We know I love solo dining.
I’ve written about it a number of times here and in another space, and I’ve also mentioned how there is no shortage of great pieces by much better writers than me on the topic (here’s a recent one about dinners for one in Los Angeles). Solo-ing is so fundamental to my life now that it’s included in my Instagram bio. Something I started doing out of situational necessity (including travelling by myself) has become a passion of mine, and I’m always happy to discuss, opine, and encourage.
One discussion around solo dining that seems to always remain open centres on dining at tables when a bar exists. Most of the love letters to solo-ing promote dining at the bar. Table dining is rarely mentioned and when it is, it always seems like it’s positioned as something totally different. I’ve heard David Chang mention a number of times on his podcast that no matter how wonderful he thinks solo dining is, he never has the courage (or chutzpah?) to sit at a table alone.
Maybe why I say that I have a passion for dining alone is that I absolutely have the chutzpah to ask for and sit at a table by myself. But why is courage even necessary?
As much as solo dining love and awareness steadily increases, the table topic remains somewhat on mute because—in my opinion—full acceptance of someone who decides to eat alone has yet to be reached. Most especially if you’re someone who chooses to and wants a table.
The company of a beloved bartender, a work trip, or a good book are all reasons we don’t bat a lash when we see someone dining alone at the bar. It’s been even more romanticized as solo dining appreciation has grown. It’s where industry and insider folk like to sit. It’s the cool move. You’re channelling Anthony Bourdain or maybe Joan Didion.
If you’ve never done the solo bar meal before, sure, you might need a little internal pep talk. You say to yourself, fuck it, I want a nice meal out and who cares if I’m by myself. The only eye contact you ever really have to make is with the person behind the bar. They are excellent at reading fear, being a source of safety, and offering no judgement.
Sitting at a table alone can sometimes feel like sitting at a table naked. You’re fully exposed for everyone to see that you’re alone and you’re not at the bar. Let the judgement start. You’re not easy-breezy Tony trotting the globe, you’re just the loner. There are eyes all over the place to avoid; avoiding them is crucial if you fear their heads might also turn in your direction. You sit across from an empty chair. The devil on your shoulder says that it should be filled. Only a work trip is the free pass. You wonder if the silent mouths moving across the restaurant are asking their dining partners (because they are not alone) why you’re not with a lover, friend, or relative. Your devil snickers as she says, no, they’re asking if you even have any of those. You cross your fingers that your server is solo-diner friendly and won’t make you feel like you’re going to have a tough time ordering off the menu.
The courage I have is the fake-it-til-you-make-it variety because I go through that negative self talk all the time. But I give in to my angel’s coaxing now. She reminds me that if others are weirded out by solo diners then that’s their problem (perhaps even jealousy) and that if a table is good enough for two bums, it’s good enough for one bum. If you want to call that courageous, I’ll take it. The sentiment I more strongly associate with listening to my angel is fairness. Why is the bar the only option when I’m alone? Tables are consistently more comfortable.
But there are unfortunately times when one bum isn’t good enough. Because, money. It is just as big of an issue as judgement when it comes to letting solo dining just be part of “dining.”
I am increasingly less interested in fine dining, but some of the best solo diner care I’ve received has been at the small-fortune spots. There have been times, though, when I’ve not been given the opportunity to pass along a precious small fortune because a restaurant doesn’t accept solo diners.
While an empty seat I sit across shouts courage or loneliness to other diners, to many restaurants, it shouts lost revenue. Two of everything is better for the bottom line. A restaurant is a business, we’re supposed to understand. I just have yet to understand how closing off your restaurant to a (granted very small) segment of the population is ultimately the right move. At the very least, it’s bad karma and rude. At most, it’s shortsighted. Here’s a reminder of when I wrote about being conscious of the damage that can be done after bad customer service:
What if a table of two doesn’t drink? Margins are better with alcohol, so while a restaurateur might make more off of theoretically twice as much food, your profit could be better with me who likes to drink. How about all the deuces I see who not only might not drink, but also just share dishes meant for one? We know I am sometimes told I’ve ordered too much…
My point is there’s no way of knowing, so why discriminate? Is one solo table at one time of service going to break you? Even if the restaurant only offers a tasting menu, again, is one lost ticket worth turning a customer away? If you think it is, you should be careful. A solo diner in New York who I greatly admire has no qualms about naming and shaming restaurants that refuse solo diners to her more than 12,000 social media followers. Quality customer service should be about playing the long game.
Part of what spurred me to return to the topic of solo dining—to still yell into the void—was a recent experience trying to book a restaurant that has all diners sitting at a chef’s counter of a notable size, save for the private dining room. They accept solo diners, but a solo is only allowed to book at a designated time after access has been given to everyone else to book a table for two or more. In addition to protection against smaller revenue, I guess the thinking is that if there are bookings of three or five diners, then the restaurant won’t have any issue filling the solo pockets—due to major accolades it fills up in minutes and is certain to have a substantial wait list.
But what if other solo diners don’t reach out to the restaurant like I did? What if they see that the online system only allows more than two and get deflated? Should a customer feel deflated before even attempting a reservation? Do you want a customer to feel deflated before trying to build any kind of connection with them? I was most deflated because I had dined at this restaurant before—prior to the accolades—and the previous process of trying to book as a solo was the same as the process for any other party size.
I’m reminded of a birthday trip to Chicago 10 years ago when I wanted to try to eat at Alinea for my birthday. I didn’t try because solos weren’t allowed at the time. I think of all the times I’ve been given the worst table. I think of the times when I’ve been shut out of special, one-off events because the menus are designed for two or more only. I’ve had enough chutzpah to still inquire if smaller portions were possible. And when I received a negative response accompanied by the suggestion to simply ask a friend, I’ve had enough chutzpah to acerbically ask about the restaurant’s manners.
Thoughtlessness is always unbecoming. Part of my passion in doing things by myself is to silently crusade against those who forget or don’t think about people like me. I will forever prefer a community meal, but that is not always possible and sometimes, not wanted.
There are nights when I really want the vibe of the bar, to talk with the bartender, have a conversation with the person next to me, or feel more of the restaurant’s energy. Then there are nights when I want the luxury of a table. I want more space for my plates. I want to be able to easily put my purse somewhere. I want a little more distance from others.
Because sometimes (including me):
listened to this while alone at a restaurant haha. enjoyed as always.