck, a dollop of brown spittle. 

“It’s actually not bad,” Uncle Ricky said. “I just wish there was real fina’denne’ and that the potatoes were actually red rice.”

Martha once again emerged from the kitchen.

“Here is the final signature dish. kådun au vin. It’s uses the flavors of kådun pika with the braising technique of the French dish, coq au vin. Enjoy.”

“So this was braised in coca-cola?” 

“No, mom. Coq means rooster in French. It’s chicken cooked in wine,” Martha replied before retreating to the kitchen. 

“It’s tasty,” Auntie Catherine said, after she finished her plate in about six bites. “But the serving is so small.” 

Everyone nodded in agreement. 

“Maybe after this,” Uncle Ricky said. “We can go to In-N-Out Burger. I’m still hungry.” 

Martha returned to the dining table and sat down. “So…what did you think of the menu?” 

After a moment of awkward silence, her mom said, “I think I speak for all of us when I say your technique is…impeccable. And many of the flavors were very…unique. But…we think other Chamorus might be…apprehensive. Your menu’s a little too…innovative.” 

“Isn’t innovation a good thing?” Martha said like a defensive artist. 

“Sometimes. But serving tinaktak tartare might be too…fancy for a food truck.” Martha’s heart sank like a collapsed souffle. 

“We believe in you and your talent,” her mom continued. “So we want to give you another chance. Try a different menu, something more accessible. And we’ll all come back for dinner next week.”

After they left, Martha washed the dishes and threw away the leftovers. She tasted everything again, and even though she was frustrated, she knew they were right. She needed a concept that would be appropriate for a food truck and approachable for both Chamorus and non-Chamorus alike.

In the following days, Martha brainstormed a second tasting menu. She made a list of items that other trendy food trucks served: tacos, burgers, grilled cheese, barbecue. What if, she thought, I gave these popular items a Chamoru twist? 

When her mom, aunties, and uncles arrived the next week, she sat them down on the dining table, filled their water and beer glasses. Beer, she thought, was more casual. 

“Håfa adai,” Martha said. “Si Yu’us ma’åse’ for coming back tonight. My new concept is Chamoru pop-fusion cuisine. I have prepared a sampling of three signature dishes.”

She went to the kitchen to plate the first dish. 

“What’s pop-fusion?” Uncle Greg asked. 

Uncle Ricky reached into his pockets and said, “Whatever it is, I brought Tabasco and a small jar of fina’denne’, just in case. You know what the Jesuit priests called fine’denne’?”

“What?” Auntie Catherine asked, rolling her eyes anticipating his bad joke. 

“Chamoru holy water! Let me bless the table,” he laughed.  

He hid his smuggled condiments under the table when Martha returned. Instead of serving one dish at a time, she brought out a single serving of all three dishes at once.

“First, we have the tinaktak smash burger. The ground beef is cooked so you won’t get food poisoning.” She eyed her mom, who smiled with approval. “The buns are made from crispy garlic rice, and there’s a coconut aioli, pickled green beans, and tomatoes marinated in fina’denne’.”

“Smash burgers are very popular right now,” Uncle Greg informed.  

“Second, a trio of kelaguen tacos: chicken, shrimp, and fish. Corn titiyas. Instead of coconut and green onions, there’s Mexican cheese and cilantro. Mango salsa on the side.” 

“I love mangoes,” Auntie Catherine said. “So colorful.”

“Third, a Hawaiian-Korean-Chamoru poke bowl. Fresh ahi, kimchi, red rice, furikake, and fina’denne’ on the side.”

“That’s what I like to see!” Uncle Ricky exclaimed. 

“Bon appétit,” Martha said before leaving the dining room. 

Everything sounded and looked amazing. Bright colors, interesting flavors, recognizable menu items. They took a few bites of each dish until they tried everything. They signaled for Martha to come back to the table. 

“Thanks for dinner,” her mom said. “We’re pleased you took our advice. Your concept, Chamoru pop-fusion, is very…intriguing. We liked how you brought together flavors from different cultures. However…” she paused. 

Martha interrupted, “Don’t tell me you hated these dishes too!” 

“No, nen, we didn’t hate them. There were parts we liked. All the kelaguens were really good, but it tasted strange with the Mexican cheese and cilantro. The burger and rice buns were nice, but the coconut aioli and green beans were odd. The poke and kimchi went well together, but the red rice clashed.”

“Does everyone feel this way?” Martha asked her aunties and uncles.

“Yes, nen,” Uncle Ricky said. “Sometimes the fusion left me in confusion.”    

Frustrated and defensive, Martha stood up and proclaimed, “Maybe I should just open a Spam food truck! Spam musubi, Spam fried rice, Spam grilled cheese! I’ll just sprinkle Spam powder on everything! Then maybe everyone will love it!” 

She stormed to the bathroom. 

“Ai adai. I’ll talk to her,” her mom said. “She’s very sensitive right now.”

Uncle Greg chimed in. “She’s still young. Tell her she doesn’t have to copy what’s popular. She just needs to be herself.”

“But also,” Uncle Ricky said. “The Spam food truck idea is a good one. Chamorus will eat there every day.”

The next day, Martha opened the Yelp app on her phone to reacquaint herself with the local restaurant scene. With her debt mounting and her food truck dream sinking, she would need to apply for a job. 

As she was scrolling, she noticed a new food truck called Kamyo’. Its Yelp page, however, contained no pictures, no description, no hours, no location, no menu. It only featured a single review from someone with the handle, “Chamorrita SD”:

On Sunday night, I was walking around Balboa Park and saw this food truck. The name, Kamyo’, caught my attention. It’s a Chamoru word that means coconut grater. For those on Yelp who don’t know what Chamoru is, it’s the name of the native people from the Marianas archipelago. My parents are Chamoru, from the beautiful island of Guam. My dad was in the Marines. I was born in San Diego. For those who don’t know what Chamoru food is, it’s hard to describe. You just have to try it, and Kamyo’ is a perfect place to start. They have a daily dinner special. Last night it was chalakiles. Chalakiles is kind of like a rice porridge made with chicken, ground rice, achiote, and coconut milk. Chalakiles was my favorite dish growing up. My dad used to make a big pot of it every Sunday. Many people use cream of rice nowadays, but he used to toast the rice and ground it himself. He also preferred to use drumsticks. More flavor, he always said. I was surprised to see Kamyo’ also used drumsticks. The first spoonful really brought back memories of my dad, who passed away a few years ago. I miss him so much. Sorry, I didn’t mean for this review to be so long or emotional. I give Kamyo’ five stars, and I will definitely eat here again.

Unfortunately, “Chamorrita SD” did not take any photos of the food or the truck. She must have been too entranced by the food. As much as she was tired of thinking about Chamoru food, Martha decided that she would drive to Balboa Park that night to eat at Kamyo’. 

She arrived before dusk because she wanted to be the first person in line. She walked all around but there was no sign of Kamyo’. Perhaps it was one of those food trucks that moved to a different location every couple of days. She checked the Yelp app. No update or location. After two hours of searching, she gave up and settled for tacos at a Mexican food truck.

The next morning, Martha opened the Yelp app again. To her surprise, there was another review. The poster was named “Chelu 09”:

I was cruising around San Jose and spotted this food truck off El Camino Real near the Valley Fair Mall. The Truck was painted blue with the Guam seal on the side. It looked like a giant Guam flag on wheels. For those on Yelp who don’t know what Guam is, it’s a small island in the Western Pacific. I was born and raised there, in the village of Mangilao. Familian Gollo. Proud FD alum, class of 2009. Came out here for college, San Jose State. Been living in the South Bay ever since, 11 years now. Time goes by so fast! But enough about me. This truck’s name, Kamyo’, means coconut grater. Every Chamoru household has one. It’s like a small bench with a metal part that has sharp edges where you grind the coconut. My dad taught me to kamyo’ when I was a kid. It’s kind of fun, but can be tiring if you do it for a long time. I totally sliced my hand open once on the kamyo’ because I was going too fast. Got blood all over the coconut. My dad rushed me to GMH where I got nine stitches. Anyways, back to my review. This truck has no menu, just a dinner special. Tonight it was tinaktak. My mom used to make the best tinaktak. She told me the name comes from the sound you make when you chop meat…tak tak tak. The ingredients are simple: ground beef, onions, garlic, green beans, donne’ (red chili peppers), and coconut milk. Today, most Chamorus make tinaktak with canned coconut milk. However, my mom used fresh coconut milk. She would squeeze the milk right after I finished grating it on the kamyo’. Gof mangge. I didn’t talk to the chef here, but I could tell that they used fresh coconut milk too. I will never say this tinaktak is better than my mom’s (in case she reads this review), but damn it’s just as good. I haven’t been able to afford to go back home in years, but after tasting this, I think I’m going to save up some money so I can see my parents for Christmas. I will definitely be coming back to Kamyo’. 671 represent!

Martha couldn’t believe that Kamyo’ had driven to Northern California. From San Diego, it could take eight hours if there’s traffic. She re-read the two generous reviews. Should I go, she asked herself? 

Martha packed a backpack with a change of clothes and toiletries, grabbed her keys, and jumped in her car. A rush of adrenaline marinated her body as she merged onto the freeway. She had a similar feeling during her first year at culinary school, when she and Teresa took a road trip to Napa Valley for wine tasting and restaurant hopping.

By the time she arrived in San Jose, it was dinner time. She drove around Valley Fair Mall, then miles up and down El Camino Real, but there was no sight of the giant Guam flag on wheels. I drove all this way, she thought to herself, exasperated. Starving, she pulled over and ordered tacos from a Korean food truck. She did not want to drive back to San Diego, so she texted Teresa, who still lived in San Francisco. Thankfully, Teresa let her crash on her couch. She told her all about Nåna Mart, the elusive Chamoru food truck, the moving Yelp reviews. She crossed her fingers that Kamyo’ might pop-up in San Francisco soon. 

The first thing Martha did in the morning was open Yelp. There was a third review for Kamyo’ written by “Busy Portland Mom”: 

I was driving home after picking up my daughter from her after school swimming practice, and I saw this charming food truck painted like the Guam flag. I had a long day of work and was too tired to cook. I figured why not try something new other than the usual pizza and Chinese takeout I order at least five times a week (don’t judge me, I’m a single mom with a full-time job). I’m actually part Chamoru. My dad is from Guam and my mom, who’s white, is from here, Portland. They met at the University of Oregon. After they graduated, my dad convinced my mom to move to Guam with him, since he wanted to work for his parent’s catering business. I was born a year later, 1980. As a child, I loved growing up in a tropical paradise. My favorite thing was going to all the fiestas that my dad’s family catered. So much delicious Chamoru food! Sadly, my parents got divorced when I was four, and my mom and I moved to Portland to be with her family. I haven’t been back to Guam since we left. My dad, before he passed, would sometimes come visit me in Portland, but we grew distant. I’m divorced now, too. My daughter, who’s ten years old, looks a lot like my dad, but with much lighter skin (my ex-husband is white). Most people here just think she’s white too. I haven’t taken my daughter to Guam yet. Too expensive for a single mom. I barely know anything about Chamoru culture or history, I just have my faint memories, and a few photos. I wasn’t sure if my daughter would like Chamoru food for dinner, since she can be picky. Like the other reviewers explained, the name, Kamyo’, refers to a coconut grater. I have a faint memory of sitting on my dad’s lap while did the kamyo’. The smell of freshly grated coconut. His cologne. Anyways, there was no menu here, just one special: Fiesta Plate. It included red rice, smoked meat, and taro leaves in coconut milk. I forgot the Chamoru names of these dishes. I ordered two plates, but the servings were so much that we had enough leftover for two meals. That’s Chamoru style. To my shock, my daughter loved everything. The nuttiness of the rice, the richness of the meat, the creaminess of the taro leaves. She kept asking me about Guam and her family there. This was the first time we ever talked about our Chamoru culture. I am inspired to learn more about Chamoru culture and to cook more Chamoru food for my daughter, so that she can learn about that side of her heritage. Thank you Kamyo’. Five stars.

How did a food truck make it from San Jose to Portland so quickly? Martha opened the Maps apps on her phone. An eleven-hour drive. She was tempted to continue this epic food quest, but she didn’t have enough gas money nor did she know anyone to crash with in Oregon. Plus, there was no guarantee that Kamyo’ would still even be there tomorrow. 

Martha decided to just remain in San Francisco one more week to help Teresa with the soft opening of her own taco food truck. Everyday, she checked Yelp and new reviews kept appearing for Kamyo’. One in Tacoma, then Seattle, then Las Vegas, then Phoenix, then Corpus Christi. The food truck was heading east, seemingly stopping in every city that had sizable Chamoru populations. All the reviews were written by Chamorus as well, each one recounting how their meal touched an emotional chord. 

As Martha drove back down to San Diego at the end of the week, she took the scenic route along Highway One. She wanted to be closer to the Pacific Ocean. She thought about Nåna Mart. She was the same age now as Nåna Mart was when she migrated from Guam to California. How scared she must have been to leave behind everything she knew. To leave behind her family and island. Newly married and starting a new life. How brave, too, to raise five kids mostly by herself since grandpa was always on tours of duty. 

Martha once asked Nåna Mart how she adjusted to life in San Diego. 

“When I was feeling mahalang, homesick,” Nåna Mart said. “I would cook Chamoru food. It made me feel like I was still linked to Guam, to my family back home, even though I was thousands of miles of away. Food connects us, nourishes us. Home is not just a place, home is a flavor. Culture is the recipe, and it can be cooked in any kitchen. Hasso’, always remember.”

After a long day of driving, she finally exited the freeway and turned into the old neighborhood. It was dusk, and Martha was getting hungry. When she was just a few blocks away from Nåna Mart’s house, she saw Kamyo’ right in front of the park.

Martha thought it was a mirage. How could Kamyo’ be here when it was just in Texas? She pulled over, rubbed her eyes. No one else was waiting in line. The only other person around was an old man in the park walking his dog. She walked towards the giant Guam flag. She knew it was real when she smelled the smoke from the barbecue grill waft in the air. 

The chalkboard read: “Dinner Special: Chicken Kelaguen with Titiyas. $10. Please ring bell for service.” There was a small window on the side of the truck, but all she could see was darkness within. She rang the bell. No one appeared in the window. 

“One special, please,” Martha said, hoping the chef heard her. She placed a $10 bill on the counter. 

There was no verbal response, only the sounds of someone preparing the food in the background. Chopping, dishes rattling. She wanted to talk to the chef so badly, but she didn’t want to interrupt their cooking process. She would wait till after she ate to strike up a conversation. 

A few minutes later, her plate of food appeared in the window. Martha tried to glimpse inside, but only could make out a shadowy figure. She took the plate and sat down on one of the benches in the park, about twenty feet away. She scooped up some kelaguen with the titiyas, took her first bite. Closed her eyes. Another bite. She started to cry. 

She had made kelaguen so many times in her life, but it never quite tasted like Nåna Mart’s. Something was always slightly off. But this kelaguen was perfectly balanced, seasoned with guinaiya, embodying inafa’maolek. She savored every bite of grilled chicken, the refreshing taste of fresh lemon and coconut, the kick of Donne’, which tasted like it could have been harvested from Nåna Mart’s own garden. She was utterly transported, enchanted. All the memories of cooking with her grandma poured into her, all at once. 

When her plate was empty, she stood up and threw away the rubbish in the trash can. It was darker out when she first arrived. She turned to walk towards the food truck. 

It was gone. 

She looked both ways down the street. Nothing. She asked the man with his dog: “Excuse me, did you see which way the food truck went?”

“What food truck?”

“The blue one. With the Guam flag.”

“What’s a Guam?”

“Oh, never mind,” she said, and ran towards her car. She sped towards the main road, the only route the food truck could take to the freeway. No sign of it. She traversed a few more blocks before giving up. She turned around and headed back to Nåna Mart’s house. In the driveway, she pulled out her phone. The Yelp page for Kamyo’ no longer existed.

A month later, Martha called her mom, aunties, and uncles and finally apologized to them for her outburst at the last investors’ dinner. She invited them back over to Nåna Mart’s house, where she was now living, for another menu tasting. 

When they arrived, she led them to the backyard, where she had set up a table and chairs, and hung up Christmas lights around the garden trellis. In the background, Flora Baza’s voice echoed through the herbs and lemon trees. 

“Håfa adai, Si Yu’us Ma’åse’ for coming tonight, again. Dinner will be served family style.” 

She filled their water glasses, then placed a bowl of fina’denne’ and a bottle of Tabasco in the middle of the table. Uncle Ricky put his condiments back in his pockets. Then Martha brought out a large pot of chalakiles, ladled each of them a steaming bowlful. She didn’t have to explain what it was. 

After their bowls were empty, she brought large plates of titiyas, hineksa agaga, gollai hågun suni, tinala’ katne, and kelaguen mannok. As she waited in the kitchen, she could hear them eating, laughing, and talking story. They were comfortable. 

“You made too much,” Auntie Catherine said when Martha returned to clear their plates.

“That’s for your balutan, so all of you have dinner tomorrow. I’ll pack it up. Here’s dessert and coffee.” 

“Latiya’s my favorite,” Uncle Ricky said, as he stuck his finger in a corner of the custard cake to have a taste. “You don’t have to worry about leftovers with this.” 

“Sit down with us,” Martha’s mom said. “Dinner was…magical. We haven’t had Chamoru food this good since…” She paused, held back her tears. “You made us all proud tonight, nen. More importantly, you made Nåna Mart proud.” 

Uncle Greg said, “And…we’re happy to invest in your Chamoru food truck.”

“As an investor,” Uncle Ricky smiled. “Do I get to eat at your truck for free? Chamoru discount?”

Everyone laughed. 

“What’re you going to name it?” Her mom asked.

“Hasso’,” Martha. “Remember.”

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Image by TJ Dragotta.