Old Streets, Bold Flavors: Eating Through Binondo

Experience the Food Crawl through Binondo

About the blog

Travel, Blogs, Wellness, Culinary
30 Dec 2025
13 mins
Out of Town Blog
Melo Villareal

Author: Melo Villareal

Walking, Waiting, Eating: A Personal Food Crawl Through Binondo Let me share a secret with you. Whenever boredom creeps in, I head to Binondo with an empty stomach—and I do it on purpose. Not the simple skipped-breakfast kind of hungry, but the kind of hunger that’s ready to wander through crowded streets, wait out the […]

Out of Town Blog

Old Streets, Bold Flavors: Eating Through Binondo

Walking, Waiting, Eating: A Personal Food Crawl Through Binondo

Let me share a secret with you. Whenever boredom creeps in, I head to Binondo with an empty stomach—and I do it on purpose. Not the simple skipped-breakfast kind of hungry, but the kind of hunger that’s ready to wander through crowded streets, wait out the longest lines, stand shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and eat with my hands if that’s what it takes to get to the good stuff.

This is the oldest Chinatown in the world, and it doesn’t care about food trends or aesthetics—it cares about flavor, tradition, and feeding you well. The moment I step onto Ongpin Street, I’m met with clanging woks, signboards in Chinese characters, and sugar-sweet air thick with roasted chestnuts and caramelized syrup. I know this isn’t just a meal. It’s a crawl, a commitment, and a very happy surrender to whatever smells best next.

A Binondo food crawl doesn’t happen gradually—it seizes you. First, it grabs you by the nose with whiffs of garlic, soy, and star anise, then pulls you along by the stomach, past steaming dim-sum baskets, crowded noodle houses, and a hole-in-the-wall bakery glowing with oven heat.

I usually start along Ongpin Street, where everything feels louder, closer, and more alive. Gold signs hang overhead, scooters squeeze past me, and I’m already dodging people carrying white bakery boxes like prized loot.

As I get closer to the center of Binondo, I occasionally smell incense from some time-tested shophouses that sell gold, lucky charms, and Chinese herbal medicines. I hope I can skip the foul smell coming from the esteros, but it was part of the experience that made it authentic and unique. I was later rewarded by the scent of roasted pork, sugar, and hot oil from small eateries along the way.

My first stop is always Eng Bee Tin, right next to the beautiful Binondo Church. Walking in, I’m hit with the buttery sweetness of freshly baked hopia. The crust flakes everywhere the moment I bite in, the filling warm and just sweet enough. Mango, ube, pork floss—I tell myself I’ll just try one, and I immediately fail. I just can’t lie to my taste buds.

A few minutes later, I’m craving something savory, so I head to Wai Ying Fastfood on Benavidez Street. As usual, it’s packed and chaotic in the best way. I lined up outside for almost 30 minutes to get a seat, and guess what, I didn’t realize I already finished a second pack of Ube Hopia, but I am blaming no one. When in Wai Ying, their pork asado roll is non-negotiable for me—with juicy, slightly sweet asado pork. I always burn my tongue on the first bite and never learn.

Back outside, my hands are a little greasy, and somehow I’m even hungrier. I grab lumpia Shanghai from Quick Snack along Carvajal—thin, shatteringly crisp, and perfect dipped in sweet chili sauce. I eat it while walking, trying not to drip anything on myself.

When I want something heartier, I stop at Sincerity Café & Restaurant on Nueva Street. Their fried chicken surprises me every time—deeply golden, super crunchy, and impossibly juicy. I pair it with fried rice and wonder how I still have room. Somehow, I do.

When the weather turns cold, I instinctively seek out steaming bowls of noodle soup, and one of my favorite spots is Masuki, tucked along Benavidez Street. Here, they serve thin egg noodles that are slightly chewy, bouncy, and al dente, submerged in a rich, deeply savory broth of pork bones or chicken. Each bowl is crowned with generous slices of tender chicken or pork asado, creating a comforting, nostalgic flavor that harkens back to Manila’s legendary mami of the 1930s.

If I’m feeling adventurous, I wander over to the tiny Dong Bei Dumplings shop tucked near Yuchengco Street. Long before I reach the doorway, the warm scent of steaming dough, garlic, and chives drifts down the sidewalk to meet me.

Inside, the kuchay dumplings arrive piled high on a metal plate—garlicky and bold, their chewy, handmade wrappers sealing in a rush of chive-scented steam. I dunk each piece into a sharp, vinegar-and-chili dipping sauce that jolts my tongue awake and shakes the sleep from my senses.

Somewhere between stops, I slow down for oyster omelette, usually at New Po Heng. It arrives sizzling, crispy at the edges, soft in the middle, tasting like eggs, starch, and the sea. By this point, I’m full—but I’m committed. Their fresh lumplia is also a heavy favorite, and I always buy to take home.

I cool down with tea or something sweet—sometimes back at Eng Bee Tin, sometimes at a nearby milk tea shop. My feet hurt, my clothes smell faintly of fried garlic, and my stomach feels gloriously heavy.

A Binondo food crawl is never quiet or polished. I eat standing up, squeezed into tight tables, sometimes even mid-walk between steamed-up storefronts. Oil pops from open woks as plastic stools scrape across the pavement, and servers shout over the clatter of plates. It’s messy, loud, and deeply satisfying—and every time I leave, I’m already planning my next visit, replaying the flavors in my head and imagining what I’ll eat first.

By the time I leave Binondo, I’m slower, fuller, and delighted in a way that only this place can manage. My clothes carry the faint scent of garlic, soy, and fried dough; my hair and skin hold a trace of smoke from open woks and roasting meats. My feet ache from hours of wandering through narrow, uneven streets, and my stomach feels like it’s been thoroughly—and lovingly—overworked.

More than that, I leave with the sense that I’ve taken part in something alive: a neighborhood that has been feeding people in the same way for generations. As I walk away, I pass shuttered stalls and neon signs still buzzing faintly, hear the last clatter of chopsticks and plates, and listen to vendors trading a final round of banter in Tagalog, Hokkien, and everything in between.

Binondo doesn’t just give me something to eat—it hands me a story I can taste long after the last bite, a memory steeped in oil, broth, and the low, steady hum of a city that never quite goes silent.