I have always loved a vegetable garden. My first taste of growing our own food came as a child when my nanny introduced me to the joy of planting. In our backyard, we grew alugbati, ampalaya, and eggplant. I remember putting seeds into the soil, placing them under the sun, and waiting for that first sign of life—and the excitement of finally harvesting what we had grown.
It reminds me of the simple monggo projects we did in school: plant a seed, watch it sprout, and marvel at how something so small could become something alive.
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Good things take time
A garden teaches you to wait. You water it, watch it, and wonder what is happening beneath the soil. Then, just when it seems hopeless, a tiny green shoot appears. It feels like a little miracle—and teaches you patience, but perhaps more importantly, hope: the trust that something is happening even when you cannot see it yet.
Years later, living abroad with a mother who had a green thumb, I found myself gardening again. She taught me to grow bok choy and green onions and, most memorably, how to care for a calamansi tree. During winter, we would cover the tree with a blanket to protect it from the cold.
Looking back, it was a simple lesson in care: If something matters to you, you make the effort to protect it.
Perhaps that is why edible gardens have always felt like more than a way to grow food. They make us slow down. They remind us that good things take time and that sometimes, even when we cannot see progress, something is quietly taking root.
Heart of the matter
This is also at the heart of Down to Earth, an enterprise founded by Nicolo Aberasturi, whose philosophy begins with the idea of working with nature rather than against it.
Aberasturi grew up in a farming family in Cagayan de Oro. His father was a livestock and coffee farmer, while the family also grew cut flowers. In the 1990s, the Department of Environment and Natural Resources issued their livestock operation a cease-and-desist order because of its waste management. What began as a problem eventually became an opportunity to understand the farm as a living ecosystem.
The family developed proper composting facilities and began experimenting with different crops to find uses for the compost they produced. Through years of crop trials, they learned about growing a wide variety of plants as well as managing pests and disease.
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That experience eventually led to Down to Earth’s composting towers and edible gardens for homes and farms. The enterprise was recognized as a BPI Sinag Best Social Enterprise in 2019 and 2020.
“Insurance crops”
For Aberasturi, sustainability isn’t simply about growing vegetables. It is about creating a cycle in which plants, animals, soil, and people work together.
When designing an edible garden, he starts not with the plants but with the person who will use it. He considers the owner’s vision, the amount of sunlight, water quality, and even what household waste can be turned into soil before recommending what to grow.
For beginners, his advice is practical: Start with what can actually thrive where you live. Many people dream of growing tomatoes, lettuce, and eggplant, but our homes often have walls, trees, or buildings that block the sunlight these crops need. Instead, Aberasturi recommends tropical indigenous vegetables such as talinum, alugbati, and gabi.
He calls them “insurance crops”—plants that are easy to grow, useful in Filipino cooking, and capable of providing harvest even through difficult weather.
And then, there is Gallery by Chele
When chefs Chele González and Carlos Villaflor opened Gallery by Chele in 2013, González wanted to bring to Manila some of the research and development culture he had experienced while working in some of Europe’s most demanding kitchens. He had also worked in restaurants with two- and three-Michelin-star standards, including Mugaritz, where herbs and plants were not only explored but studied and catalogued as part of the creative process.
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But arriving in the Philippines changed his perspective. Having worked at hotels such as Shangri-La Boracay and Sofitel Philippine Plaza, he questioned why a country of thousands of islands and extraordinary marine biodiversity needed to rely so heavily on imported ingredients.
“How come, in a 7,000-island country, where there is the second-largest diversity of fish and seafood in the world, do I need to import fish?” he recalls thinking. “This doesn’t make sense.” Instead, he saw the Philippines as a place to explore, learn, and develop his own culinary language—not simply recreate what he had learned in Europe.
That exploration eventually took root on Gallery’s balcony. What began as an underused space became an urban edible garden—developed in collaboration with Down to Earth. Today, it is home to herbs, vegetables, local earthworms, and pancit-pancitan, a local herb González grows and uses in the restaurant.
For González, sustainability is not one grand gesture but a collection of choices that form an ecosystem—from the garden and composting to local ingredients, farmers, and suppliers. “We do our own compost with all of the waste,” he says. “It’s part of my ecosystem.”
That philosophy has earned Gallery by Chele a Michelin star, along with a Michelin Green Star for its commitment to sustainable practices. But perhaps the most important part of the ecosystem is the community it creates—connecting the restaurant, its suppliers, farmers, and diners around a more conscious way of eating.
And it all comes full circle: something growing on a city balcony can eventually find its way onto the plate.
Seasonality and sustainability
Seasonality is another part of the conversation. González believes restaurants need to understand what grows naturally in the Philippines and work with what the seasons give us. His team researches ingredients, visits markets, and works with suppliers who understand where their produce comes from.
Ultimately, he believes a restaurant’s influence can extend far beyond its own kitchen. A small restaurant cannot solve the world’s environmental problems but it can make people think differently.
González often points to something as simple as eliminating single-use plastic bottles. A small policy, he believes, could create an enormous change. Restaurants can do their part, but their greater value may be in creating awareness—encouraging people to buy directly from farmers, choose more consciously, and waste less.
It all comes back to what he calls integrity: respecting the ingredient, respecting the process, and being consistent about the values behind what we serve. And perhaps this is where the garden connects most naturally to hospitality.
Hospitality does not begin when the guests arrive. It begins much earlier—with the decision of what to serve, where it comes from, and how much care goes into bringing it to the table. A garden asks us to participate in that process. To plant. To wait. To hope. To care. And eventually, to share.
Whether it is a backyard filled with alugbati, ampalaya, and talong, a calamansi tree wrapped in a blanket through winter, or a garden bed of pancit-pancitan, talinum, or rau răm growing on a restaurant balcony, the lesson is the same.
