She Was in the Room All Along

Rhoda Magbitang isn’t the type to raise her voice in a kitchen. She doesn’t need to. At CanoeHouse—the legendary oceanfront restaurant at Mauna Lani on Hawaiʻi Island—her presence is quiet but absolute. She moves like someone who’s been here before. Because she has.

You may not know her name. You probably should.

Before landing in Hawai‘i, Magbitang cooked in some of the most pivotal restaurants in Los Angeles—AOC, République, The Bazaar, Chateau Marmont. These were kitchens that defined the city’s rise as a global food capital, and she was there. Cooking. Watching. Learning. Leading, even if she didn’t yet call it that.

“I was highly insecure, because for the longest time I felt like I'm in someone's shadow. I don't know whose but in someone's shadow. It was hard for me, [but] I know what I love."

The Granddaughter Who Could Cook

Magbitang grew up in the Philippines as one of six siblings. She was the eldest, and she recalls, "We would split chores between us, and I hated everything else, but I would cook". For her, cooking was initially rooted in duty.

But even then, something stuck. Her maternal grandmother, who operated a canteen stall at a high school of 5,000 kids, heavily influenced her. Rhoda would join her at the wet market on weekends to prep bulk ingredients, like kilos of pork livers and lungs. "There's not a lot of conversation happening in between," she remembers of those times. "I just like, watch her do her stuff, because she's not very talkative".

That formative silence shaped Rhoda’s kitchen instincts—an intuitive sense of balance, flavor, and emotional weight. Not the kind of things you learn in culinary school. The kind you inherit.

The Spark in a Preschool Kitchen

Before she ever set foot in a fine-dining kitchen, Rhoda Magbitang stood in a preschool, trying to keep a group of four-year-olds focused long enough to make a snack. She was working as a teacher at the time—not yet a chef, not even dreaming of it.

One day, one of the owners asked her to lead an extracurricular after-school program teaching kids how to make snacks, like "make turkey roll ups or spreading cream cheese on, like, a ham". Magbitang recalls, "I was like, Oh, I kind of like this". This simple activity led to a pivotal realization. 

Until that moment, cooking had been background noise—something she’d done for her siblings, a skill filed away under obligation, not identity. At that moment, she decided to enroll in cooking school, not to become a chef, however, but “with the full intention of taking my teaching career to a different level. I still wanted to work with children, but in that capacity.”

Magbitang didn’t know it at the time, but her culinary education placed her at the edge of a movement. At Le Cordon Bleu in the mid-2000s, she found herself in classes led by chefs who would soon become icons of California dining. Kyle Connaughton—who would later found SingleThread, a farm-restaurant-inn that redefined systems-based dining—was one of her instructors. Evan Funke, who would go on to champion handmade pasta, was also an instructor.

"Yeah, it's crazy to think about it."

She absorbed it all, not loudly or showily, but by watching closely and working hard, letting the craft seep into her bones. When she left school and entered the world of professional kitchens, she was ready.

The City Was Changing. So Was She.

By the time Magbitang entered the professional kitchen scene, Los Angeles was in the middle of a transformation. The city, long dismissed as more style than substance, was becoming a culinary force. Farmers’ markets exploded. Chefs were pushing boundaries. Tasting menus and natural wine lists replaced white tablecloths and steakhouse standards. And Rhoda Magbitang was there, right in the thick of it.

She cooked at AOC, an "all girl kitchen" that she describes as "one of the best cooking experiences I've ever had". It was there that she truly learned how she liked to cook, seeing firsthand the farm-to-table philosophy in practice. She found it to be "the warmest hug" among her varied experiences.

She spent time at The Bazaar by José Andrés, and later at République, although she recalled that period as "probably the hardest time in my career". 

Throughout these experiences, Magbitang reflects that she "was worried for a little bit that I was jumping around too much", but ultimately dedicated significant time, never staying at a place "for less than two years", wanting to be "well rounded". She admits, "I was highly insecure," feeling "in someone's shadow" for the longest time and "wasn't trying to stand out".

The truth? Those places wanted her. She was composed. Fast. Fluid. She could move from garde manger to hot line to pastry without flinching. And even if she didn’t yet call herself a leader, others began to see it.

But the rise wasn’t loud. It wasn’t branded on Instagram. She didn’t chase spotlights. She was in the room while others became famous. Her job was to cook. And she did it, again and again, like someone who knew she belonged—even if she wasn’t sure of it yet.

Learning to Lead Before Owning It

Magbitang's rise into leadership wasn't about titles or seeking the spotlight. "I never said I wanted to be the chef," she admits. Instead, she just focused on becoming proficient, stating, "I just wanted to be good. That was the only goal."

But kitchens notice. They always do.

Soon, she found herself tapped for bigger roles. She stepped into The Chateau Marmont in 2018, expecting chaos—and found her calm. The kitchen was fast, demanding, full of personalities. But Magbitang didn’t flinch. She managed the pace, the pressure, the late-night curveballs. She made it look easy, even when it wasn’t.

By 2020, she moved across town to take over at Petit Ermitage, bringing her quiet precision to one of West Hollywood’s most eclectic hotels. And then, just as she was hitting her stride, the pandemic hit. Kitchens shuttered. Momentum stalled.

But she didn’t. In 2021, Auberge Resorts came calling. First with an opportunity at The Inn at Mattei’s Tavern in Los Olivos—then with a curveball of their own: a chance to lead the culinary vision at their Costa Rica property. But before she packed her bags, another call came in. From Hawai‘i.

The Mauna Lani team had been watching. And they wanted her.

The Voice She’d Been Shaping All Along

When Magbitang arrived at CanoeHouse in 2024, the kitchen was already storied. The setting—waves crashing just steps away, sunsets that make people fall silent—was nearly mythic. But the team needed a leader. Someone who could hold space for the past, while making something entirely her own.

She didn’t storm in. She didn’t make declarations. She listened. She learned the rhythms of the line, the island, the ingredients. And then, little by little, she began to shape.

Her menus aren’t flashy. But they’re confident. Steady. Grounded. You can taste her grandmother’s influence in the quiet restraint of a broth, the intuitive balance of acid and fat. There are no gimmicks—just the voice of someone who spent a lifetime learning to trust her instincts.

She leads differently, too. With softness. With care. With the kind of empathy that only comes from having doubted yourself and survived anyway.

When she reflects on those early days—cooking for siblings, enduring the silence of her grandmother’s kitchen—her voice cracks. Tears well up. She begins to speak about her grandmother, and how she wishes she could see her now, how she longs to cook for her the way she’d been fed all those years ago. 

“I owe so much,” she says. “And it’s hard to...go through life thinking I haven’t been able to, like, pay my respects.” She pauses. “I think that’s why you tell yourself she’s with you in there,” she adds, nodding toward the kitchen.

Her voice barely rises above a whisper, but in that moment, it says everything.

She was in the room all along. 

And she wasn't alone.