On Eating Alone
In defense of the solo dinner — a small essay on the particular pleasure of a table for one, a single glass of wine, and nothing to perform.
There is a particular kind of evening — usually a Tuesday, usually raining — when the best thing in the world is a table for one. No conversation to maintain. No splitting the bill. Just the bread, the wine, the small ceremony of the menu, and yourself.
I used to be embarrassed by it. I would bring a book like a shield, order quickly, eat faster. Somewhere in my thirties I stopped. Now I take the window seat on purpose. I order the second cheapest wine and a single course I actually want. I let the meal take an hour.
The waiters always know. They are kinder to solo diners than to almost anyone. A small extra slice of focaccia appears. The candle gets lit a little earlier. You are, briefly, the easiest table in the room — and somehow also the most cared for.
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