Before the brand, the signage, and the steady stream of loyal customers, there was just one man with a pot, a stovetop, and a prayer.
Meet Mang Mars Pablo Mallari, the man behind Mang Mars Chicharon—a now-beloved Filipino snack staple in Toronto. But his story, like many migrant tales, didn’t begin in comfort or certainty. It began with siplak-siplak—makeshift cooking in a cramped apartment, guided by memory, instinct, and the taste of home.
“Sample lang ’yan, Kuya!”
Like many of us, Mang Mars started small—selling snacks out of a bus terminal back in the day, with people calling out “Sample lang ’yan!” when they saw his early versions of chicharon. That same hustle followed him across the ocean to Canada. In 2008, he arrived in Toronto, brought over by his wife after she returned from working in Israel. Four kids, a construction job, and a city full of unfamiliar routines later—Mang Mars found himself experimenting with an old love: making chicharon.
At first, it was just something he did part-time. His full-time job was in construction—painting, plastering, drywall, framing. But on the side? He was quietly building something. “Wala akong kapital noon,” he admits. “Pero sinubukan ko. Luto-luto. Timpla-timpla.” Slowly, people started noticing. They liked his cooking. It reminded them of home. Some even said it could hold its own against big names like Lapid’s.
But there was a problem.
“Sir, totoo lang—wala kaming pera.”
Cooking from home wasn’t going to cut it anymore. A fellow kababayan warned him: no public health permit, no go. And so, he paused—shut things down for a while. But his customers wouldn’t let him disappear. They kept calling, kept asking, kept ordering for parties. “Sabi nila, hindi raw lumalayo sa luto ng mga eksperto,” he recalls.
So, with a bit of savings and a whole lot of courage, he made a choice. No vacations. No going home to the Philippines. Every peso saved went toward building the dream. With his wife’s hesitant blessing and a lot of tiis and tiyaga, he started the paperwork: mayor’s permit, food handling, inspections—lahat.
The Signature Crunch
Today, Mang Mars Chicharon isn’t just a snack—it’s a symbol of grit and grace. Made from his own Pampanga-style recipe, the chicharon is boiled, cooled, and then popped to that signature crunch. “Kung may 10 na nagsisitsaron dito, hindi kami nawawala sa Top 3,” he proudly shares. Some days, they move 100 to 150 kilos a day, especially during peak season. What once started with tricycle-sized deliveries has grown into truckloads of orders.
He doesn’t stop at chicharon either. Mang Mars also sells mani and tinapa, using recipes learned from street corners and churchfront vendors back in San Fernando, Pampanga.
And behind every bite is a long morning—3 a.m. call times, prep, boiling, frying. Even with a growing staff, including a trusted helper of seven years and even a former flight attendant turned store manager, Mang Mars never really steps away from the kitchen. “Para sa akin, panalangin talaga ang puhunan ko,” he says. “Ginabayan ako ng Diyos.”
More Than a Store
His journey is not just about food—it’s about family, faith, and second chances. He admits to the struggles: financial stress, marital tension, long hours, and the weight of not knowing if it would all work out.
But it did.
Now eight years into running the store, Mang Mars Chicharon has grown into a full-fledged business with as many as 10 staff during busy weeks. He continues to support fellow kababayans, supplies goods to smaller vendors, and dreams of helping more.
“Kahit papaano,” he says, “naging success naman.”
Katas ng Kusina
This is why we feature stories like Mang Mars’. Because behind every bite is a backstory. A grind. A gamble. And in Mang Mars’ case—a crunch that started from nothing but became something that tastes like home.
