Bread of Fire: Torta and Pan de Bisaya Rise from the Heart of Siquijor

 

In Siquijor, bread tells a story—of fire-lit ovens, fresh tuba, and the grit of island life.

On the mystical island of Siquijor, where folklore and forest intertwine, a different kind of magic takes shape in the form of bread. This is not your average morning fare. Here, bread carries the stories of resilience, reinvention, and resourcefulness—qualities baked into every batch of pan de Bisaya and torta, the island’s beloved traditional pastries.

At first glance, pan de Bisaya may resemble the rustic bread loaves familiar to many across the Philippines. But its distinction lies in what you don’t immediately see: the use of tuba—fermented coconut sap—not for flavor, but as a natural leavening agent. The result is a bread with a soft, springy crumb, baked in clay ovens over firewood, with each bite carrying the warmth of tradition and the subtle aroma of smoke.

There are several forms of pan de Bisaya, each a study in humble innovation. Pan de monggo, dense with sweet mung bean paste. Pan de bukayo, stuffed with caramelized coconut. Salvaro, a golden, coconut-infused bread that’s crisp on the outside and soft at the center. And then, there’s cheese bread, a favorite among younger palates. What ties them together is not just the method, but the spirit: every loaf and roll is a product of island ingenuity.

Not all bread is created equal.

Yet no pastry commands more reverence than the torta.

Not to be confused with the more common Spanish or Mexican versions of the same name, Siquijor’s torta is soft, golden, and mildly sweet. The ingredients are simple—flour, sugar, eggs, milk—but what defines it is again tuba, used here not as a flavoring but as a leavening agent. On an island where yeast was once hard to come by, tuba became the clever, resourceful alternative. Freshly tapped each morning, it becomes a living element in the dough, giving the torta its rise, its unique taste, and its gentle airiness.

Before the blog features and beachside queues, there was just Lilibeth—and a basket of bread.

The process is ritualistic. Flour and sugar are mixed first, then enriched with milk and eggs. Finally, the tuba is added, and the batter is portioned into molds. Each one is baked in the horno, with firewood—often mahogany, which grows abundantly in the area—placed both below and above the clay dome to ensure even heat. The result: a pastry that grows more complex with time. Locals swear the torta tastes even better on the third or fourth day. It keeps well for up to a week, making it the perfect souvenir—though few tourists make it home without finishing it first.While these island breads have long been part of Siquijor’s culinary landscape, their popularity has surged in recent years, thanks in part to bakers like Lilibeth Viernes. At 57, Lilibeth has become something of a pastry matriarch on the island. From a humble beginning in 2012, when she walked miles to sell just three kilos of bread, she now operates a roadside bakery perched beside the sea. The scent of fresh torta and pan de Bisaya wafts toward passing tricycles and motorbikes, luring in both locals and wandering backpackers. What began as a means to feed her family has become a micro-enterprise employing six people and counting.

Her pastries have traveled far beyond Siquijor’s shores. Tourists from around the globe have been known to carry boxes home, the flavors becoming unlikely ambassadors of this small Philippine island. Bloggers, vloggers, and food historians have taken note, documenting the nuanced textures and deep-rooted stories behind each bite.

These aren’t just snacks—they’re edible heritage.

In a world where speed often trumps quality, pan de Bisaya and torta insist on slowing down. They demand fresh ingredients. They require time to mix, to bake, to rest. And they reward patience—not just with taste, but with meaning.

Siquijor may be known to some as a place of folk healers and enchantment, but its true magic might just be in its kitchens. There, with every crackling loaf and torta pulled from a clay oven, the island continues to tell its story—one that rises, sweetens, and lingers, long after the last bite.

Writer: Liway Espina

Photos by: Paolo Correa