Ube may be one of America's favorite flavors right now, but this purple phenomenon has ancient roots

You've seen it everywhere — ube flavored pancake mix, mochi and cookies lining the shelves at Trader Joe's. Even your local bubble tea joint is pushing ube lattes, and the artisan donut shop is likely to carry an ube offering as well.

But what is ube, and how did this vibrant purple yam manage to colonize America's sweet tooth?

It's the kind of cultural conquest that happens in reverse — instead of us (Americans) imposing our sensibilities on the world, something with soul and history has steamrolled through our supermarkets and Instagram feeds.

This is thousands of years of Filipino ingenuity getting its due, even if it has to wear the costume of artisanal marketing to get there.

But for me, as a Filipino-American, I didn't always love ube.

The first time I saw it as a kid, I stared suspiciously at my aunt and uncle scooping vivid purple ice cream. The color alone made me hesitate — it didn't look like vanilla or chocolate or anything familiar.

I passed without a second thought.

Ube ice cream showcases the distinctive purple color that has made the Filipino yam a popular dessert flavor.

(

Brandon Killman

/

LAist

)

Years later in Boracay, Philippines, everything changed. I finally tasted ube in halo-halo, a chaotic, layered masterpiece of green jellies, purple ube jam, red beans and yellow jackfruit. It looks like someone dumped a tropical garden into a glass and said "trust me." And somehow, it works perfectly.

But how did this flavor make its way from Filipino kitchens into mainstream markets and bakeries?

Cafe 86's famous "upside down" halo-halo features an ube ice cream base topped with vanilla ice cream, served alongside ube crinkle cookie and butter bar.

(

Brandon Killman

/

LAist

)

From an ancient staple to modern sensation

Ube (Dioscorea alata) traces back 11,000 years in the Philippines, making it one of the world's oldest crops.

What most people don't realize is that the ube flavor they've fallen in love with isn't actually raw ube at all. Pure ube root delivers subtle, earthy vanilla notes with a delicate nuttiness reminiscent of pistachios — pleasant, but understated.

"What we're craving for is actually ube halaya," said James Oreste, founder of UbeFest, a local event that hosts more than 70 vendors with ube food items on their menus (coming up this weekend in Cerritos). "The flavor of ube mixed with butter, sugar and milk — that's really the flavor profile we're looking for. It's not ube by itself."

The mashed, sweet and creamy ube halaya made for a perfect base to adapt to ice creams, lattes, pancakes and more.

But before it became a sweet treat, ube was a food used for survival.

In the Central Visayas region of the Philippines, specifically in Bohol’s municipalities, ube was the sole surviving crop during extensive droughts in pre-colonial Philippines, sustaining indigenous locals.

The yam became so sacred that dropping one required an apologetic kiss to the dropped purple yam.

"The only thing they could eat was ube because it's invasive, so it could grow anywhere," Oreste notes. "That's why some people call it a blessing."

But the sweet dessert version that our taste buds are used to began with a nun in Baguio City, Philippines.

UCLA anthropology professor Stephen Acabado said that the Good Shepherd's Mountain Maid Training Center created legendary ube halaya in the 70s using carabao milk — from Philippine water buffalo — and butter.

"People would wait in long lines for hours to get a bottle or two, and it usually sold out within the day," he said.

Ube halaya spread on bread shows how the traditional Filipino purple yam jam has found its way into everyday American breakfast routines, bridging cultural flavors with familiar foods.

(

Brandon Killman

/

LAist

)

The L.A. crossover

While ube remained a Filipino-American party staple for decades, the mainstream breakthrough came in the 2000s at an unlikely spot in Granada Hills. Ninong's Cafe, a small family-owned bakery that opened in 2008, started serving a revolutionary breakfast item: ube pancakes.

Co-owner Carissa "Kissa" Ortega grew up surrounded by ube thanks to her godmother who baked ube cakes after immigrating from the Philippines.

But Ninong's had a bigger mission: "We wanted to share our food and our culture with other cultures, not just share it with fellow Filipinos."

The ube pancake was their bridge — something approachable that would spark curiosity about Filipino cuisine.

"People from all over Southern California would flock to this place in Granada Hills to get ube pancakes," said Joseph Bernardo, who teaches Philippine American Experience at Loyola Marymount University.

The purple pancakes became such a phenomenon that when the pandemic hit and they were forced to close, Ninong's successfully pivoted to selling ube pancake mix online, reaching customers nationwide.

Now operating as Ninong's Dessert Lab, they've expanded to include ube spread, coconut syrup and seasonal products like an upcoming ube cookie mix.

And Ortega takes cultural responsibility seriously. “We were very intentional about not dumbing down the flavor and making sure that what we served was authentic so that other cultures knew what to expect," she added.

Fast-forward to 2021, when James Oreste's UbeFest accidentally ignited something much bigger. What started as a modest gathering hoping for 200 people in Belmont Shore exploded into 1,500 attendees — during a pandemic, no less.

"The city wasn't prepared for it, and everybody in Long Beach was like, 'What the heck is going on?'" Oreste said.

That response revealed massive hunger for accessible Filipino culture.

UbeFest, hosted in SoCal, now draws 50,000 people and has inspired nationwide copycats while pushing creative boundaries with ube pizza, ube lumpia donuts and ube tortillas.

The complex reality

Behind the purple Instagram fever lies something real. Ube's rise represents Filipino culture finding its place in mainstream America through food.

But here's the thing about ube — beneath our relentless appetite for the next trendy flavor lies thousands of years of Filipino heritage, turning a humble purple tuber from ancient survival food to modern celebration. Every ube dessert connects back to that history, whether we know it or not.