There was a time, after Paseo Uno opened in 2003, when trying to get a table was like attempting to gain entrance to eternal bliss. A gatekeeper at the door would check if your name was on the list of the day’s customers. Tough luck if it wasn’t. No name, no entrance.

The fortunate ones who did get in could count on feasts made to order. Aside from the buffet of piping hot food served in chafing dishes, there were kitchen stations manned by chefs eager to cook on demand.

Large prawns were battered and deep-fried into tempura; al dente pasta deftly stirred into sauces gently simmering in a skillet; succulent roast beef carved and grilled to desired doneness; dewy fresh lettuce leaves tossed with grated cheese, croutons, nuts and your choice of dressing.

When the idea seemed to reach its peak, Paseo upped the ante by serving a luxury buffet on weekends—luxury here meaning slabs of foie gras and exotic seafood such as lobsters, yellow fin tuna and Alaskan king crabs.

Extravaganza

Despite its hefty price (P1,950+ for the regular buffet; P2,200+ for the luxury one), there was no shortage of people lining up for this dining extravaganza. Nooks tucked amid the ponds and waterfalls would be filled with jubilant groups celebrating one occasion or another, not to mention couples spicing up their romantic rendezvous with a heady mix of sweets and wine.

Alas, all good things must come to an end. With the closing this week of Mandarin Oriental Hotel, its Paseo Uno restaurant has become a casualty of the corporate world, never more to proffer its dainty dim sum in bamboo steamers, never more to tuck a slice of crispy duck skin slathered with hoisin sauce in Mandarin pancakes.

On a humid Friday night, instead of crowds of celebrators, there was dignified silence at Paseo. Occupied tables were interspersed with empty ones.  The gatekeeper still stood by the entrance, but this time there was no need to turn anyone away.

Silent testimony

At our table, a waiter graciously offered complimentary fruit juices, iced tea and white wine (Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc). I checked the cooking stations: A rib-eye roast stood proudly under the blazing lights, waiting to be carved; beside it were fixings of baked potatoes, Yorkshire pudding and red wine sauce.

Farther away there were sea bass and snapper, sautéed pork loin and adobo, ratatouille and pizza, chicken inasal and, in one corner, chunks of lechon surrounding the pig’s head.

Congee and tempura were tucked in an Asian corner, and the salad bar still had the wholesome lettuce leaves to be tossed with standard dressings of Thousand Island, French, Italian and Caesar (alas, no blue cheese dressing).

Hidden at the back were morsels of foie gras, which the attending chef would sauté and parcel out only to those sneaky enough to spot it.

Meanwhile, a humongous whole tuna, slit open from head to tail, lay on a stand above a mountain of ice, a silent testimony to the freshness of the sashimi that was being sliced by a chef. Beside it were rolls of sushi and maki and their accompanying condiments of wasabi and soy sauce, as well as cracked crabs and a few scattered shells of mussels. Cold cuts, three kinds of cheeses, dried figs and nuts filled in the rest of the appetizer station.

There was ample choice of dessert as well: fresh fruits, assorted ice cream flavors, chocolate cake, banana cake, cheesecake, French crepes prepared a la minute, halo halo fixings, palitao, sapin-sapin, and a fountain of melted chocolate in which to dip skewers of marshmallows and cookies.

Melancholy

All in all, the spread was a few notches above the standard, enough to be satisfying as well as celebratory. The ambience was tranquil and soothing, and the wait staff attentive. At one

point a group materialized in front of a table and sang a spirited rendition of “Happy Birthday,” just as they’ve probably done a hundred times before within Paseo Uno’s 11-year life span.

And yet there was a hint of sadness in the air. The smiles and valiant efforts of the crew to make everything seem normal could not dispel the feeling of melancholy, the sense of foreboding.

In a few days it will all be gone—the restaurant, all the appurtenances and luxuries that had pampered the guests, the whole hotel. Employees will scatter to wherever their destinies will take them, leaving behind bittersweet memories and friendships. How disheartening it all felt.

At the lounge area, a tree of many branches bore letters of goodbye that had been placed there by appreciative guests.  My friend Goldie and I wrote our own notes of farewell and gratitude for all the years that Mandarin Oriental had been a part of our lives.

At dinner, Mandarin’s director of communications Charisse Chuidian had given me a souvenir fan, the hotel’s emblem of Oriental fans printed all over it. I hung the note, clutched the fan and, with one last glance, walked away.