12th Stop: Aida’s Chicken , Michelin Selected
Our twelfth gastronomic sojourn led us to Aida’s Chicken, discreetly situated in the basement of Makati Cinema Square—a locale whose slightly timeworn hallways evoke the peculiar charm of places that seem to have no inclination for renovation. It is a setting that conditions the mind, however subtly, for the promise of something authentic.
We arrived a minute shy of eleven. Already, a modest queue had formed, its participants displaying the characteristic mixture of patience and anticipation found among those who know precisely what they have come for.
The handsome hubby and I occupied the eighth and ninth positions in this quiet orderly line.
A few minutes later, a server emerged. Her uniform bore, in plain print , the name Lyn. With the calm air of someone entrusted with delivering announcements, she informed the waiting customers that the morning’s supply of marinated chicken had been exhausted. Wow the day has not even began yet.
Apparently a mere fifteen servings remained; subsequent diners would need to await a new batch undergoing its slow alchemy of vinegar, spices, and time.
Lyn then commenced her count revealing who among us would be admitted. When her enumeration included us, we crossed the threshold with the faint satisfaction of those who have been chosen not by privilege but by punctuality.
Inside, the restaurant revealed itself to be a study in simplicity: unadorned tables, blue monobloc chairs , the unpretentious hum of a place oriented entirely around its craft. Yet the vibrant orange walls offered an unexpected counterpoint—vivid artworks, all available for purchase, injecting color and intellectual curiosity into an otherwise utilitarian space.
Still curious about the restaurant’s red Michelin plaque , I asked Lyn about its whereabouts . She answered with a polite smile, explaining only that the emblem was in Batangas. She offered nothing more, and I sensed that the full story was meant to remain just out of reach.
We stepped inside at 11:05. The room hummed with the quiet rhythm of late morning, that gentle pause before the day’s true hunger sets in. The minutes slid by—forty of them—measured not by impatience but by the soft clatter of plates and the drifting aromas of charcoal and spice. A small bowl of house soup arrived without announcement, modest and comforting, as though placed before us by habit rather than hospitality.
At 11:45, our chicken inasal finally emerged from the kitchen, trailing warm, smoky perfume like a promise fulfilled. The chicken was plump and glistening, its skin catching the light with the sheen of careful grilling. It was served simply—plain steamed rice alongside a humble salad of mashed boiled eggplant, tomato, garlic, and salted egg. On the table waited the familiar companions: soy sauce, vinegar, and the fiery red siling labuyo.
It was our first meal of the day, and hunger sharpened every flavor. Soon enough we found ourselves stripping the bones clean, leaving nothing behind but the memory of smoke and salt and a quiet, satisfying fullness. For ₱210 per person, it felt like a small feast.
Outside, a line had already formed, a patient procession of strangers drawn by the same promise that had lured us in. And so this brief entry in our culinary journey came to a close—an episode shaped not only by the food, but by the waiting, the wondering, and the gentle theatre of ordinary people going about their day.
Pigoutmanila 