My good friend and fellow freelance writer Alma Cruz Miclat knew I was in Manila (down from my base in Baguio City) for just a week and insisted on a long ladies’ dinner on a Sunday at Cibo (second level of the original Shangri-La Plaza in Mandaluyong City). 

The name “Cibo,” meaning “food” in Italian, had the nuts and bolts in my head clicking in place. “Sure,” I told Alma in reply to her Facebook message, “I’ve not been there in years.”

Cibo stirs many pleasant memories of dining with dear ones: legendary copy editor Rustie Otico at the Gateway Cubao branch, where we stayed until closing hour; editor Chato Garcellano and my husband Rolly Fernandez, when I had a whole tiramisu to myself; psychologist Dr. Margie Holmes at the Glorietta branch; and my sisters, with whom I savored good food along with bonding time. I particularly remember the squid-ink pasta that I enjoyed with Margie and that blackened the gaps between my teeth, so much so that she handed me a toothbrush as soon as we returned to her hotel room.

I got to Cibo ahead of Alma and immediately the wait staff escorted me to a table for two near the kitchen and dessert cooler. That was what I have always found impressive about the place: the prompt and efficient service. I cooled off from the walk I enjoyed earlier with a tall glass of mint iced tea. Before I could finish it, Alma arrived, huffing from her walk from the MRT terminal.

We decided to split our orders of squash soup, with a dollop of cream in our respective bowls, and seafood spaghetti. While we dined, we updated each other on our lives and families, our writing gigs, our shared advocacy, the Maningning Foundation poetry competition, what dormant book manuscripts we had in our files, even gossip (more out of concern) about our common friends. Alma said she had a ready collection of essays amassed from recent years and asked for recommendations of prospective publisher/s.

Our soup was warm and comforting with the right sweetness coming from the squash. “Mushroom soup would’ve been as delicious,” Alma said. I agreed. Our split order of spaghetti was filling and had the right amount of mussels and squid rings, the pasta perfectly al dente.

When my companion asked for suggestions for her dessert, I recommended the panna cotta (mango, not strawberry). She wasn’t disappointed and licked her teaspoon of the last morsel of panna cotta just as I did with the bombolini, the Italian doughnut with a custard filling. The pastry was coated in caramelized sugar.

At one point while Alma was animatedly speaking, she knocked over a drinking glass which shattered in several pieces on our table. I promptly told her not to touch anything and to leave the mop-up to the staff. Three members of the wait staff were by our side pronto; they addressed the situation and replaced her glass with warm water, her specification. As though nothing had happened. When she offered to pay for the damage, they declined to accept any payment.

Serendipitously, our dinner date fell on March 23 which happened to be the birthday of Cibo’s founder-chef patron, the recently deceased Margarita “Gaita” Forés. 

Her pictures are prominently displayed in the restaurant’s premises. So are her words: “My mission is to make life and living more beautiful and delicious for others.”

I hope her only son Amado continues that mission.