Dining out alone intentionally is an experiment. A challenge to simply exist in our aloneness. A discipline to not prescribe ourselves technology to ward off feelings of unease.
In youth, we learn the value of shared meals; dinnertime is synonymous with family time and coming together with loved ones at the end of the day. Children are encouraged to be independent, but not taught how to sit at a table alone. These long-established social systems have caused most of us to anticipate flagging down the hostess for a ‘table for one’ to be a mountainous feat, requiring courage, bravery, confidence and a stable paycheck. In our homes, with the comfort of familiarity and anonymity, idly listening to records while we cook for one, seems relaxing, but in a restaurant, where strangers can observe our vulnerability from every angle, we perceive loneliness. After all, restaurants are designed to be social environments.
I remember the last time I took myself out for dinner. It was on a cool summer evening in Chicago three months ago. Having never been to the city, I decide the only thing I want to do on my overnight trip is eat good food and hear blues music. Roaming the streets without a companion, I take my time appraising options, in search of a bar top flanked by bustling city-folk and excited barmen. The Girl And The Goat, a restaurant recommended by a friend where patrons spill into the sidewalk, feels just right, with its tall ceilings, a molten-chocolate curved bar and open kitchen. I consult exactly no one on this decision. With a group, you’ll wait an hour to be seated. Alone, you take your pick at any available bar stool.
From the left edge of the counter, I take in the bustling sight of co-workers and birthday dinners in one sweeping glance, and feel the sweaty-palm anxiety of being female, alone and exposed. Armed with protection, the newest edition of Travel & Leisure Magazine rests on top of my belongings in case of emergency. I wave down my waiter for a cocktail. A stiff one in a tall glass. As rarely as I nurture my independence by taking myself out to a nice dinner, even more rarely do I indulge in a drink alone. But at the bar, in a foreign city, I can be anyone I want to be.
The restaurant menu is decorated in share plates: small, large, specials. Portions for one, there are none. As I taste the first and second dish–a goat carpaccio with smoked trout roe and olive-maple vinaigrette and wood grilled broccoli with a smoky cheese and spiced crisps–a solo diner seated on a stool near me takes down truffle cheese for dessert. Together, without words, we indulge in our respective vices. Our presence alone is enough to acknowledge the other. I wash down bite after bite with my strong beverage until not a speck nor drop remains. With a day of travel behind me and anything ahead, I feel strong and self-sufficient.
Through a conversational survey of friends in New York, I mostly found people aged thirty and above to be the ones who regularly partake in solo dinner excursions, seeking comfort and relaxation from such time. Younger friends, however, felt less excited and more anxious by the prospect of such an indulgence. My sister argues that the best time to go out to dinner alone is on a Friday night at a restaurant where you already know the menu, an adult nightcap to the work week. Return often so the bar staff know your name, and you will begin to look forward to feeling at home away from home. The older I get, the more frequently I find myself passing this wisdom on.
Because without company, we taste more fully and our memory lingers longer. It’s been over one year since my first and only trip to London, and I’ve since forgotten the name of the hotel I stayed at and the pubs I stopped into. I’ve forgotten my reaction to various famous artworks at Tate Modern, and the bus route it required to get there. But no matter where I am, each time I catch a whiff of crimini mushrooms I am transported to that cafe tucked down the cobblestone alley, the one where the sky stripes the front table on a sunny day, where breakfast includes a table-setting for one. The treasure of this moment has nothing to do with travel and entirely to do with appreciating it in solitude. The pleasure of a partner would enrich this memory for different reasons entirely–perhaps the name of this restaurant would return to me, or I would be richer for time well-spent in thoughtful conversation. But certainly, I would not carry with me the sweet memory of crisp, juicy ‘shrooms decorated with salty, fried cubes of halloumi and fresh herbs. Satisfaction sweeps through me at the thought of it.
In modern times, to protect our egos, we’ve become accustomed to ordering Seamless or Grubhub and eating on the couch: a meal that is sustenance over pleasure. I lament the days when being alone with only our appetites also granted us freedom from a wired, snapped, two-tap world. Maybe that’s why I cherish a spot at the bar top—a resting period from the cacophony.
Young or old, single or partnered, hungry or not, we can all use more self-indulgence in our lives. Once we move beyond the fear of sitting down alone, it is easy to find this: if you are ravenous, you can eat as quickly as you like; if you are thirsty, you need not company nor permission to order a second or a third round; if you are craving dessert—which you most certainly should be—you order a chocolate ganache for one and clean the plate. And that feeling of satisfaction of not having to fight over that last delightful bite, my friend, sticks with you for a long time and makes pick up the tab worth it every time.