“So who did you go with?” a friend who just heard me rave about my three-course, two-beer dinner. “By myself,” I said.
“Are you okay?”
A table for one.
Oh apparently those are dreaded words if you’re a single woman. I wasn’t aware of the negative connotations until several sets of friends asked if I need companionship. To me they are glorious words. I
like love eating alone. Just like I enjoy going to museums, stores and trips alone.
“How can I help you?” the hostess asks me. “I just want a seat at the bar.”
I tell myself I am a strong, confident woman before I proceeded to completely miss the seat.
To minimize potential conversation, always look for the seat where there are at least two empty seats on either side of you. It’s a restaurant I frequent, so a nod to the bartender tells him already know what I want. Suddenly, the earlier conversation comes flooding back to me. Am I really weird for enjoying dining alone? I tell myself I am a strong, confident woman before I proceeded to completely miss the seat.
Might as well get an appetizer— carciofi alla giudea— meant for three. And some local craft beer on tap. That way any pity directed toward me is because I seemed to possibly be a hipster left over from early 2008.
I pull out a collection of semi-biographical essays, written by an up and coming self-deprecating writer based out of Brooklyn. She’s funny, somewhere between Amy Schumer and Lucy Ball.
“Do you need another beer?”
“Yes. And the zoli.”
Are they judging how much I am eating? What if I ordered an appetizer, entrée and dessert? Just because I’m here alone doesn’t mean I can’t have the whole shebang. And so what if I ate the appetizer for three on my own? I am hangry and it was delicious. Let me eat peace.
Why does the bartender keep avoiding me? I’m not here to talk about my problems.
On second thought, I’ll ask for a to go box and put half my entrée in the box. I’ll eat the rest off it when I get home. Or in the Uber ride back home.
Why does bartender keep avoiding me? I’m not here to talk about my problems. I just want a beer and maybe some dessert for crying out loud. Stay thirsty and hungry, my friends.
Next contact with the bartender, ask for the check. That’s your last form of verbal communication. Leave a generous tip, so he thinks at least I'm not a jerk. Man, I still have three slices left. Glad, I saved them for the ride home.
I should do this again. It was nice. I’ll put in my calendar. Table for three: me, myself and I.