on eating alone

a guaranteed good time

i’m going to let you in on a little secret.

i love eating alone.

so much so, that i consider the act to be one of the utmost pleasures in life.

to indulge in my own company, uninterrupted by the dietary restrictions or cravings of someone else, is something i like to treat myself to — particularly when in need a break from others who are not myself.

nothing recharges my batteries quite like a solo dinner and a bath — in either order, per my doctor’s request.

this evening i did just that. having nothing but time to kill, i trekked out to a wine bar in a wrinkle of berlin that is two folds too far on any other evening. i tucked into a seat at the bar, chatted with the waitress (the only acceptable interaction), ordered everything she had recommended, then set up shop. out came my april edition of monocle, and in went, my phone — it only came out to snap a pic of this beauty:

a best practice of mine when solo dining is to bring some reading material. if graced with an open kitchen, watching langoustines on the open fire and stealing glances with the cute chefs may be entertainment enough, but i say a little backup never hurt. nothing says: please leave me alone, i’m enjoying my own company and would like to keep it that way than digesting david mitchell between sips of a zinfandel.

i find that when alone, i’m able to appreciate the symphony that is a meal to its fullest extent. there’s no need to worry about who is going to get the last bite or whether or not there is any internal resentment brewing towards you for deciding against the pâté.

my only complaint about solo dining is portion sizes. i must admit to feelings of solo-diner-discrimination (SDD) when looking at the menu meant for patrons to share. as delicious as it sounds, ordering a whole butterflied mackerel, grilled cabbage, onion rings, radicchio salad, and the gateau may be a bit out of budget for my stomach.

great onion rings though

i suggest restaurants offer half portions or even tasting platters to patrons who want to try a little bit of everything, but may not have the stomach capacity to do so.

volume-wise, things may be dicey, but any hurdle is overshadowed by knowing that i can eat at my own pace.

i’m that person who likes to sprinkle my meals with as many ratatouille moments as possible: putting the crunchy bits from the onion rings in between cabbage leaves, scooping up the puree under the fish with a firm piece of radicchio, and of course, dipping my bread into absolutely everything— all consumed preferably with my eyes closed, to tap into my inner remy.

if i’m at your table, expect dinner to be, at minimum, a two-probably three-hour affair.

my greatest form of torture is the sin that is the thirty-minute lunch break (for survival’s sake, i had no choice but to cheat the system, but that’s a story for another time).

yes, i’m a slow eater, but that’s just because in order to maximise my enjoyment, one has no other choice but to turn every meal into a tapas-style situation to increase the number of things that can put on top, underneath, and in-between one another.

bring everything out as it’s done, but pretty please don’t clear the plate until it’s wiped clean.

this is not to say that i dislike eating with others, in fact, it’s easily my second favourite activity, but doing so is an entirely different experience altogether. when alone, you’re in control of the music. with others, you have no choice but to start mixing.

sometimes it’s a hit, and sometimes it’s a miss. tonight, i didn’t feel like gambling, yet i still wound up with a winning hand.