Table for one, please.
“Just one?” asks the host.
Yup, just one.
“Expecting someone else?”
Nope. Just me.
“Can I bring you something to drink while you’re waiting?” prods the server.
No, thanks. I’m ready to order. I’ll have the spaghetti carbonara and a glass of the rioja.
“So it’s just you, then?” she confirms, nose wrinkled.
Yes, just me.
“OK, then,” she says with a sigh. She snaps her pad shut and, smiling weakly, sweeps up the vacant place setting. “Let me get you some bread.”
Is that pity on her brow?
If so, it would be wasted on me. I love dining alone, sitting by myself with a plate of pasta and a glass of wine, enjoying the sights, smells and flavors of the dish, and the restaurant around me, without having to follow (let alone make) conversation with anyone else.
Sure, nothing is better than breaking bread with the people in my life. It’s the epitome of quality time. But sometimes the person I need to spend quality time with is me.
And me alone.
Some people freak out when you show up at a restaurant to eat by yourself. They think you’ve been stood up, or you’re lost, or you just don’t understand that eating alone is weird. There must be something wrong with you. People, especially Americans, don’t do that.
I don’t agree. I do do that, and I like it.
I love people, but some days are overfilled with them. And usually they’re talking. The alarm goes off and the news comes on, voices blabbering about a corporate scandal or a new use for aspirin. You’re just barely damp when someone squawks at you to hurry up in the shower. You’re in the car and the phone rings. You hit the office already late for a meeting in a conference room full of people talking.
Then it’s lunch with your co-workers: Counter sandwiches and a postmortem on last night’s “American Idol.” Requests come in for this, that and the other from your boss, client, accounting department. You’re back in the car just in time for rush hour, on the phone again, returning all the messages you missed today.
And then you sit down to supper, where you’re expected to sparkle, to chat, to provide and encourage lively conversation.
Sometimes, this is exactly what I’m in the mood for. I want to share, boast and commiserate with the people I love. It helps me shake off the day.
But just as often, it isn’t what I’m in the mood for. Just as often, I want peace. To turn off my brain (and my cell) and just be.
At a quiet table at a favorite restaurant, with nothing but a bowl of pasta as my date, I can relax. I can dive into the meal. Listen to the background music. Really read the menu. Redesign my plated entree. Admire the color of my wine against the tablecloth. Allow the smells and flavors, already under my nose, to get under my skin.
I can people-watch if I feel like it. Eavesdrop if it’s easy. Take the last piece of bread without asking. Order dessert and not share. Enjoy every bite, undistracted.
Doesn’t sound all that pitiful, does it?
Believe it or not, that guy (or gal) sitting there alone at that table across the room isn’t necessarily sad or lonely. Or even weird. He may just be spending some long-overdue quality time with someone special.
Himself.
Dining critic Tucker Shaw can be reached at 303-820-1958 or dining@denverpost.com.
