Before the storefront, before the frying stations and the delivery trucks, there was just a man in his apartment kitchen—frying pork rinds and peanuts, one batch at a time.
Mang Mars (Mar Pablo Mallari) came to Toronto in 2008. A Kapampangan-Bisaya from Guagua, Pampanga, he never planned to become a food entrepreneur. His life revolved around construction (drywall, painting, plastering). The chicharon business started as a sideline, a quiet hustle done after long hours on-site.
“At first, it was just a small thing,” he recalls. “We were still living in an apartment. I started cooking chicharon because I realized how many Filipinos were in Toronto, and they were craving the taste of home.”
People started to take notice. Orders trickled in. Then came repeat customers. Soon, the apartment stove wasn’t enough.
But growth came with risks. Someone warned him that without public health approval, home-based food businesses could face heavy penalties. Mang Mars paused, but the orders didn’t. “People kept calling. For parties, for pasalubong. They wouldn’t let it go.”
That’s when he knew it was time to take a leap of faith.
Opening a shop in Toronto wasn’t easy. Permits, inspections, capital (all of it) seemed out of reach. “We didn’t have much money,” he admits. “I told my wife, let’s skip going home to the Philippines this year. Let’s save every dollar and just try.”
With prayer and persistence, they found a small space, enough to get started. He invested in the basics (pots, pans, fryers) and slowly built the business from the ground up.
The recipe? All his. Learned not in culinary school, but in backyard kitchens of Pampanga and the streets of San Fernando. Chicharon, peanuts, even tinapa—he mastered them all through repetition and grit.
For years, Mang Mars woke up at 3 or 4 a.m. to cook before his day job. “We weren’t rich. We weren’t even sure this would work. But I just kept going.” His early crew was small (sometimes just one helper). Today, during busy seasons, the team can grow to 10, pushing out up to 700 kilos of chicharon a week.
The store (now known as Mang Mars Chicharon) isn’t just surviving. It’s thriving. What started with deliveries on borrowed bikes and secondhand trays now ships in bulk, with trucks arriving for weekly orders.
He trained his staff by hand, including longtime colleague Ouran and his former flight stewardess-turned-manager, Lengleng. “I can’t do everything anymore. I supply and manage relationships, but they’re the ones running the day-to-day. We’ve grown, together.”
And yet, for Mang Mars, the real secret wasn’t just seasoning or timing. It was prayer.
“My real capital was faith. I just asked God to help us through every step, and He did.”
