The Art Of Dining Alone
By Erin Deborah Waks
I can’t remember the first time I went out for a meal alone in a restaurant. I can, however, remember the first time I cooked a lavish dinner for myself to eat - the sort of three-course, accompaniments, dessert meal that normally seems far too luxurious to entertain when you’re just home alone.
It was some time in early autumn 2020, towards the end of that first lockdown that seemed filled with endless banana bread, long walks (just once a day, mind) and the novelty of WFH. Having been at university for over a year, I was well-versed in cooking for myself, but when I found myself home alone with a whole sunny evening sprawled out before me, I decided to embark on a culinary journey into which I had not yet forayed.
I remember distinctly: I made grilled salmon, with a tomato and onion salad to start. For dessert, I cut up strawberries and drizzled them with melted chocolate. To drink, I mixed up a G&T with a splash of lime. I got dressed, out of my uniform of tracksuits and hoodies, and laid it all out on the table, as though hosting an impressive dinner party - for one.
When, shortly thereafter, I moved to Paris, I got very used to dining alone. So much so that I developed a real taste for taking myself out for a meal - or cooking one - and found that often, nothing is more pleasant than really taking your time over food. And, while nine times out of ten I prefer my restaurant visits accompanied by good conversation and someone I love, I’ve tried to retain my penchant for that oft-terrifying notion of telling the maitre d’, ‘table for one, please.’
Recently on holiday with my family, we split ways on the final night, each preferring a bit of alone time. I took myself to the al fresco restaurant nearby on the beach, spying a couple of empty tables. I had, as always, brought a book, in case the social awkwardness or anxiety that can sometimes come with such escapades kicked in. It didn’t.
I was brought a fancy vegetarian caviar-style starter accompanied by a lemon sauce, followed by a Greek olive pasta dish with a side of a wink from a cute waiter. The staff brought me my glass of crisp, dry white wine, always smiling, always bowing in deference and (what I hope was) respect for being comfortable in my skin, confident in my ability to sit, unfazed, unoccupied, for an hour.
I liked that I retained an air of mystery. I don’t have an ounce of secrecy in me - I’m an open book, heart on my sleeve, cry in public kind of girl. But something about being the only solo diner in a fancy, beautiful coastal haunt had me feeling like Audrey Hepburn, stealthily maintaining a low profile while tasting the best of Greek cuisine at an unnecessarily luxurious and yet discreet dinner for one.
