The Fort Strip, Sofitel, Metronome and the ebb and flow of a changing city
The news came in fragments—hushed whispers at parties, secrets shared in low tones before spilling into the wild hum of nostalgia on social media.
First came the closure of Sofitel Philippine Plaza last July, that beloved bayfront hotel. Then Metronome, Makati’s sleek temple of modern French dining, bid goodbye mere weeks later. And now, The Fort Strip will shutter for good on January 1, 2025. Suddenly, Metro Manila’s ever-changing skyline felt personal. These were places I loved on various levels—landmarks of milestones now consigned to memory.
In a city perpetually under construction, where progress often means more glass and steel but fewer places that hold history, these closures are bittersweet. We love grand openings but recoil at goodbyes—a contradiction we live with. Yet, these endings aren’t just about demolition or redevelopment; they seem like life markers. I evolved alongside these establishments. Their peaks mirrored my personal eras, and their closures remind me of what has passed, and how I, too, have folded into the city’s story.
Dancing through my 20s
Each closure tells a story—not just of a building, but of an era.
The Fort Strip, for me, is a chapter that defined my 20s. Its peak, I like to think, was also mine—those heady mid-aughts when Bonifacio Global City (BGC) was shiny and new, a blank canvas of possibility.
For a kid who had just started earning enough to party on weekends, The Fort Strip was a rite of passage. It felt aspirational. Never mind that we were packed like sardines into the velvet-rope chaos of Embassy—the kind of place where you were a VIP if you got past door b*tch Aslie Aslanian at the entrance, and more so if you got into the VVIP room. My first invitation into the aforementioned room felt like an anointing: it was my friend (and now VMAN Southeast Asia Creative Director) Vince Uy’s birthday, no less.
In a city perpetually under construction, where progress often means more glass and steel but fewer places that hold history, these closures are bittersweet. We love grand openings but recoil at goodbyes—a contradiction we live with.
Embassy wasn’t just a club; it was a social epicenter. Erik Cua, Tim Yap, and their pack made their headquarters there alongside Manila’s glitterati—a rotating roster of celebrities and tastemakers. Liz Uy and John Lloyd Cruz were a couple then, Celine Lopez was queen, and pre-'It' Girl Georgina Wilson was to succeed her years later.
My life as a writer would intersect with theirs later on, and my late nights there, memorizing DJ Owens Sun’s tracks, were formative in ways I didn’t realize then. This was pre-Shazam—when catching a beat meant running a Yahoo search the next day. Those nights likewise taught me to dance in the moment, and let the music quiet the noise of my responsibilities.
I still remember Planet Funk’s Chase the Sun blasting through the Superclub main hall when my newly upgraded Nokia got pickpocketed. Serenity, I discovered, is losing your phone and just carrying on. Clarity comes when there’s nothing else you can do but surrender. So I danced.
Between Embassy and debriefs at off-track North Park along Makati Avenue during the wee hours, I realized you can’t force friendships to fit your plans. There were Embassy friends, Jaipur friends, and friends who preferred neither. We let each other be, and somehow, fried rice always led us back to each other. These were my refining years, learning to navigate social circles as I was figuring out who I was and what I stood for.
News of The Fort Strip’s closure tugs at the heartstrings, but I understand its inevitability. Urban development now prioritizes mixed-use spaces over standalone hubs, leaving places like this as relics of a bygone era. Still, those glory days remain vivid, and newer tenants like Nectar kept the fire burning for as long as they could. Word is, this space will be made into something more forward-looking, possibly marking BGC’s next chapter. I just hope its next iteration retains the same magic.
More than a meal
Sofitel Philippine Plaza epitomized the real estate maxim: location, location, location. Designed in the 1970s by National Artists Leandro Locsin and Ildefonso P. Santos, its crown jewel was the breathtaking Manila Bay—no other hotel could claim such a perfect sunset view. Over the years, heads of state, celebrities, jet-setting tourists, and locals seeking a taste of seaside luxury all spent time there.
My Sofitel era was defined by Spiral, its flagship restaurant. This was the 2010s when I was carving out a full-time career in publishing. Conferences, seminars, product launches, and fashion shows all seemed to orbit around Sofitel’s sprawling grounds. Its conference halls were a second office, and Spiral? A second dining room. Yasmine Hidalgo-Giovannoli and Margot Calimon, Sofitel’s PR queens, made sure we always felt welcome—whether for Oktoberfest, where German fare and free-flowing beer ruled, or an impromptu cheese room pilgrimage.
Ah, the cheese room. An altar of Manchego and Malagos Mango Chevre, it was always my starting point on a carefully mapped-out buffet route: cheese, then Japanese, then foie gras, then a slice of meat—repeat as necessary. And always, white chocolate bark for dessert. Spiral’s ateliers felt infinite, an indulgent tour I never tired of, but its closure this year proves even the grandest dining halls aren’t exempt from change.
When I drive by that area now, I think of the colleagues-turned-friends I dined with, the ones I laughed with between courses, and the stories exchanged over cups of tea to cap off indulgent meals. Sofitel was just a hotel and Spiral was just a buffet to some, but to me, it was a gathering place for friendships that survived the years.
A moment at the intersection
Metronome came to me at a peculiar time—a quiet triumph in late 2019, right before the world ground to a halt. I dined there first upon the invitation of Pauline Juan, my former boss and work mama, and Raffy, her husband. We were there to celebrate Neil Felipp San Pedro, the Cebuano accessories designer whose work set the tone for how Filipino creatives should take on the world. I’d make one final visit before their last service.
Elbert Cuenca and Chef Miko Calo envisioned Metronome as a different kind of French restaurant. It felt fresh, airy, and “maaliwalas.” Even the leather bread pouches, designed by Rita Nazareno, added to the comfort. I can still taste the egg dish with truffle cream, the beef cheeks, and the cloud-like mashed potatoes. Miko Calo’s genius was letting the ingredients take center stage—a philosophy that lingered long after the meal ended.
In 2019, Metronome felt like the perfect intersection of everything I loved: creativity, food, style, and good company. At the time, I likewise found myself at a professional and personal crossroads, and being right smack in the middle of it all felt like ikigai—happy, energized, and complete. Its closure feels more intimate than most: a quiet reminder that the best meals are often fleeting, the most beautiful moments impermanent—and perhaps, that’s what makes them so extraordinary.
Their closure reminds me of how far I’ve come, and how much more of this metropolis I have yet to explore. In a way, I take comfort in their endings—they’re making space for new places, new ideas, and new moments.
Moving on
Metro Manila, with its relentless pace of change, has a curious way of being sentimental. One day, your favorite haunt is alive with energy; the next, it’s a barren lot, making way for yet another glass tower. But while the structures vanish, the memories endure—so much so that nostalgia and throwbacks have become among the most devoured content streams of modern life.
These places are chapters in my personal geography—places that shaped how I see this city and, by extension, how I see myself. I am who I am because I danced at Embassy, because I lingered in the cheese room at Sofitel, and because I sat in the teal-hued calm of Metronome. Their closure reminds me of how far I’ve come, and how much more of this metropolis I have yet to explore. In a way, I take comfort in their endings—they’re making space for new places, new ideas, and new moments.
The ebb and flow of a city mirrors the lives of those who call it home. We move forward, better and wiser because we have loved and lost parts of it along the way. And that, I think, is how it should be.
