Lille Allen
The sticky-sweet sauce popularized in the Philippines and Caribbean goes with everything
My first taste was in 2017, in the balmy city of Castries, St. Lucia. Fresh off a lengthy booze cruise, I stumbled toward the resort buffet and noticed a small placard that read “banana ketchup.” The combination seemed contradictory, but curiosity called me closer. I placed a dollop on my plate and dipped a still-sizzling fry into the mound of yellow sauce, fully prepared for a cloying sweetness. But what I got was just the opposite: a potently spiced surprise with a rich but balanced flavor. I then used it to dress my jerk chicken, licking the excess off my sticky fingers, and have loved banana ketchup deeply ever since.
I usually receive puzzled stares or an outright “What the hell?” when I mention my condiment of choice. People hear ketchup and think burgers, so bananas don’t immediately fit the narrative. But banana ketchup has long been embraced in Filipino and Caribbean cuisines.
It came to prominence in the Philippines in the 1930s, when a food technologist named Maria Y. Orosa created the recipe. Tired of her country’s dependence on imported goods, Orosa combined bananas native to the island with garlic, vinegar, sugar, spices, and red coloring to make a local version of the tomato-based condiment. During World War II, a businessman named Magdalo Francisco began mass-producing the ketchup. It’s been synonymous with Filipino cuisine ever since.
How does ketchup without tomatoes work? Beautifully. Banana ketchup’s fruit-forward notes are perfectly tempered with alliums and black pepper, creating a comfortable blanket of sweetness, heat, and tang. The flavor makes the condiment perfect for a multitude of uses: it’s found in dishes like breakfast silog, spaghetti, and adobo; on top of burgers and hotdogs; in marinades; and as a dipping sauce for just about anything. A staple in Filipino and other Southeast Asian households, its fire-engine-red bottle is a token of nostalgia for many. West Indian iterations often add curry powder and/or rum depending on regional preferences.
I treasure the Caribbean take on the condiment, especially the Baron brand version. The recipe is similar in composition to the original Filipino style, but leaves out the red coloring in favor of a naturally soft, yellow-brown hue. There’s no sugar added — the banana’s inherent sweetness is enough. The ketchup has a thick, velvety texture that makes it slow to leave the bottle but thoroughly worth the wait. Baron’s banana ketchup is produced in St. Lucia, where the fruit is carefully selected for quality before being processed and bottled.
This is the kind of ingredient that you can and should use with wild abandon. I can say from personal experience that the bright, distinctive flavor brings a je ne sais quoi to nearly any meal it touches. It elegantly accompanies roasted potatoes, simmers seamlessly into curries, and is a winning match with party wings. It’s also my not-so-secret weapon for mouthwatering grilled shrimp that somehow makes summer heat bearable. And when I’ve used it to marinate center-cut pork chops, I’ve been rewarded with a beautifully caramelized piece of meat.
It troubles me that banana ketchup can’t be found in more pantries stateside; it deserves more real estate. But if you’re into ridiculously versatile foods, you can find it in your nearest Asian or Caribbean specialty store, or purchase it online. I suggest buying it immediately and often, because while there’s not a shortage (yet), life is simply too short to deny yourself the pleasure of banana ketchup for even another day.
Rai Mincey is a food writer and baking enthusiast whose focuses include culinary history, seasonal cooking, and Southern cuisine. She splits her time between Birmingham, Alabama, and Tulum, Mexico.
