Written By Carl Marielle A. Cabana
Like every city, Dumaguete possesses a quiet center of gravity that its residents instinctively recognize. This pulse beats most audibly inside the Tiangge, where commerce unfolds not merely through transactions but through recognition—where vendors do not simply sell food, but remember the faces that return to them day after day.
A large sign looms over the market’s entrance, almost ceremonial in the way it ushers visitors. Beneath it, one steps into a world that feels quintessential to Filipinos being community-driven.
Inside Tiangge lies the Painitan, a narrow corridor of 24 stalls where the day begins long before the rest of the city fully stirs. Small tables spill gently into the walkway, occupied by families, friends, and early workers lingering over cups and plates of Dumaguete specialties while the city gradually gathers its rhythm.
A closer look to what these customers order before even sitting down is the “10-5-5-5.” This refers to the iconic breakfast combo that costs ₱25 and includes ₱10 puto maya (sticky rice), ₱5 tsokolate (hot chocolate), ₱5 peanut butter, and ₱5 condensed milk. Here, specifically, tsokolate is made from tablea—solid cacao tablets dissolved into thick, earthy hot chocolate—often ordered the same way by customers who have been coming for years. Sticky rice cakes like puto maya, cooked in coconut milk, are served with simple but beloved toppings such as condensed milk, peanut butter, or chocolate. Budbud and budbud kabog, wrapped in banana leaves and sometimes flavored with cacao, sit neatly stacked beside suman, another glutinous rice favorite. Coffee is poured hot and strong, while pandesal offers a quick bite for those already rushing to their next obligation.
At first glance, the stalls appear nearly identical. Most sell variations of the same food, yet each one carries a history shaped not only by recipes, but by the familiar faces that return each morning.
Among the vendors is Ryan June Teves Anadon, a recent Financial Management graduate from Silliman University who helps run the 12th stall, also widely known as the “Lourdes Teves Stall” during his free hours. Though young, Anadon moves behind the counter with practiced ease. Each time he prepares a drink or hands a plate to a waiting customer, the gestures seem almost instinctive, shaped by years of observing the routines–as if hereditary from his family.
Their stall traces its beginnings back to the late 1950s when Anadon’s great grandmother first established the business until his grandmother, Lola Lourdes, took over and popularized the said stall. Since then, the recipes and responsibilities have been passed down across generations. For Teves, helping at the stall goes beyond earning extra allowance as a student. It is also a way of continuing the relationships that earlier generations built with their customers.
In Tiangge, loyalty is rarely tracked through receipts. Instead, vendors rely on memory. This relationship is called the suki system, an informal bond between vendor and customer built through trust and repeated exchange, profoundly prevalent in Filipino markets.
“Since I’m assigned at the stall, I’ve become familiar with our customers, whether they’re students or call center agents,” Anadon trailed off. “If I don’t recognize them right away, I remember them based on what they order. When someone keeps coming back, I don’t even have to look twice anymore.”
Customers become recognizable not only by their faces but also by their habits—the same order, the same seat at the table.
“We also remember them personally,” Anadon adds.
Part of Painitan’s appeal lies in its accessibility. The food is hearty, yet the prices remain within reach for most people, especially at a time when everyday ingredients continue to grow more expensive.
Each stall has a representative who coordinates with the others to monitor ingredient costs. Anadon explained, “Barato ra siya og ma curious pud sila, labaw na nagka-mahal ang usual ingredients. We also find the best substitute if ever mahal siya.” He added that they prioritize maintaining consistent quality.
(“It’s cheap, so people get curious, especially now that the usual ingredients have become more expensive. We also look for the best substitute if something is costly.”)
The representatives meet from time to time to check if they are all using the same ingredients, ensuring that prices remain consistent across the stalls. Since they all sell the same products, this coordination prevents price differences and keeps the experience uniform for every customer. Once the meals are sold, every stall offers them at the same price, ensuring that loyal suki pay the same across all stalls.
“It’s really for the masses,” Anadon brings emphasis, once again, about how their industry truly encapsulates the spirit of Dumaguete. “The food is simple, but it’s affordable. After the pandemic, Painitan was often featured on TikTok, so more people became curious about it.”
Because of this affordability, Painitan draws a wide range of customers. Students from nearby universities fill the tables during early mornings, while workers drop by before starting their shifts.
As Dumaguete continues to modernize, vendors are now beginning to hear plans to change the market’s layout. Under the Smart City initiative, Tiangge is expected to undergo renovation and redevelopment into what officials are calling the “Dumaguete City Central Market.”
For vendors like Anadon, the possibility of change raises concerns about how these long-standing relationships might be affected.
“Naay renovation, that’s what we’ve heard, and himuon nila’g under the current city administration. We will be having a temporary place for the market. Okay ra pud na siya, but from what we’ve heard, basin mabutang ang Painitan section sa second floor,” he brought up a potential issue that has already stirred many recent, mixed reactions from the public.
(“From what we heard, there will be a renovation and they’re planning to transfer it under the current city administration. We will be having a temporary place for the market. We’re fine with it, but they might move the Painitan section to the second floor.”)
He pauses before explaining why these future plans worry him.
“Personally, I don’t think it would be a good idea if Painitan is placed on the second floor,” Anadon prefaces. “Since they consider Painitan as the garbo (face) of Dumaguete, they should also consider our customers—especially the senior citizens. Our suki are not only students or working adults. We also have senior citizens who come here.”
Many senior citizens frequently visit third spaces because these places help reduce feelings of isolation as you grow of age. Amid the rising costs of venues meant to foster community, Tiangge stands out as a rare, affordable, and welcoming haven.
Just across the aisle, beyond the Painitan stalls, the wet market unfolds with its own rhythm. A part of Tiangge that cultivates a similar depth of connection, proving that choosing ingredients can be as intimate as cooking for someone.
Here sits Virginia Balde selling vegetables, fruits, and spices arranged carefully across the modest space of her stall. She begins her day at around five or six in the morning, opening the same stall where she once sat as a child while her mother sold in front.
After her mother passed away in 2020, Balde gradually stepped into the role herself.
Like many vendors in the Tiangge, she has learned to recognize the pattern of her customers. Some stop by daily to buy only what they need for the day’s meals. Others visit less frequently but leave with bags filled with vegetables and spices.
“Daghan gyud kay to siya paliton, mao nang malipay ra pud ko.”
(“They buy many things, so of course that makes me happy.”)
The suki system isn’t just about regular, individual customers—it also helps vendors keep long-term relationships with other suppliers, connecting the Tiangge to the rest of the city’s food scene.
For instance, some younger consumers prefer shopping in supermarket chains for their air-conditioned aisles and polished interiors. Yet, many of these establishments still rely on Tiangge for their ingredients.
Balde notes that these relationships have existed for years. “Pareha anang kape, naa man silay suki sa Roberto’s para sa tsokolate,” she says.
(“For example, with coffee, they have their own suki at Roberto’s for their tsokolate.”)
The exchange reflects how deeply the suki system is embedded in the city’s economy. Even businesses that operate in modern commercial spaces often maintain subtle relationships with the same vendors who work in Tiangge each day.
Though many of Tiangge’s stalls appear identical, each operates on its own network of familiarity and trust built with its suki.
Mornings in Painitan continue much the same way it always has. Cups of tsokolate are passed across the counter, puto are wrapped in small plastic bags, and customers settle into familiar seats before beginning their day. While wet markets may have you carrying heavy loads of produce and ingredients, the familiarity and empathy built between vendors and customers—whether it’s offering a discount to someone in need or the vendor receiving extra for recognizing a customer’s preferences—make the load feel much lighter than it actually is.
Some have been coming for years. Others are newer faces who discovered the place through friends or social media. But after enough visits, the routine becomes familiar.
Orders no longer need much explanation. The vendors already know. Supermarkets may never remember your name, but in Tiangge, someone always does.