On October 30, the long-awaited Michelin Guide held its awarding ceremony at the Marriott Hotel for its first edition in selecting Metro Manila and its environs, and Cebu. The country’s most celebrated chefs and restaurateurs were in attendance, according to a friend who had a seat in the room.
I was at the dentist, waiting to have two wisdom teeth extracted. That morning, I’d been at the police station filing a report for my stolen phone. While connected to my dentist’s Wi-Fi, I told my friend to message our group chat with updates from the event.
Last July, when Michelin first sent an email to Kodawari Salcedo, a restaurant I help run, I thought it was a sophisticated phishing scam. For years, whispers about the Guide’s arrival had haunted ambitious chefs. You’d hear regular rumors about so-and-so building a concept “for Michelin.” I hovered over the link, half-expecting that it would wipe out all my social media accounts.
But it turned out to be real. Friends and co-restaurateurs started asking if we “got the email.” It was exciting but also daunting. Awards are like that. I prefer being realistic about the things I hope for; it spares me from unnecessary heartache. After answering their questionnaire and uploading photographer Renzo Navarro’s beautiful photos of the restaurant, I told myself to move on.
A few weeks passed. No follow-up. No event invite. I told the team that if we’d made the cut, we would’ve heard by now. I won’t lie, I felt a small, hollow pang every time I checked for an email from Michelin. The same one I get when I receive rejection letters, or worse, hear nothing back at all.
Then everything happened at once. The anesthesia was just wearing off when a teammate messaged in all caps: “TONI. NASA SPAM.” Even if I wanted to go, the RSVP deadline had passed more than a week ago. By the time I got home and tuned in to the livestream — bleeding gums and all — they were calling out the awarded restaurants in quick succession. When the host shouted, “Kodawari Salcedo,” I nearly swallowed my gauze.
‘The ultimate comfort food’
When we opened Kodawari Salcedo, the goal was modest: fifty to sixty diners a day would make it sustainable. We were one of those Instagram-only, delivery-only pandemic concepts that sold three items in foil trays. Turning that into a full-service restaurant felt far-fetched. But we did, and we opened the same weekend as Art in the Park, Salcedo’s busiest. Everything that could go wrong, did: we ran out of rice mid-service, the breakers tripped, the toilet overflowed. I went to bed wondering if we’d made a mistake.
But it got easier. Each day brought new problems, but we learned to meet them without fear. We weren’t formally trained in hospitality, which was a constant source of my insecurity. My cousin Jake, our chef, was braver. He’d say he didn’t care about awards or recognition. What matters most is that our diners liked our food and that they continued to come. Still, the year we opened Salcedo, I wondered if we’d ever make it to these lists or if we’d always be that “trendy TikTok restaurant.”
When we began opening more Kodawari branches, I won’t lie: the pressure to conform was real. To meet the more exacting standards of dining — the acoustics, the seating, the polished service. To streamline, to fit in with the mainstays. I didn’t resent it; I understood it. After all, that’s how you turn a passion project into a viable business in hospitality.
When Michelin said they’d be surveying the Salcedo branch, I thought: Why? Then I quickly realized that there is no other branch more deserving. Every other Kodawari grew from that scrappy little space. The one with the broken aircon, the rickety chairs, and diners loyal enough to overlook both. Salcedo was the beta version that somehow became the model. The blueprint. The prototype.
“When the host shouted, ‘Kodawari Salcedo,’ I nearly swallowed my gauze.”
Kodawari Salcedo is now a Michelin-Selected restaurant, which still sounds like a prank when I say it out loud. How else do you describe the feeling of having a very serious French institution applaud your gyudon (which, if we’re being honest, is closer to a tapsilog)?
There’s something almost miraculous about it. That all our improvising could somehow reach a place like this. The Michelin write-up described our bowls as “the ultimate comfort food,” which, upon reflection, was always the goal: to create something sincere and good. That it now sits on the Michelin list alongside some of the country’s best restaurants still blows my mind.
I swung by the restaurant today for lunch service and to celebrate with the staff. We handed out free karaage to diners who had nothing but the kindest words in response. I didn’t know them, but they knew our food, which, in a way, felt like they knew our hearts. Someone even said, “You deserve it,” which I decided to believe. I thought about how far we’d come, and how far there still is to go. And for the first time in a long time, I felt certain: I love this work. Maybe I could grow old here. Or for however long it lasts.
Toni Potenciano is a partner at Kodawari and heads its brand and customer service experience.
