In New York, residents line up outside a Queens bakery to try a bright purple donut. In Paris, coffee lovers discover purple lattes with a hazelnut scent. In Melbourne, it is found in Easter buns, bringing a sweet and floral note. Everywhere, the same ingredient fascinates: ube, or winged yam, a plant native to the Philippines, whose purple-fleshed tubers unleash passions.
Behind this surge lies a discreet but very real crisis: that of small Filipino producers, unable to meet a demand that has become global. A situation which is reminiscent of another global fashion: matcha.
In the mountainous province of Benguet, in the north of the island of Luzon, Teresita Emilio, 62, carefully digs in the earth. She knows that the slightest wrong move could damage the coveted tuber. When she extracts a specimen, the root reveals an intense purple hue. “I have to be careful not to damage it”she whispers.
In the past, Teresita grew ube for her local community. “I had so many that I ended up throwing some away”she remembers. Today, she struggles to keep enough for the next season: most of her harvests immediately go to the international market.
“It’s the new matcha”
Long confined to Filipino desserts – jams, ice creams, cakes or halo-halo – the ube has established itself on social networks as an aesthetic and exotic symbol. Its naturally photogenic color and sweet, nutty taste have made it the new fashionable ingredient in coffee shops from all over the world.
“It’s the new matcha”summarizes Cheryl Natividad-Caballero, undersecretary at the Philippine Department of Agriculture, responsible for high-value crops. But, she emphasizes, “faced with growing demand, we must improve the entire production system”.
The paradox is cruel: while ube is exported more and more, harvests are decreasing. According to official figures, annual production has fallen from more than 15,000 tonnes in 2021 to around 14,000 tonnes over the past two years. More than half of the 200 tonnes exported each year goes to the United States. The country even had to import ube from Vietnam to meet domestic demand – a first that worries producers. “Gross supply barely covers demand”recognizes Natividad-Caballero.
The challenges of climate change
Ube is renowned for its resistance. Capable of growing on poor soils, it tolerates drought and usually benefits from the succession of dry and rainy seasons. But this balance is now shattered by climate instability. “We no longer know when it will rain or when the sun will shine”summarizes Jenelyn Bañares, producer in Quezon province. Last November, two successive cyclones ravaged the fields, causing the tubers to rot in waterlogged soil. When the leaves torn by the wind no longer capture enough light, the entire plant dies.
Another problem was added to the production crisis: the lack of planting material. To reproduce ube, farmers reuse part of the root which they bury the following season. But with prices soaring, few people keep pieces to replant – everything goes up for sale. “I tried to buy some from other producers, but no one has any”explains Bañares. Sowing from seed is possible, but the process is slow and unreliable.
Despite the economic and cultural stakes, public budgets are not keeping up. For 2026, the allocation dedicated to the UBE has fallen by 10%, falling to around 145,000 euros. The Philippine government plans to use the meager sum to grow more seedlings for breeding, but the government’s priority remains rice, corn and staple vegetables in a country where a third of children under 5 are affected by malnutrition.
For Teresita Emilio, each ube harvest is a gesture of transmission, part of the history of her country and her family. She gets the cultivation of this tuber from her mother, and it allows her to keep her memory alive. She looks at the last tuber that she has just rinsed. “I think I’m going to replant this one.”
