Party of One — Ginger & Juice

I've been trying to write about eating alone for about a week now, and it's been incredibly frustrating. My words weren't flowing the way I wanted them to and I didn't know why. I realized this morning that it was difficult because I was trying to write as if eating alone in public is something I've mastered and that "initially it was hard but I've learned to love it!" But that's not even remotely accurate. Is it easier? Totally... But that doesn't mean I enjoy it. Dining solo has consistently been one of the most challenging parts of this trip. It's when I'm most aware of the fact that I'm alone.

This photo is here mostly so that the following photo wouldn't be the thumbnail image...

I don't mind the physical act of eating by myself. In fact, I prefer it if I'm about to get down with a particularly saucy dish. When I eat alone at home (in my apartment, where no one can see me), I might as well lay down a drop cloth. And I'm certainly not above wearing a ratty t-shirt over my clothes in lieu of a napkin. It's just easier. But make no mistake, I eat like a delicate flower when I'm eating alone in public because I'm delusional enough to think someone is paying attention to me.

It's incredibly narcissistic, but I think fellow diners think it's odd to see a young woman eating dinner alone in a nice restaurant. I'm sure I think this because I am always very aware of people eating alone in public. I always operate under the assumption that the person is alone because they have suffered some kind of tragic loss, and they are alone not just at dinner but IN LIFE. I'll keep a close eye on their left hand to look for a wedding ring. I instantly feel better when I see that they're married, or become further devastated when I see that they're not. My sister does this too. We'll leave a restaurant and one of us will say "did you see that old man eating his sandwich alone? That was so sad." And the other one will say something to the effect of "no, but did you see his hand? He had a wedding ring on."

A few things have happened along the way that lead me to believe that it's not only me who feels pity for solo diners. I say this because I've been on the receiving end of some looks and comments. Obviously no one means any harm, but it still makes me think "F***... do I look as pathetic as I feel?" It's like that scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall where Peter is offered a magazine because he's about to eat alone and "it's gonna be boring." If that ever happened to me, I'd have to say "oh, it's cool... I brought a book from home." Because I did.

. . .

When I was in London, a salesgirl at Sweaty Betty realized I was traveling by myself and told me all about her experiences doing the same thing. She said the two keys to curing homesickness are regular exercise and eating well. "Don't be afraid to take yourself out! Put on a cute outfit and go somewhere nice! Have two starters, have a few glasses of wine, get dessert and then treat yourself to a cab home. You'll realize life isn't so bad." I love this advice. I love the idea of steering into the skid. If you don't like dining alone, do it BIG and make it special... then see how ya feel. I decided to do exactly that. I went home and booked myself a spot for lunch at Nopi the following Friday, the first day of London Fashion Week. Nopi is the newest restaurant from Yotam Ottolenghi. I am obsessed with anything and everything Ottolenghi (his cookbook Jerusalem speaks to my shiksa soul), and I'd heard nothing but good things about his newest endeavor.

When I woke up on Friday, I felt like it was Christmas morning. I picked out my outfit, I heated up my curling iron, and made my coffee. I listened to the American Hustle soundtrack for some hair inspiration, took some poorly lit myspace selfies, and headed for the tube. I arrived right on time, and I was SO proud to be showing up somewhere SO hip and feeling SO fresh.

"Hi, I have a 1:15 reservation? It's under Colleen?" Both of the things I said were statements, but I end sentences with question marks when I'm feeling a little anxious.

The hostess ran her pencil over her notebook. "Yes, party of one?"

Oh my gawd, that sounded SO sad.

"Yup... that's me."

"Great, we will seat you in just one moment."

I stepped to the side so that the next group could check in. Once that was done, we were all led downstairs.

"Here we are..." the hostess said and pointed to a row of 5 seats at a communal table. Now, I don't want to take too strong a stance on the concept of communal tables, but F*** 'EM. They're the literal WORST. We all eyed the seats and muttered a collective "oh..." but no one immediately spoke up. After what seemed like an eternity of standing and staring at our chairs, I said "um... we're not together. I'm not with them."

"Yes, I know," said the hostess.

My eyebrows jerked up and my chin jutted out. I could not believe that the 5 of us were supposed to sit together in a row at an otherwise empty table for 12. Whatever happened to the buffer seat?! The party of 4 looked at my party of 1.

"Um... You can talk to us if you feel weird," one of the women said.

Well if I didn't feel weird before, I do NOW...

You know that scene in Bridesmaids where Kristin Wiig meets Ellie Kemper's character? Ellie mistakes a stranger for Kristin's husband, and in an attempt to remedy the awkwardness Ellie says "this is my husband... you don't have a HUSBAND." It makes things exponentially worse. This woman was the Ellie Kemper to my Kristin Wiig.

I sat down and pretended to peruse the menu, but really I was just eavesdropping on my neighbors' conversation. (It sounded like a mutual friend of the group was going through a devastating break up.) Eventually the waiter came over and asked if I had dined at Nopi before. I said no, and he offered to explain the menu. "For 2 people," he recommended that I "order 3 small plates designed for sharing." I stared at him blankly.

"Okay, um... and how much would you recommend for one person? Cause it's just me..."

"Oh! Well, probably 3... so you can try more things."

When my food arrived, I realized that it was still enough for multiple people. And for some reason it arrived all at once; the starter, the entrée, and the main were all on the table in front of me. The people next to me needed to move their beverages so that there was enough room at our table for my food. There I was, a solo lady, surrounded by enough food for 2 (if not 3) people, some orange wine from Italy that came highly recommended, a giant bottle of sparkling water and a glass, plus a personal bread basket. After I was done, I ordered dessert and a coffee, because in the words of Louis C.K., "the meal isn't over when I'm full. The meal is over when I hate myself."

Steer into the skid.

. . .

Perhaps what makes dining alone in Europe even more difficult is the incessant need for reservations everywhere you go. The majority of the time I enter a restaurant, it has usually JUST opened and I am the first guest to arrive. I've noticed I eat earlier than almost everyone else on this continent; for some reason my body never adjusted to the slightly different meal times. I am almost always asked if I have a reservation, and with the exception of Nopi (and a few meals with Alli), I almost always DON'T. "Well," I want to say, "it's 6:15pm on an arbitrary Wednesday, so NO... no, I don't have a reservation." More often than not the host will take their pencil, run it over their notebook while looking physically pained, and then say "hmm... one for dinner... one for dinner... No... It is not possible." At this point in my trip, I will scan the empty restaurant, take a deep (albeit disgruntled-sounding) breath, and volunteer to "eat super quick," because shoveling food into your mouth can be a pretty speedy activity when there's no one to speak to in between bites. But please know that when I first made my way over here, being turned away from a restaurant would crush me. It reduced me to tears. It made me feel not only alone but LONELY, so I've come a long way.

When I was in Zurich last week, I was running on fumes and needed a break... apparently I also needed a reservation. I had walked 13 miles so far, it was starting to rain, I had several shopping bags and I had 3 more miles to walk back to my hotel. I ducked into a restaurant that was clearly open and clearly empty.

"Hi, table for one?" I said.

"Do you have a reservation?" The host asked.

If this blog was a movie, this would be the scene where we cut away to an alternate universe where I say exactly what I want to say: "C'mon man... we're the only people in here. Are you f***ing kidding me?"

In reality I said, "I do NOT..."

He flipped violently from page to page in his reservation book.

"Are you eating?"

"I hope so..."

I chalk up this odd question to the language barrier because I'm still not sure why my wanting to eat at the restaurant would further complicate my need for a table.

"Ugh... okay, please hold," he said as if we were speaking on the phone.

He went back to scouring the pages of his book and mumbling angrily to himself. I wanted to kick over his podium and then flee the restaurant. He looked up from his book triumphantly, he clearly had a plan. He pointed to a table for 2 right next to the front door. Not my first choice, but it would do.

"You can sit here and then we can serve you after 6," he explained.

Had the confusion this whole time been that I was too early for dinner? He asked me if I wanted a drink while I waited. Up until this point, I had been fully committed to doing a sober month simply to see if I could, but the thought of sitting in an empty restaurant for 45 minutes while waiting to be served dinner was too much to bear. I ordered an Aperol Spritz.

As I sat sipping my drink and reading my book, I noticed that every other table was being set and each had a small sign that read "reserviert" on it. A waitress approached my table and said something in German. I said I was sorry and she repeated her question in English. She wanted to know if I was ready. I said YES and ordered the fish. She looked at me confused. I repeated my order but this time in butchered German while pointing to the words on the menu.

"No, are you ready to CHANGE?"

"Wait, WHAT?"

The host who had seated me earlier rushed over and explained what was going on. The restaurant needed my table for a 6:15pm reservation, but if I still wanted to eat (I did...), I could move to a table that would not be needed until 8:00pm. The host gestured to the center of the restaurant. Anything that wasn't next to the front door sounded GREAT, so I agreed. He lead me to a set table with a reserved sign on it and pulled out a chair. The table sat 8 people... EIGHT PEOPLE. I sat down. I thought I had known pity from fellow diners before, but I was SO wrong. This was worse. There I sat in the middle of the restaurant, at a beautifully set table "reserviert" for 7 additional guests, I was surrounded by my shopping bags and had my bright orange cocktail in my hand...

It looked like it was my birthday. It looked like I threw a party for myself, invited 7 of my closest friends, and NOBODY SHOWED.

A waiter approached the table and asked something in German. I apologized. He spoke again in English, "Do you want another spritz? Or should we wait for your friends?"

"Um, just water for now."

I realized that not only did the guests who were trickling in think that I was waiting for friends, but most of the staff did as well. And here's the fun part about a lot of restaurants in Europe - any/every member of the staff will attend to you at some point during your meal (like 2 different people will ask to take your drink order, a third will ask about your meal, and then someone totally new will bring out your food). I took another look at the menu, and after assuring myself that the fish was definitely the best choice, I tried to flag down a waiter. I realized no one was taking my order because they assumed I'd want to wait for my 7 friends. I finally got the attention of a waitress.

"May I have the fish of the day?"

"Okay... Do you want to wait for your party? Or should I bring it out whenever?"

"Oh, I'm not waiting for anybody, it's just me... so you can bring it out whenever it's ready."

She tilted her head to the side in sympathy. "Aw... sure thing."

It sounds contrived, but I started to laugh. The whole image was so pathetic. Waiters started placing their hand on my shoulder or kneeling next to the table while speaking to me. I felt like the whole restaurant wanted to give me a hug. Part of me wanted to order a REALLY big dessert and then ask them to put a candle on it... maybe they'd even sing to me in German, and then I could blow out the single candle and pretend to dab tears away from my eyes... But I didn't do that. There's a difference between steering into the skid and doing donuts.

. . .

Obviously, when I started writing this post, I really wanted to be in love with the idea of eating alone in public because for some reason that marks some kind of success to me. But the fact is I DON'T, and what's more is that doesn't mean that I'm failing in some way. I think that's the lesson to be learned here. It's OKAY that I don't like eating dinner in a restaurant crowded with groups of friends and families, and that it makes me miss my own. It's fun to share food with people. Do I also love being able to be as messy as I want when I'm eating alone in my apartment? UhDUH, but that's at home... and I have Netflix and most of the people I love are in the same time zone; a friend isn't more than 20 minutes away. I've made a deal with myself: I have to eat at least one sit-down meal in public a day. I'll usually have a coffee in my apartment or hotel, head out to explore, grab a big beautiful lunch somewhere pretty, and then for dinner I get to do whatever feels comfortable.

About 2 months ago, I wrote that this trip is about doing exactly what I want to do, and that I don't have to force myself into any situation that makes me uncomfortable. Somewhere along the way, I seem to have forgotten that. Is going out to dinner alone different than staying in a youth hostel surrounded by a bunch of creepy dudes? Of course it is... but if my being at dinner solo makes me feel lonely and miss my family, why would I continue to push myself to do that? It doesn't make me happy, in fact it makes me actively unhappy and that's not what this journey is about.

What I need to do is make a conscious effort not to let my loathing of eating alone in public get the best of me. I will not let a fear of dining by myself keep me from going to the restaurants I've read all about in Bon Appetit and Food & Wine magazines, and I won't let it keep me from seeking out all the photogenic cafés I regularly stalk on Instagram. I'll steer into the skid when I need to... I know when I need a push and when I don't. And in order to avoid further disappointment and embarrassment, I will make a conscious effort to make reservations when I can. I still hate the way "party of one" sounds when someone else says it out loud while leading me to my table, but that's what I am right now. I'm a party of one and that's totally okay.