Kabayan Bistro Lounge | Photo by Troi Santos
WOODSIDE, QUEENS (NY) — On a quiet stretch of Roosevelt Avenue, a warm breeze carries the scent of garlic, vinegar, and steam. Beneath the rattle of the 7 train, neon signs in Tagalog and English flicker to life. This is Little Manila — a thriving, tucked-in corner of Queens that hums with the rhythms of balikbayan boxes, jeepney decals, and bowls of rice served without hesitation. At its heart is Kabayan Bistro Lounge, where Sabado nights feel like a homecoming.
Inside the bistro, families lean over tables lined with sizzling plates and soup bowls, their conversations flowing in soft waves of Taglish. At one table, the peanut-simmered kare-kare arrives thick and fragrant. Nearby, a large bowl of nilagang baka warms a couple just off their shift, the broth filled with corn, cabbage, and bone-in beef. The lechon kawali snaps as it’s cut. A whole crispy pata anchors a birthday table, its golden skin glistening, carved with reverence. And alongside them all sits Lydia’s Lechon Sauce — not just a condiment, but a point of pride.
As plates are passed and stories exchanged, the music begins. Onstage is Paz Herrero, lead vocalist of Keys of C and daughter of the late Subas Herrero, a beloved figure in Philippine television. Her voice blends easily with the ambient clatter of plates and laughter. She moves through a mix of pop favorites, some Filipino and some American, and welcomes everyone with familiarity. Guests nod, sing along, and call out requests with the comfort of regulars.
Then, a song request falls over the room in silence. “Kaleidoscope World,” someone calls out — the Francis Magalona anthem from the 1990s. Herrero begins gently. The lyrics, written decades ago as a call for harmony, feel newly urgent.
As headlines scroll through everyone’s phones about bombings, evacuations, and lives upended in the Middle East, the song’s message lands with quiet weight. Lines like “Some are friends and some are foes, Some have some while some have most” ripple through the room. The moment doesn’t need framing. In this bistro filled with Filipinos who have long understood migration, war, and displacement, the meaning is clear. Unity isn’t a slogan. It’s survival.
Some guests sing with their eyes closed. Others sit still. No one claps when the song ends — not out of indifference, but because silence speaks more honestly in moments like that.
Herrero resumes with warmth, visiting tables, greeting guests by name, and turning a double birthday celebration into a room-wide serenade. Two celebrants laugh while phone cameras flash. A guest from the Philippines raises a glass. A nurse from Elmhurst nods toward her overflowing plate. Joy finds its way back into the room.
The food keeps coming garlic rice, pancit canton, pinakbet, and halo-halo topped with purple yam and leche flan. Each dish carries the taste of memory, passed down through tradition. This is the kind of place where a meal turns into a story, and a song becomes a bridge across oceans.
Just outside, a few blocks west, the neighborhood prepares for another milestone. After a year of organizing, petitioning, and waiting, a small parcel of land along 70th Street is being transformed into Little Manila Park — the first public space in New York City officially dedicated to Filipino Americans.
The park will be a visible symbol of presence in a city that often erases immigrant neighborhoods faster than they can root themselves. Noel Gamboa, a longtime community advocate and the visionary behind the project, championed its creation when few believed it could happen. He worked through red tape, bureaucratic delays, and community and political indifference. What began as a grassroots idea now stands on the cusp of reality — a park that says we are here.
And at night, when the lights dim at Kabayan and the last bowl of nilagang baka is cleared, people will walk past the park on their way home, complete and grounded in food, music, and memory.
